Tag Archives: god

LIVE ON NO EVIL is out NOW!!!!!!

live on no evil cover

Do you believe in God? Do you believe in the devil? Demons? Aliens? Anything? Well, guess what: none of that fucking matters.

March once said, “I don’t believe in belief,” and I couldn’t agree with that alcoholic asshole more.

No one fucking cares what you believe. Everything is false and anything is true. Give up on the morally fucked bullshit that the churches of the world want to feed you. Make up your own gods because the ones that religion wants you so badly to believe in are all fucked.

Be decent to people, be decent to animals, be decent to the earth and for Christ sake be decent to yourself.

Ok, I guess I do believe in belief, actually, and this is it:

SEE ALL, HEAR ALL, SPEAK ALL EVIL

Fuck those monkeys that told us to cover our eyes, ears and mouths. They’re cowards. Take it all in because that’s the only way you’re going to be able to defend against it.

That’s what Live On No Evil is all about.

If you want to learn more while reading what might just be the most fucked up book you’ve ever read, check out Live On No Evil.

BUY IT HERE and the next time someone tries to feed you bullshit about something so unverifiable and subjective that they have to use faith to rationalize their belief in it (or a book whose historicity doesn’t mean shit), tell them you’ll be praying to the gods you made up to make them realize how deeply up their own ass they are.

Sin Seriously,

Jeremiah Israel

Spectrum City is Haunted part 6

WAKE

 

When the dreadlocked barista finished the journal of the man that cut his own face off, he finally understood that before the night was done, he wouldn’t have dreadlocks anymore.

The dreadlocked barista’s name was Cammy. Not even a nickname, his birth certificate literally read Cammy Day Martin because his mom was sick of having boys. He being the fourth in a row, Mrs. Martin had given up on hiding her need for a daughter and so decided her son Cammy would have to do.

Sewer didn’t care, though. That was the name the dreadlocked barista had given himself when he thought he was going to sing for a rock band in sixth grade. He never did find anyone interested in playing instruments for his vocals and so settled for singing acapella in videos he posted on the internet.

Fame was impossible, though. The only way to get famous on the internet was by whoring yourself, one way or another, and he had no desire in trying to win attention. After all, he deserved it. His voice was unique and all he needed was the right crew to stand behind him. As long as someone thought he was good enough, he would be good enough. Quality was all in the mind. It was an illusion like everything else. If only he could figure how to adjust others’ perception of himself. If he could change the illusion to fit his need, anything would be possible.

It was this stream of thought that brought Sewer to the motel. His parent’s basement was alright, except for when family came in town and he had to share it. He lied that he was staying with a friend and used his tips to secure a room for himself because his older brother, second in birth order, was intolerable just like his wife and twin sons.

The notebook was still in his brain. The video of Darren cutting off his face was uploaded, but still with no views. Even the music video versions with the edited footage were drawing nothing. He checked the tags, laying on the made bed of his motel with his laptop, cartoons playing on the muted TV. Nothing. No one had seen it. He’d checked the news, both paper and digital, and there was absolutely nothing. No one knew about the guy that cut his face off but for the people that were there when it happened.

Not enough, thought Sewer. People need to know. People need to see what I saw. People need to understand what it’s like. People need to know. SEVIL LIVES.

The statement was beginning to make sense. SEVIL LIVES meant that everyone lives and everyone dies and it’s all circular. SEVIL is to death as LIVES is to life. Death comes before life, which means that we continue forever in this cycle of death and life and death and on. That was why the guy cut his face off. He got it. He understood that death was the exact same as life. That if it’s all just a cycle, why not just keep recycling? Wasn’t it all just a game anyway? All that shit that you’re fed, all the terrible feelings wasted because feelings meant nothing in the first place, all the grief experienced needlessly because it was intangible and never even existed in the first place.

He changed the tags and renamed the video and turned on the shower, but then realized he didn’t want to get wet and that he kind of liked that he hadn’t showered in a week even though he could feel the slight layer of grime atop his skin. He stared at the mirror, looking at his face.

SEVIL LIVES, he thought. SEVIL LIVES, SEVIL LIVES, SEVIL LIVES.

He hated his nose. He hated his skin. He hated his glasses. He tore them off because it was the only thing of the three he could. He could see well enough without them, though the world did turn blurry, but that was nice. Actually, blurry was exactly what he needed.

He hated his ears, hated his eyes, hated his facial hair. He ran to his bag and began raking the razor over his face before he was even back to the mirror. He would get rid of it. His mustache was stupid. His goatee and neck hair were needless. He’d be done with hair because that would make him feel better.

He couldn’t see the red that started to trickle from his patchily shaved face until he remembered his dreadlocks and understood that those too would have to go. They weren’t his own, anyway. Tied in by some foreign and English illiterate woman because he thought it was cool and worth the money.

When his fingers couldn’t untie the fake hair from his real hair, he pulled, but it wouldn’t tear and so planned for the perfect time to make himself be what he couldn’t wait to become.

X                            X                            X                            X                            X                            X

Detective Michael Roe was getting drunk at The Track and that was okay because She understood.

The work of the day was complete, except for the last deed, and when he sat down at the bar he hadn’t been to in ten years, the bartender young and new, no one realized the significance of the glass of whiskey served neat, which he had to explain to the young girl, all tits and no bar sense because she cared more for tips than her craft, and he sipped it waiting for the sign for She that would come whenever She chose for it to because that was how all the signs of the day before came to him, like flashes of illuminated focus on the object of his deed with a strange feeling of desire and necessity to resolve whatever it was that She was showing him, and so far he’d done exactly what She needed and She said there would only be five because five was her number and with four already done, he was going to be as drunk as possible for the fifth.

That and hopefully drown out the terrible sounds of karaoke coming from the bar stage.

X                            X                            X                            X                            X                            X

Sewer had the karaoke stage of The Track set up with his video camera pointing toward where he wouldn’t be singing as well as his phone propped up and recording when he took the mic from the karaoke DJ. Before that, he went around to other karaoke singers and told them he’d pay them if they videotaped his performance. It was a lie, but most did anyway and he was confident that even if this did lead to his death, his performance would make it to the internet.

Saturn Warship, his favorite band’s hit song, “Generation Vex” played and when the words scrolled across the screen, instead of singing into the microphone, he dropped it to the stage, making feedback ring through the speakers, and missing the lyrics as they became highlighted with no one singing them.

Cast the spell, never tell, wash me down, wishing well.

Sewer took the butcher knife that was tucked into his baggy torn jeans at his back waist and raised it above his head. He used his other hand to hold up his dreads and then wasted no time in slicing underneath his skin, relieving his scalp from the connection to his skull. Blood formed and then ran down his face and he went straight back from the middle of his forehead, over his dome to behind his neck.

There was an uproar but the music kept playing and the people Sewer paid kept videotaping. The ones he didn’t pulled out their phones and began videotaping too, putting themselves in the frame and showing the excitement play out behind them.

Cast the spell, never tell, wash me down, wishing well.

Sewer finished with the first strip of skin, pulling it away from his head and then dangling it by the finally free dreadlock in front of him like a raw slice of bacon tied to a rat tail. Blood dripped and then he helicoptered it into the crowd before digging the butcher knife beneath another flap of skin and matted hair roll. He continued ridding his skull of concealment and got four strips in before the blood covered his face and he was on his knees, weak as the song was nearing its end.

Cast the spell, never tell, wash me down, wishing well.

Sewer crumpled into the floor as the final cymbal on the song rang and the words scrolled out of view to the left of the screen. Sound was gone and the silence felt heavier than any of the noise ever did. He closed his eyes and laid face down on the stage until neon yellow light crept underneath his eyelids.

The voice, which he couldn’t make out before, kept repeating itself. He wasn’t able to discern that it spoke only five times.

“She wants you. She wants you. She wants you. She wants you. She wants you. ”

X                            X                            X                            X                            X                            X

Mark Chambers woke up with his eyes already open. His body was frozen and the stone table beneath him was cold, though he couldn’t feel it or anything else.  He thought it might be a dream until he saw the masks over him. The chants were loud and familiar. He could have joined in, the foreign words ingrained in his brain, but only if fear hadn’t crippled his already numb mouth.

He saw knives and could tell that his skin was being separated, but it didn’t carry any of the sensation he expected. More chanting and then there was drinking and when the masks came off, he didn’t recognize anyone.

He was pulled off the table so that just his upper body was lying flat against it with his ass up and the backs of his toes on the ground. Then he was moving, back and forth with his face mushing against the stone as a palm cupped his ear and squished the other into its hard surface.

The little girl was right. His plans of suicide to avoid rape were foiled. They wouldn’t stop, he knew, until the whole congregation had their turn. He was weak with the loss of blood, passing in and out of consciousness. The longer it took the more the sedative wore off, and as he regained his body’s ability to feel pain, to scream, to struggle, he was tied at the wrists and ankles. The pull of the ropes levitated him in the air as hands at his thighs guided his torso into performing the ritual he himself had victimized so many others with, so many times.

There were more knives, more cuts, more blood and then there were whips and eventually he could see himself in his own dripping blood that created a reflecting pool beneath him.

While the other faces were unrecognizable, his was as it always was, but he still didn’t see it as his own. His distorted features, wrenched into desperate agony, were just as nomed as the rest.

March The Wretch

WRETCHfront

March The Wretch is prolly teh most fucked book I ever wrote. So read that shit. But you gotta have a ebook. Also you gotta have read that first shit. Read March the Damned cus if you dont you wont know shit bout Wretch but maybe do anyway cus the second ones allways better. Kinda like your second time fuckin when its better cus you kinda know what your doin now even though you think you know everythin about fuckin and you really really dont cus your chik is just bein nice and pretendin like you boss as fuck when you really arent boss as fuckin anything.

BUY March The Wretch HERE on KINDLE!!!

but also…

BUY March the Damned cus you should prolly know what the fuck you gettin into and why there are flying zombies and monster vaginas and lots of evil shit that will make you hate this stupid fuckin world we have to live in and pretend is all good even though its totally not and lets all praise Jesus or fuck Jesus or both at the same time because I dont think i even know the difference anymore.

Sin Seriously,

Jeremiah Jisrael

Spectrum City is Haunted

FACE

Darren was deep into his notebook when Phil arrived to The Mound. Never before had they met up at a coffee house. Usually it was a bar, usually The Track, but Darren said he wasn’t drinking anymore and even though Phil didn’t believe him, he decided it best to humor the friend he felt an obligation to see at least once a month. He was lucky if he could push it to two, but Darren was a man of ritual and if that was disrupted, everything was disrupted.

“Back to the diary,” said Phil as he sat down.

“Eat a dick,” said Darren, not looking up until he finished his sentence. He capped his pen and closed his notebook, putting them both on his lap before leaning over the table. In front of him was a tall white cup with orange spiral designs all over it. He drank from it slowly.

Dramatic ass motherfucker, thought Phil. Here we fucking go.

Darren exhaled so as to draw attention and only then did he look Phil in the eyes. He wasn’t surprised that Darren’s eyes were widened and didn’t believe for a second the caffeine was guilty. “It’s good to see you, man. You’ve been busy.”

“They keep me busy.”

“They…”

“God,” said Darren. “The devil. Their brothers and sisters. The whole family.”

Jesus, thought Phil. More bullshit.

“I have to tell someone. Show someone. Sorry it’s you. There’s not really anyone else, ya know.”

Phil squinted. He needed to show concern. He put his lips together, trying to keep them neutral, between a frown and smile. One of the two would show up if he didn’t.

Darren exhaled again. It would’ve been a sigh if it weren’t so loud. A lady behind them cleared her throat. A man across from Phil stared at them over his laptop screen. The barista, the skinny white kid with dreadlocks that reeked of patchouli, swept slowly beside them, ignoring the cropped hair portly women with football hoodies that stared up at the menu chalkboard in front of the cash register.

I’d rather be in Bible study.

“Spectrum City is haunted,” said Darren, and right as he did, Phil noticed a relief cross his old friend’s face. Almost as if it were a physical skin, shed like a reptile.

The dreadlocked barista stopped sweeping and looked over. Phil turned to him and stared until the barista went back to sweeping and pretended to stop eavesdropping. “You’re talking about ghosts.”

“No,” spoke Darren, once again drawing the attention from the other coffee shop patrons. “They aren’t ghosts. They’re gods. Two, I think. I don’t know. There are more, but they may not be gods. It doesn’t matter. What matters is I have to do something that I don’t want to do but have to do because if I don’t…” He winced and his face muscles became tight. Maybe fighting some kind of pain. Maybe preparing for it. “I just have to, okay? So just don’t hate me, or whatever. Just be cool and don’t try to stop me or anything. ”

“Okay,” said Phil. He wanted coffee, but that would only prolong the whole thing. He could still make it to dinner with Amy and her roommates on time if he left in five minutes. “Whatever you got to do, man.”

Darren exhaled again and when they asked Phil what the last thing he said was, Phil didn’t remember. He remembered hearing the words, but they didn’t seem important at the time because he didn’t think they made sense.

Maybe I should get coffee, thought Phil. Maybe Amy would like some. No, I’d have to get her roommates coffee then too. They always expect things. Just because I’m dating who they live with doesn’t mean they’re entitled to the gifts I give her. I don’t owe them anything. I’m going to stop giving them things. I do too much already for other people. I need to focus on myself and Amy. No more needless generosity. It’s like I’m dating three girls instead of one and two of them I don’t even like. Pretty girls always surround themselves with less pretty girls to make themselves feel prettier. If I can find boyfriends for them I’ll have more time with Amy. That way we can actually start fucking. We’ll just keep saying we’re waiting for marriage, but that’s how all the Christian girls work. You just keep saying it and keep kissing until they’re so wet they think they’ve been anointed with Christ’s oily blessing and of course he wants them to have sex because it’s not like we aren’t going to end up married anyway. Might as well just start now if we want it so much. God won’t care, Pastor Craig won’t know. Our parents can go along thinking we’re virgins and we’ll get married and just keep fucking. I wonder what her pussy smells like. Goddam, it’s been too long.

Darren set down two knives on the table in front of them. He exhaled louder than before and grabbed the handle of one, placing the tip by where his jawline met his ear. He breathed in and out while Phil came out of his own head, squinting and confused.

Phil opened his mouth but couldn’t even finish his question. “What are you…”

The thin knife slid up under Darren’s skin as easily as a letter opener into an envelope. There was no blood visible until he dragged the metal edge down his jaw line. His eyes were open the entire time, vacantly staring at nothing as his hand concentrated on guiding the knife, sawing underneath his skin and keeping the cut smooth, straight and even.

Having traced from ear to ear, Darren removed the knife from his face. The blood covered his blade hand completely. Phil stood up then, the shock having worn off enough to realize action was necessary, and put out a hand to stop Darren. The blade entered his palm, directly through the middle, and Phil stared at the blade tip that pointed directly at him out the back of his hand. He turned his wrist and panic took him once he confirmed that the knife actually was inside him, the handle sticking out of the inside below his fingers like a misplaced sixth.

“You stabbed me,” said Phil. He stumbled back, squeezing his wrist, and plopped into his chair.

Darren took the other knife off the table and dragged it up from the front of his ear, separating the skin below his hairline and above his forehead.

The dreadlocked barista kept his phone steady on the scene, recording as blood reached Darren’s eyes.

“He’s stabbing people,” yelled a lady behind Phil into a phone.

The man behind the laptop watched silently and others from the back ran for the front doors. The cropped hair portly women with football hoodies almost got involved, until they saw how much blood there was and decided to get coffee elsewhere.

Oh my God, thought Phil. What do I do? Should I take the knife out? Oh Lord, please. Please, help me. What if I lose my hand? I’m going to be handicapped. I could die. I can’t die. I still have to fuck Amy. Please, God let me fuck Amy.

Darren put the knife down and dug his fingers into the cut atop his forehead. He gripped the skin flap and pulled down. It removed easily at first until he got to the eyelids, but he ripped harder and they came away from his eyes, stretching the skin holes. The circles elongated into ovals and the skin then pulled away at the cheeks with a fair amount of ease. The nose was difficult, but it was the most stubborn at his mouth and so he went back for the knife to cut between where his lips and gums met. He cut around feverishly with the rest of his face hanging over and his eyes wildly glued, exposed completely to the open air.

Phil never took his eyes off the knife in his hand.

When Darren was done, he got up from his seat, leaving the knife on the table and taking his face with him. It didn’t look like a face the way it hung from his fingers, but when he stretched it back out on the counter by the cash register, it almost resembled one again, though flat and weird as it was with the extra skin of the nose, scrunched and folded, resembling more of a pig’s than a human’s.

Later, witnesses outside claimed the raw faced man was trying to tell them something. When they were questioned later as to what specifically he was saying, none of them were able to discern it accurately. He wasn’t saying the word, “separatist” and he wasn’t telling them he was the “devil’s gift”, but both were close enough.

At the hospital, days later when Darren wasn’t dead and they gave him a notepad to communicate, he wrote only one phrase over and over.

SEVIL LIVES, SEVIL LIVES, SEVIL LIVES, SEVIL LIVES…

Live On No Evil – JULY 2016

image

Live On No Evil is coming to Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing July 26, 2016.

I’m excited to the point of ridiculous so instead of communicating that through as many obscenities as I can fit into one sentence, I’ll instead tell you why this book means so much to me.

This novel started out as a way of venting my frustrations with our modern slave culture while working as a Target employee. By the end it evolved into an attack on the god of the Bible and all of the inherent evil I have personally experienced through religion and the disease of thought that is Christianity.

When I began, I had no plans for what the book would become. One of the things I shy away from when writing is creating outlines. Nothing of this book was edited until each of the four handwritten notebooks it took to finish were completed. The Moleskins I wrote them in were holy. No mistakes were made because every stroke of the pen, intentional or not, was destined to be there. That’s how seriously I treated these books. I was creating gods and demons and they were real because I had allowed them to be. Not only in this book, but manifesting themselves in my own life as well. Truth didn’t matter. All that mattered was that I believed and the story would find itself. The gods would show me who they were. The demons would make themselves known. The book already existed, I just needed to physically add it to this plane of existence.

That’s exactly what happened and that’s exactly what is still happening. These gods started out as The Neon Three. I then realized that there was in fact six of them and that these three were only half of The High Six. The further I wrote, the more I realized that these entities already existed in my previously unpublished book Mammoth, I just didn’t know it yet.

I made a divination deck that involved the gods of The High Six, The Neon Three included, and began to use them to speak to me. Every color I see, every number sequence, every look, word, tooth, eye and nail, everything is The High Six and their attempt to communicate.

I actually believe this is true because I choose to. Why the fuck not? I think God and the devil are both evil. So why not create my own gods? My own devils? Fuck it. I’ve known I was going to hell since I was three years old and couldn’t keep my eyes closed during prayer. So until I get there, all because I have rejected Jesus Christ from my heart because God is most definitely not good, I’ll keep writing about my gods and hope that maybe one day they do become real and really do save us from the nightmares of both heaven and hell.

Sin-seriously,

Jeremiah Israel

PS: I AM SO FUCKING EXCITED FOR THIS GODDAMN BOOK!!!!!!

Live On No Evil is a spiritual horror novel about aliens, demons and an extra dimensional god entity named Sahasa that has come to earth to provide human beings with a third option between heaven and hell.

Backpack is an eight year old boy who has found his only friend in a mysterious alien entity named Blue. After failing at saving the live action role playing obsessed Forest from murder at the hands of deceptive demons, Backpack must save the notorious ‘Pet Threat’, Spectrum City’s animal serial killer, from a similar fate. In order to complete his induction into the loyalty of Sahasa, Backpack must find the one who will defeat the Library Labyrinth to stop an alien attack that will destroy Spectrum City.

Live On No Evil JULY2016!!!!!!

Oh and shit, check out the PMMP website and buy a book for Sahasa sake!!!!!!

VOID the STORM 101-END

The VoidThe Storm

The following is a short story that preludes a series of novels entitled HIGHSIX:

The sun was coming up and Master Grabe had yet to sleep. He’d replaced the candles once and they were already melted through. He moved to the window, thankful for the new light, and sat on the sill to continue reading.

‘By this time, I lost my ability to control my tongue so I stopped using it. My mates eventually let me be, though I’d hear them talking. It mattered none. I could see the logical conclusion to this curse and knew that biting my tongue was only biding my time. Soon, I will be found out for what I have chosen. Each day that passes I can feel the growth of anxiety looming over me ever more. It is all I think about. I know it will come and it will be terrible, but I will laugh through all of it. One can not be caught if they do not allow themselves to fall. The terror that comes from doubt is absolutely necessary. Terror is hilarious. SEVILLIVES, SEVILLIVES, SEVILLIVES, SEVILLIVES.’

Master Grabe didn’t hear the knock on his door, the sound of it creaking open and shut or the sound of his name being called. His eyes rose from the page only once out of his peripheral vision he noticed his page standing there.

He whipped his neck and was surprised at the bitterness in his voice. “What?”

“Are you ill?” asked Bo.

The kid looked hurt. “No, no, I’m sorry, I’m just…studying. What is it?”

“The bells have rung. Your robes are ready.”

Master Grabe looked out the window. The sun was not coming up, but had already come. It was free of the trees of The Hanging Jungle and well passed the point of his usual waking.

“You seem ill. Do you need tea? I can bring you breakfast if you wish.”

“No,” said Master Grabe. “I mean…no tea, but yes. I am ill. Leave me for the day, but bring me lunch after you eat. Cancel my classes.”

“But Master, it’s the seventh day. You are due to speak at-”

“Ill,” said Master Grabe. “Tell them. Go.”

Bo bowed and left him to his scroll. The paper was so long and he had been careless in rerolling it as he read. The top hung from his fingers and was snaked along the floor. He blinked his eyes to return them to focus and continued reading.

‘Our world is a lie. The histories teach the character of my blessed Fourth God as chaotic and evil, but in truth, Jokkol is the only consistent God of The High SIX. Realism is not evil no matter how harsh that reality may be. What separates The God of Teeth from the others is His or Her indifference to self. Each of the other is selfish and it is due to this distinction that they have shunned Jokkol. They refuse to recognize truth outside of what supports them as most deserving and just to hold the first place of birth order and power. They refuse to acknowledge their inconsistencies, refuse to respond to or acknowledge any question that would challenge their supremacy. It is not possible to worship all of The High SIX and any combination of the gods is equally impossible. It is taught that if you do not give yourself to a God than you are sent to The Void for all eternity to exist in nothing, becoming nothing yourself. If this is your only concern in this world then you are just as selfish as any of the other five gods. Those that give themselves to Jokkol are promised nothing in life after this. Is not that the most selfless way to live? To abandon your hopes of salvation and instead embrace the ambiguous? I have found my savior and I have rejected the silly presumptions of gods that can’t back what they promise. Sarora is a slut. Ethaum is a coward. Nithya is a prude, Mamoth is a tyrant and Xzicxy is the worst of all. The God of Tongue is a liar. I have never felt Xzicxy’s presence. I have been forced to worship the silly Green God my entire life and it was not until I learned of the great Orange God that I felt my spirit was touched. I know I will be excommunicated, but I have no fear. I laugh at fear. Fear is hilarious. I know I will be tortured. Torture too is hilarious and each act of revolt will bring me closer to my God. With every attempt to return me to Xzicxy, with every lash or beat or bruise, with every undue injury and refused kindness, I will worship Jokkol, my God of Teeth, my Orange God, The Fourth God, the Only God, and I will close my eyes and imagine Him, imagine Her, smiling, grinning their beautiful teeth. I will revel in their laughter. I will be saved! SEVILLIVES, SEVILLIVES, SEVILLIVES, SEVILLIVES.’

Master Grabe looked out over The Hanging Jungle after he read the signature at the end of the scroll.

The word ‘Vonx’ looped in his mind and he couldn’t remember his ex-student’s actual name. He watched the sun rise until he could see it no longer and then fell asleep on the window sill not realizing he hadn’t prayed to The God of Tongue in days.

 *      *      *      *      *      *

On the southwest side of SIX where the Desert of Nails ends and the Orange Lands begin, Vonx awoke because the backs of his hands were throbbing. He opened his eyes to see the earth moving below him and was confused. Instead of sand, it was dirt. He moved his hands from sliding against the ground to see their backs black with dirt and scabbed blood, but he forgot about them once he saw the live bed of scales he laid on.

“Are you afraid?” he heard and looked up to see a black silhouette floating ahead, moving backward as if leading the bobbing head of the giant desert lizard.

Vonx tried to move his mouth, but it was so dry that the skin of his lips tore away.

“You are afraid,” said the shadowy figure.

It was light out, but there was shade. Above the clouds covered the sun and a crack of lightning answered for him. Rain fell and stung his raw back.

“I have saved you. Go back to sleep. You will be treated soon.”

Vonx tried to open his mouth again, but the fatigue from his raised neck was too much and so he let his head fall back to the scales.

He came to inside a hut with the heat now burning his front instead of back. Thunder rumbled and rain clashed above him.

“Sevil lives,” he heard and noticed then that he was suspended in a net, lying on his chest with his arms dangling. Smoke entered his lungs and the voice continued the chant. “Sevil lives, Sevil lives, Sevil lives, Sevil lives.”

Below him, a circle of orange skinned men and women kneeled, naked except for the animal bones and teeth that hung from them. Together, they all took up the chant.

“SEVIL LIVES, SEVIL LIVES, SEVIL LIVES, SEVIL LIVES!”

The smoke became thick and suffocating. His torso became hot and with the swaying of the net he turned his neck to see a fire burning below him.

“Sevil lives,” said the first voice. He turned his neck to see the Master of Teeth. The man too was covered completely with the traditional orange pollen of the virral flower, but unlike the others, his face was covered with a mask composed all of teeth. There were hundreds of them that connected into a rotting mosaic of yellow, brown and black.

“SEVIL LIVES, SEVIL LIVES, SEVIL LIVES, SEVIL LIVES!”

The net lowered and Vonx’s body jolted toward the flame, stopping hardly above the reaching tip. “No! No!” he yelled and laughter filled the hut.

“NO, NO, NO, NO!” the Orange people chanted before falling back in to laughter.

The Master of Teeth silenced them by waving his skull mounted staff over the fire beneath Vonx who recognized the skull and noticed then the bloody lizard skin to the side. Below him in a circle around the fire, the Orange people held up their dripping meat.

Vonx’s heart beat furiously. “No!” he screamed again. The fire burned intensely and he tried to move his arms, but his body didn’t respond. He tried his legs and then his back and shoulders, but nothing happened. His fingers and toes,  hands and feet, all played dead. He rolled his neck around desperately.

“No scream,” said The Master of Teeth. “Laugh.”

DROUGHT the DESERT 099-100

The DroughtThe Desert

The following is a short story that preludes a series of novels entitled HIGHSIX:

Master Grabe never cared for Tinn. The boy paid his lectures no attention, instead using the course book to conceal alternate study. Grabe would let him, though. His students weren’t slaves. If they wanted to learn, they would. If they didn’t it was between them and The God of Tongue. As the youngest Master in the Hall of Tongue, he was alone in this practice.

Tinn’s hair was orange and over the school year it grew until it hung over his face and around his head like a mushroom. The boy’s hygiene was bad, which Grabe was able to perceive from the empty seats around him.

While Tinn paid no attention, he did pass his oral exams flawlessly and his lecture on the similarities between ‘The Secondary Gods’ was inspired, though it infuriated the more devout students who called him blasphemous for comparing Mamoth and Jokkol to Xzicxy.

Grabe never pictured Tinn becoming an excommunicate, but it made sense.

Supposedly, Tinn was worshipping The God of Teeth. Acknowledgement of the other gods of The High SIX was not forbidden, but actual worship was dangerous, especially worship to arguably the most dangerous of the SIX.

Any books that documented or mapped the dangerous Orange Lands were mysteriously absent from the library shelves. Other books not completely dedicated to the Orange God, but with at least sections dedicated to him were missing those pages. Every copy of ‘The Short Lives of Jokkol’ was gone as well as field journals documenting the mostly ruined country to the southwest of Center City. Other books that depicted illustrations of Jokkol were defaced with crowns atop his head. Most damning though was the phrase ‘SEVILLIVES’ he had scratched in to the margins.

That same phrase was what Tinn’s bunking mates claimed he spoke in his sleep. Over and again they woke Tinn from muttering unintelligibly. Each time he sat up and spoke the words, eyes still closed, saying, “SEVILLIVES, SEVILLIVES, SEVILLIVES, SEVILLIVES.”

The worship of The God of Teeth could not be tolerated. Master Grabe knew already the boy would lose an eye and undergo deprogramming with Master Tyliss. Grabe didn’t like to even look at Tyliss let alone hear the beast speak. If it were Grabe in Tinn’s position, he would have kept the eye and embraced excommunication. No one came back from the desert. Whatever was there though, he would have preferred to meet with both eyes functional. Besides, another offense he’d be blind and after that he’d be blind in the desert.

Master Grabe entered the Sanctuary of Tongue just as Master Tyliss was putting the knife to Tinn’s back. The Sanctuary made his stomach turn with vertigo. The ceiling was so high that his poor vision blurred it, obstructing the view of how high it truly went, though it made him sick none the less.

Surrounding the altar was the rest of the masters. They wore the traditional green cloaks, hood up, and Grabe made sure to pull his own hood up before he joined them.

Master Tyliss held a strip of Tinn’s skin high in the air as he pulled it back, slicing with the knife under to pull more. Grabe had seen this before, but it was the first time the excommunicate had ever been silent for the process.

Not only did this mean that Tinn had passed on removing an eye for penance to The God of Tongue, but it meant that the boy would be meeting The Desert of Nails soon. First Master Tyliss would have to finish flaying the X off his ex-student’s back. Then, Tinn would be paraded through the Budded Isles and Meral City where he would be whipped, beat and stoned. If he made it to The Desert of Nails alive, his feet wouldn’t get him very far.

Master Grabe turned around. Whether it was the vertigo of the endless ceiling or Tinn’s silence that was making him dizzy he didn’t know, but he was sure now that losing an eye would have been the smarter choice.

Back in his quarters, Grabe’s mind was a drought. He chose sleep over prayer though the sun was still up.

 *      *      *      *      *      *

No matter how many times he insisted they called him Vonx they wouldn’t.

“Out the boat, Tinny,” demanded the shirtless enforcer. “Time to see how little mercy your God of Teeth has.”

Vonx didn’t respond and so he got another crack to the head. The stick had been used on him so many times that this time it broke and Vonx laughed. “Sevil lives,” he said, but was shut up from repeating it all four times with a fist to the temple. His vision was fuzzy before, but this time blood obstructed him.

The enforcer pulled him off the boat to the sandy beach and Vonx found his footing only after disregarding his vision. They walked through the brush until the sun was in the sky behind them. The vegetation dissipated until there was only sandy wind and then the enforcer stopped them.

His hands were bound with rope to another excommunicate’s neck behind him. Vonx was the only one out of the three with eyes. He hadn’t spoken to either of them though they spoke plenty. One was excommunicated for his third rape, the other for his third murder and he imagined them doing this blind, laughing as they spoke. Bound and blind, they could only curse him.

They stopped once there was no shade and the sun stung his back.

“The three of you are now free,” said Master Ohm. “Before you is The Desert of Nails. The God of Tongue is forgiving to an extent, but you have each proven yourselves unwilling to reform. I will bless you with water and I will pray for you that The God of Hands may find mercy on your damaged souls.”

Master Ohm poured water in to each of the blind men’s mouths, but Vonx kept his mouth shut and head down.

“Is your faith so strong in The Fourth God that you refuse drink from The Third?”

Vonx raised his head. “The God of Tongue can tongue my ass.”

The enforcer raised his hand, but Master Ohm stopped him by waving his own. “What is it about The God of Teeth that has sealed your faith? Has not The God of Tongue spoken to you?”

Vonx craned his neck and tried to collect saliva to spit, but only the sand on his lips sputtered off.

“You are damned. May your death be slow and merciless.”

Vonx laughed, but it turned in to a cough bringing blood in to his mouth. “Sevil lives, Sevil lives, Sevil lives, Sevil lives,” he said weakly before splattering Master Ohm’s face with blood.

The enforcer’s fist punched through his jaw easily and Vonx hit the sand.

When he opened his eyes, his hands were no longer bound. He raised himself from the sand and after a moment of wobbling managed to stay on his feet. The wind had erased the footprints and the sun was high in the sky. His back stung terribly from his lost skin, but his mouth was so dry he couldn’t swallow. He took a step, then another, and then broke in to a jog to avoid falling which ended with his face in the sand.

“I renounce the first,” said Vonx as he clawed the desert sand and used it to slide himself forward. “I renounce the second and the third.” He swung his other arm out and dug his fingers in to the sand. “I renounce the fifth and the sixth.” He pulled himself forward again, the desert cutting his bare chest. “My life for You Jokkol. My life for You, The Fourth God, The Laughing God, The Orange God. Sevil lives, Sevil lives, Sevil lives, Sevil lives!”

The sun was bright and blinding and everything hurt, but the darkness came easily and Vonx let it take him, praying to Teeth and laughing himself into unconsciousness.

SERPENT the MILLIONS 097-098

The SerpentThe Millions

The following is a short story that preludes a series of novels entitled HIGHSIX:

Demeter Thorpe spat as he left The Council of Skol. His stomach rumbled. He had already eaten his dinner, two pounds of rare steak with a tall glass of goat milk, but he was ravenous all of a sudden. Anger more than anything controlled his appetite.

He knew ahead of time that they would reject his proposal. Old men didn’t like to listen to reason, especially when it collapsed their foundation of knowledge. Knowing he knew better wasn’t enough. If only it was just his conditions that restricted others from giving him credibility. He was short, four and a half feet tall, fat, 230 pounds, and afflicted with a skin disorder called the gloss that made his skin so pale it was almost translucent.

“Fools upon fools,” he said aloud. So rarely in company of willing listeners, Demeter made habit of speaking to Mamoth. “Mercy, mercy. If I don’t drown in stupidity, Your name be blessed.”

Demeter put on his black wolf skin coat, his black sun hat and his protective indigo tinted shades before leaving the Temple of Skol. He walked down the white marble steps under the stars to the white brick road. His boots clicked against them and though he was used to it, his mind still went to the millions of dead below him. Mothopolis was built with the dead. Their bones were ground and mixed in to the concrete and bricks, ensuring their souls would belong to the cause of The God of Bones forever.

He was staying at the Luture Manor. It was the only friendly connection Demeter had in Mothopolis and each time he came he took board with his once mentor, Elder Finnis Luture. They met when Finnis was just newly crowned a Master of Bones and Demeter was still a child. He taught Demeter the histories and introduced him to the only love he had ever known besides The God of Bones: numbers.

Though he had stayed there with each visit back to Mothopolis, Luture Manor looked as if it had grown each time. There were always six stories, but Demeter counted each time anyway, swearing a seventh had popped up below the indigo roof and reptilian skeletal gargoyles. The gate was locked, due to the hour, but he reached between the bars to unlock it as he always did anyway. The yard seemed longer, but there was no sign of work done to extend the grounds.

When he was finally waddling up the steps, his knee giving him trouble again as well his mouth salivating just thinking of the decanter waiting for him, the front doors opened.

“Saleyah,” said Demeter. “Too kind of you. You weren’t waiting on me were you? It makes me ill just to think of such beauty waiting at the window.”

The girl’s scarred face twisted in to what Demeter had come to hope was a smile, but her disfigurement veiled the girl’s emotion from him and it could have just as well been a grimace.

“I apologize for the hour of my arrival. The Council keeps late hours no doubt. Have you dressed Finnis for bed yet? I was hoping to meet with him before I retire.”

“He -aits hor -ou,” she said. “Hood?”

“No, no, darling, I’ve more than had my fill for the day. I only hope to touch him in sickness as he did me in youth.”

Saleyah took his coat and hat, then bowed and disappeared.

“Beautiful,” said Demeter to Mamoth once Saleyah was out of ear shot and then began the long trip up the steps. He could have taken the lift, but the attendant was no doubt off duty and he had no desire to see anyone else tonight.

By the time Demeter had climbed the stairs and made his way to the back end of the manor to Luture’s door, Saleyah was already opening it from the inside.

“Sweeter every time I see you,” said Demeter. “If you wouldn’t mind, I know I said…” but he trailed off as Saleyah pointed to the table where a thick cut of meat steamed beside a decanter full of the good red. “You are too good to me, dear. One of these days I’m going to sweep you up and take you out of this place. I’ll put a baby in your belly and feed you grapes from the vine. I’ll-”

Hilthy -oy,” said Saleyah letting the door close as she walked away.

Demeter watched her leave. His mouth filled with saliva. “Exquisite.”

Slave mutilation was one of the privileges of becoming a Master of Bones. Each line had their own way of marking their slaves. The Rotsam’s shaved their slave’s heads and removed their ears. The Rexler’s split their slave’s top lip to the nose and bottom lip to the chin. The Modune’s removed their index and ring fingers and the Luture’s burned their slave’s faces. In the case of Saleyah, the fire had taken most of her lips causing her speech impediment.

Demeter locked the door after downing half of the decanter. The warm red filled him deeply and while he no longer felt hunger, he bit in to the perfectly rare steak and chewed with his eyes closed. This life was good, but not his. “One day,” he said to Mamoth. “Sixth of SIX willing.”

He pulled the chair next to Finnis in closer, but before sitting down went back for another bite of the chewy steak, moaning as the juices filled his mouth with each chew. He brought the decanter back to the seat with him and chugged down the hunk of meat, loving the near choking sensation.

“How was it?” asked Demeter for Elder Finnis. “Well, I made it up all the stairs at least. Beat you there now didn’t I?” He took a long pull from the decanter leaving it only a third left.

Elder Finnis Luture could no longer speak. His eyes were open, but he was no longer capable of moving his head to see Demeter.

“Only teasing there. Don’t take offense. You know, if it were up to me I’d have had them wheel you up those steps. A silly rule, no doubt. I’m sure if Mamoth had made it passed his twenties he would have been wheeled up to his seat. One little trip, a misstep even if you did take a knee, not enough if you ask me to earn retirement.”

Demeter took another drink, leaving only a fourth left.

“You’re right. Don’t blame the council. Rules are rules. You live by them, you die by them, you live to die by them, you die to live by them and it’s the only way it should be. You know, all they had to do was listen. No one in Mothopolis listens. It’s a city full of talkers only silent when they eat, drink or think of what next to say.”

Demeter drank again. He swallowed, stared through his indigo shades and then removed them.

Pointing with them, he said, “Someone like you doesn’t get to see it like I have. You sit too high, too comfortable. Here.”

Demeter stepped off the seat and then hopped beside Elder Finnis Luture. The bed tipped with his weight and so Demeter leaned over his carpeted legs.

“Try this,” he said and placed the glasses over the open immobile eyes of Finnis. “There you go. Much better. You see, it makes perfect sense.”

Demeter finished the decanter and tossed it over his shoulder. It clinked against the wood floor, but didn’t break. He pulled the covers back and reached below the old man’s undergarments. He found his penis, withered and thin, and gripped it tightly.

“The Great Lie was a lie. Before The Great Lie, 145326, Sarora, Jokkol and Nithya conspired to make war upon the next reincarnation, employing the Demonks to infiltrate Marrow City and kidnap The High SIX as babes so as to skip the reign of Mamoth as first born, 614532. As the story goes, the Demonks were successful and made it to The Falling Tunnel of Center City, but instead of three girls and three boys there were two girls and four boys. Jokkol had switched sexes. The Demonks consulted their God of Eyes who instructed them to throw Jokkol, Xzicxy and Mamoth into The Falling Tunnel, saving Ethaum instead because the male incarnation of Jokkol was undoubtedly evil. Since that incarnation of The High SIX, the First, Second and Fifth God have locked in the higher birth order for six generations. So The Great Lie was to Jokkol as the histories teach. After the six generations, once Ethaum dies ending our current incarnation of 215463, Mamoth is supposed to return as first in birth order, giving Him a new start as first born, returning to 614532.”

Demeter looked around for his drink, remembered it gone and then pulled viciously at Elder Finnis Luture’s penis, twisting and digging in his nails.

“Lies. All lies. I know the truth because I know the numbers. You see, Sarora had it right. Alliance has to be made, but she couldn’t risk a male ruining her chance to rule. They didn’t throw in three. They threw in four. They got rid of all the males and it’s taken six generations for the cycle to reset. The curse is lifted when Ethaum dies.”

Demeter unclenched his fingers from Finnis when he noticed they were wet. He inspected his hand and wiped away the blood on the quilt. He took his shades back and Elder Luture’s eyes were closed. He hopped off the bed and leaned over with his lips to his once mentor’s ear.

“I’ve seen The Serpent and I know what to do. I thank Mamoth for every moment you spend in pain. May your life be long and intolerable .”

Demeter shoved the rest of the steak into his mouth and left to his quarters, anxious to taste more of Luture’s good deep red.

WHITEOUT the MOUNTAIN 093-094

The WhiteoutThe Mountain

The following is a short story that preludes a series of novels entitled HIGHSIX:

The mute felt no emotion and only bowed to his Elder as he accepted his duty and took the day’s worth of provisions in a pack. No words were exchanged between him and his fellow Demonks because no one in The Vessel Monastery had a tongue to speak with.

They wrapped him with skins all over, covering his face until his eyes were of no more use and so he closed them and began the prayer within his head to The First God.

‘Keep me in Your sight,’ he demanded internally. ‘Hold me within Your focus and do not let me stray from the favor of Your gaze.’

Despite his layers, he felt the rush of dead air envelop him and heard the thick doors of the monastery shut behind him. He began his walk, ridding himself of memories. They would not last him for more than a hundred steps. Only Mountain was always changing and at this altitude, the highest known point in The Land of SIX, memory would surely lead to a frozen death. Instead, he repeated the prayer, ‘Keep me in Your sight,’ and took each step in faith as he waited for The God of Eyes to show him what he needed to see.

There was much to fear on Only Mountain for those that were still capable of that emotion. Giant arctic eagles, called sampry, with a wingspan over six times the height of a man, nested here. They dug holes with their beaks into the hard rock above where the clouds would reach and uprooted whole trees to make their nests. They chewed their prey into a pulp before letting the remains dribble out and into the mouths of their young.

Often, this prey was people.

Hopefuls who wished to show themselves faithful to The God of Eyes would set out annually from the village towns at the base of Only Mountain for The Joyous Morn. As the sun rose, willing men and women, and often unwilling teens, were sent up the mountain all together in hopes that The First God would find them in her favor.

Their numbers were usually in the hundreds upon departure and only about half on average made it to The Tear Drop. From there, only a fraction continued on and then only a fraction of that fraction made it through the whiteout. The storm of snow was always running above and it was only from above the clouds and their constant flurries that the tip of Only Mountain could be seen.

Within the whiteout and around The Tear Drop, the travelers weren’t safe from the sampry, but above the clouds, death was considered certain. Unless The God of Eyes intervened.

The mute continued over the rocks without sight. The ground was becoming steeper as he went and he kept his pace as even as he could so as not to fall in to a run down the mountain. At any moment the ground could give out below him and he could find himself falling to his death, but he felt this wouldn’t happen. His god had yet to show him anything, but he thought the prayer again and again to push any thoughts from his mind.

When he was hardly a man, his father had pushed him out of his home, not caring whether he trekked up Only or made his way south into the Orange Lands or even if he stayed in The Lashes and begged for food. His father never liked him, but to be fair he never liked his father. His mother was shrewd and lost interest in him once he was taller than her.

He set off on The Joyous Morn with the rest of them. He saw a woman break her leg falling in between uneven rocks and disregarded her like the rest of them. He saw a cougar eat a man alive, even heard his bones crunching. He saw a boy slip off the edge and disappear between the evergreens below. By the time he reached The Tear Drop, he didn’t recognize anyone.

They were served tall glasses that steamed with warmth. He was hungry and thirsty and would have drunk the entire glass if he hadn’t closed his eyes to pray first.

‘Keep me in Your sight, my God,’ he thought. ‘Show me Your path so that I might follow You.’

Before he could open his eyes, he felt his skin rush with warmth and his stomach shrink out of discomfort. His eyes remained squeezed shut as the world formed around him. From above, he saw himself with his head bent over the steam of his drink. All around him, the others moved in a flurry of speed. They downed their drinks and filled their cups again and again with pitchers. They laughed maniacally, slapping each other, hugging each other, and eventually they were on top of the tables, dancing and shedding their clothes. All around him, they became naked and he watched as his body was still and all of the others thrashed their way in and out of each other, rolling on the ground, bent over tables and clumped together in piles with their mouths sucking each other.

They passed out one by one, laying atop each other and snoring away their drunkenness. It wasn’t until they were all immobile, though it lasted only seconds, that his mind shot back in to his body. He ran in to the cold rushing air, stepping over their bodies to get there.

He ran through the night, through the whiteout and up past the top of the clouds in frenzy. He didn’t know about the sampry then. He didn’t see one then and learned of their existence only after his exhausted and near dead body crawled to the doors of The Vessel Monastery.

Still no sight from his god, but he prayed none the less until he could mistake the beating of wings above him for wind no longer.

‘Do what You would,’ he thought, maintaining pace. ‘Nothing happens outside Your will.’

Just as before, his mind shot from himself and from above he saw his body walking just steps away from a drop off with a mile of empty air above where the whiteout began.

The undeniable screech of a sampry slit the air.

‘Your will alone,’ he thought as he lunged himself off the cliff.  Against the wind, the mute soared and saw his skins shedding, flying up, away from him. The wind fought gravity as his body pushed and pulled simultaneously. He shot back in to his blinded self and as he entered the whiteout, his fingers touched feathers.

The God of Bones 056-062

The Null of Bones

“I will refrain from boring you with numbers though I prefer them. By profession I am a Mathematician. Most will never understand. Numbers are a language and without fluency, no man can know even one of The HIGHSIX.”

The Two of Bones

“I knew before any that the next birthing of The HIGHSIX would not come from one loyal to MAMOTH as was widely believed. The Council of Skol rejected my theory that JOKKOL was next in line as I expected they would. Even those faithful to The Sixth God turned away from my numerical logic. If they had experienced as I had, they would not have needed numbers.”

The Three of Bones

“I traveled in my youth to the Hall of Tongue by mostly boat over the Still Lakes of The God of Ears, down through the Waxing Wetlands and east along the Budded Isle where The God of Tongue speaks. Here I met with a Council of Elders who dressed and spoke in the ways of The Third God, but were secretly aligned with my Sixth. With their allegiance proven we set out to summon our God that he might tell us of his next arrival.”

The Four of Bones

“We summoned MAMOTH in fire and saw The Great Skull of our God, black within the orange flames. MAMOTH was without lower jaw and it wasn’t until The Serpent slithered from below MAMOTH’s teeth and then between his empty eyes that it rested atop the burning bone head. There it spoke a sequence none of us expected. ‘4.3.6.5.1.2’.”

The Five of Bones

“I was confused with why MAMOTH spoke there in the Hanging Jungle of The God of Tongue opposed to Marrow City or the Skol Temple where I gave my annual sacrifice, but it was suggested that the conjoined power of MAMOTH and XZICXY, The Gods of Bone and Tongue, The Sixth and The Third, the purple and the green, was proof of a dark allegiance history had yet to see. In the number sequence The Serpent prophesied The Third and The Sixth were the second and third, leaving The God of Teeth as first of the coming reincarnation.”

The Six of Bones

“When I left The Hall of Tongue I brought nothing but the numbers in my head. The Council of Skol scoffed at my words and those were the last I spoke of them. Instead I did as they would have me, following orders, building wealth and awaiting the death of the last remaining God of The HIGHSIX. It was on the day that ETHAUM died, during his 22 days of mourning, that I left Marrow City for the second time in my life.”

The Soul of Bones

“The HIGHSIX are born as sextuplets. They live their lives, some dying as they go along despite their undoubted Godliness and power. Once all six have died, all six begin the process again, performing the immaculate conception that would bring six babes to birth with each one of them an embodiment of one of The Six Gods, The HIGHSIX. The first out of the womb is the strongest in power and influence, each one a little less from there until the last, but within the sequence there is also a deeper meaning. There are seven hundred and twenty different ways that the HIGHSIX could emerge from their mother. Each position of order for the respective God determines the fate of that God’s faithful followers. With The God of Bones, MAMOTH,  prophesied to come third instead of first, and to be born in the orange lands opposed of our home of Marrow City, I knew I would not return from my travels unless I carried at least one babe in tow.”