Category: Writers Block
The following was a story I'd written quite a while back at the behest of a friend. It's written in journal format, hence the slightly vague nature of the material -- the authors did not write their entries with any expectation of their works actually being read by others. I'm not sure if I should continue the series, because as it stands, I think it's fairly nicely closed out. If I did continue it, it'd be pages that are found from times passed, not really going onward into the future.
I'm sorry, but I had the whole gem cycle and time pattern all laid out once, but have since lost that information, so I'm afraid the time references (34th Emerald's Turning, for example) are slightly ambiguous. I think that it was 13 gem stones, who were set in a gyroscopic fitting. The movements and shiftings of the earth would cause these gems to rotate within the fitting, bringing one gem at a time into the window of the fitting. It takes, in our time, approximately a year and a half for all 13 gems to pass into the viewing window, the end of such a cycle being a complete year for this world.
At the terminous of each year, the fixture is reset, and the next gem in line is used as the finality for the next year. Every year, then, becomes a numbered year of a certain gem... At least, that's how I think I had it set up.
Without further adue...
1. Demon of Discovery (Part I)
Fourth Quarter, Thirtieth Emerald's Turning
The passage of time here within the bowels of the world is by most unfelt, unknown, unnecessary. We live mostly in a blind moment without end; dark the
dawns come and dark the nights fall.
We know not of light nor beauty, nor of all the pleasures in which those who live above us partake. We exist in slow, unchanging monotony; neither inventing
nor improving.
Our world is hell. We have no flames nor souls in torment per say, but it is hell nonetheless. The flames which rage here are not the kind to be felt and
feared, but of a kind that slowly eats away at the mind. Our souls lie not upon spits nor knives to languish in pain, but they fall apart at the seems.
Our daggers cut us from deep within, causing us to bleed tears that none may dry, sorrows that none may comfort.
What solace we find comes only in the viewing of the myriad of gems and jewels that lie dormant within the walls of our eternal prison. The various gems
(in blues, reds, purples, greens and even some multi-coloured rainbows) give us the only light we have here. We know not from whence the light originates,
we know only that it is.
The prison is a huge cavern, probably hundreds of miles in diameter. Our homes are deep caves which we've dug into the walls of the chamber.
Aught else of the cavern is not important -- except for the small tunnel which is hidden behind a large clump of gem-filled columns. It shall be of this
tunnel that I will write of, for it is the focal point of my story.
I originally discovered the tunnel by accident whilst I was admiring the gems upon the columns. The light from the chamber is very weak; it's the gems that
help reflect this light and make it noticeable.
I'd gone around the cluster of rock columns so that I might see the whole of the artistic creation. Discovering the entrance and assuming it was someone's
neatly concealed home, I ventured within to see to whom the abode belonged.
There were no markings upon the walls to designate ownership or even life. Jagged cracks, dents and wild juts of rock formations spoke of never having been
inhabited. Furthermore, I could see no discernable end to the cave which was odd, for our caves are at most about thirty feet deep.
As one might imagine who has lived in dull isolation, anything new is a source of extreme curiosity and excitement. So, foregoing caution nor preparation,
I ventured into the depths of the tunnel to explore this as yet unfound territory.
I know not how long I spent traveling the length of the tunnel for there were no gems here to reflect any light (had there been any brilliance to speak of), so I could not discern
day from night. Many a turn did I follow and many an obstacle did I encounter. Most of these were fallen rubble which I bypassed by means of my food-mining
pick.
Eventually however, I arrived at a hollow in the tunnel and rested there for a time, digging what food I could find from the ground to eat, breaking my
meals to offer the rest to the gods. It was not quiet here, for I heard the slow steady high-pitched sound of "plip, plop, plip, plop" from somewhere within
the tunnel (nor could I follow it, for the echoes in the hollow made it impossible to determine the direction of the noise). I grew accustomed to the sound
however, and so paid it no heed as I traveled on.
I know not how far above our cavern I was at this point, but it must have been quite a ways, for I had traveled for an extremely long time and had been
traversing many inclines (both slight and sharp). I felt a new sensation -- one which frightened me so much that I contemplated very hard the wisdom of
my explorations. Where once the air had always been still, it now writhed and ebbed. Eddies of air stirred the rock dust upon the floor, breezes swept
before it a fine blanket of soil which nearly choked my unaccustomed lungs.
Many more days and nights of this did I endure for I wanted to find out what was making the air move so. Might it be some awesome deity who was playing
games upon the air? Might it be some demon trying to choke me to death? Was it perhaps some shaman grown mad and turned to toying with the world around
him?
There came to my ears a steady rushing noise, a constant roaring in the distance. Then I cried out, for I Knew with absolute certainty now -- it must be
some demon come to take my soul. The gods of the gems would protect me not, for I had failed to invoke their blessing before embarking on this fool’s quest.
I threw myself upon the ground and wept: wept as a child would upon learning that his parents have been brutally murdered, wept as a bride who comes home
to find her husband torn asunder and plastered upon the various walls of her lovely abode.
I pleaded with the gods to spare me and to drive away the darkness of the demon nigh, but their solace found me not. They turned their eyes away from me;
they laughed at me, and I heard their laughter in the ebbing of the air. They scorned me, and I heard their rebuke in the roar of the demon.
I eventually recovered enough of my faculties to realize that I was as yet quite alive. Furthermore, the abomination of my doom, the instrument of punishment
for my ignorance of the gods, had drawn no closer. I wondered at that, for are not the gods quick to punish the insolent? Do not the deities demand undying
loyalty and devotion to their cause? Such had I been taught in the past, and so such it must be, mustn't it?
Where had the gods been when we were suffering in the pits of the world though? If indeed they were in control of our lives, was it that we were destined
only to die from frailty and hunger?
The priests had always taught that the gods do not directly intervene in the affairs of their children, but that they spoke through their vassals in this
world. Why should it be this way though? I had always broke my offerings of food to the gods; in every handful of food I had always left half to the deities.
Why was it then that they were now punishing me so for neglecting to plead their blessing?
I rose slowly to my feet and numbly proceeded forward to accept my punishment and fate. For if the gods looked down upon me so, I could surely not do any
better were I to turn from this doom -- they would but bring another. If one must die, let he who must do so knowing his fate and electing to die willingly.
To do so instills within that person a meager victory, which may be all that might be garnered from the ordeal.
As I staggered onward through the tunnel and towards the roaring, it grew steadily louder and the eddies of air grew more violent. This must be how the
gods chose my doom; they wanted me to accept it. They wanted me to walk into the arms of fate willingly. Their instrument would not seek me, I must seek
it.
Many an hour did I walk and with each passing moment I grew more fearful. For if I could have heard the roaring of the demon from that far away, it must
be a titan. It must cover all the world in its dreadful blanket of terror.
Then mist washed over my face and I screamed, for now I was near enough to the demon to feel its chilling breath. I sat upon the ground and covered my face,
useless though it be and wept the raw terror of my soul into my hands. My sobs, drowned out by the thunderous, ceaseless roar of the titan that must surely
wait quite near now.
When once again I had recovered my senses, I fortified myself as best one might and trudged onward. Sprays of wet breath occasionally splashed across me,
and each time it did so I screamed and crumpled to the ground in weeping terror.
Continued in next post.
1. Demon of Discovery (Part II)
Fourth Quarter, Thirtieth Emerald's Turning
When once again I opened my eyes to gaze in vain before me -- for it is pointless to peer from darkness into darkness -- I cried out in shock. Huge yellow
teeth were strewn upon the moist ground before me in jagged lines. I knew now that I must surely be peering right into the maw of the demon.
I threw myself upon the ground and screamed. Screamed until my lungs must surely burst. Screamed until my head was boiling with insanity in a thousand colours
and shades of fear. I lost consciousness then.
I know not how long I lay there lost to the world. But even as day must grudgingly give way to night, or life must in the end surrender into death, I too
was forced to relinquish the bliss of absence and emptiness. The roaring of the monstrosity slammed back into my senses and jerked me awake once more.
I saw the gods for what they were now. They were wicked tormentors who butchered their children for their pleasure. They threw their creations against the
grinding wheel of death, then laughed to see the pain upon their faces, their souls. They built things in order to have something to destroy.
If such were our gods, what need had I to obey them? If they could be so cruel as to sit and watch as I accepted my fate dutifully, what mercy could I expect
in the dying?
I turned then and fled back down the tunnel, half unaware of anything about me. I know not of the journey that brought me raving back to my people's cavern.
I only know that one of them found me lying beside one of the columns that shielded the tunnel from view.
That was a week ago that they found me. Now I wither in this cell they've constructed for me. I am to be executed and sacrificed to the demon gods (such
as I see them) for my sins against the heavens, or so the priests say.
They did not believe my "blasphemy" when I told them all that I had discovered. They clung fiercely to their beliefs, refusing to admit that air could move.
They called me a mad man for having invented such a story of leaving the cavern, for as anyone knows, "there is only the cavern, nothing more."
I remember being struck across the face by one of the priests as I retold my tale. He shouted at me, called me blasphemer, sinner, child of the rocks, father
of deceivers and a madman.
The people were no more benign nor compassionate; they threw themselves upon me and beat me nearly to death. I've been unconscious for quite some time
and have just barely regained my senses enough to write. I know that they will destroy this, but mayhap someone other than the priests will find this and
read it.
I must go now. They are coming for me.
Nay, no god nor heaven sent hath come to earth for my repent.
No angel in silver dress Has come to hear my soul confess.
No god in heaven, no angels on earth;
Only the wicked lies of those who gave me birth.
Forth I reach to touch you gods But find only empty air, for you are not.
2. The Musings of a Scholar
Te-Dugarr Betancourr - First Quarter, Thirty-Fourth Ruby’s Turning
It is always the task of the torch bearer that becomes the most difficult. Whether carrying a torch of true physical sense or bearing a flame of spiritual
guidance.
Firstly, he must be in the forefront of any movement into darkened places. He must be first to meet any new terrors or adventures, whereas any who follow
are basically only there to supervise and, if needs demand it, participate.
Secondly, he must be brave enough to face those ventures alone. For even though a flood might be a torrent of water, the first few droplets to reach new
territory are lonely explorers (even if only for an infinitesimal period).
Within every crowd of cowards, however, there will always be a few souls who dare to take that plunge, that leap of faith. It is these souls that we remember,
for they are those who pave the roads before us. They are the trail blazers, marching fearlessly into trackless forests, barren deserts, and empty wastelands.
During the twenty-seventh amethyst’s turning, one of our fellow residents apparently went mad. And while none know the true origins of his insanity, it
is my strong belief that our prolonged existence in this place absent from outside interaction contributed. After all, one may only circulate the same
strand of DNA among the same sect of people for so long before the dissection becomes too dramatic.
He did however leave behind this journal which the priests had locked away inside a stone sarcophagus buried beneath the altar upon which the poor soul
was burned for his sacrilege against the gods. Discovered during the twenty-ninth jade’s turning, it was placed in the care of the arch priest who promptly
dropped it into the garbage hole in his home.
As fate would have it however, it was rescued by an unsuspecting boy whose task that day was to clear the arch priest’s garbage hole. Having never seen
any form of writing, the child took it home, where he used the pages of the journal as dividers for his gem collection.
His father did however understand the language of the runes, so the journal was once again saved from a bad end. The father spent many a night with the
journal, and before the quarter had turned anew, began preaching the ways of the journal to any who would take the time to listen.
The preachings were brought to an abrupt halt when the arch priest was told of such events. The father of the child was, like the author of this journal,
put to the altar. The fate of this journal might have now been to be set alight, but for the child of the victim, who stole into the temple and secreted
from the priests the object of his father’s beliefs.
Much more could be said about these events, but they are as dust when it comes to the events happening around the journal. The teachings given by the child’s
father started a firestorm of religious zeal which resulted in some rather unspeakable acts of cruelty, the likes of which our people have never before
committed nor even conceived. Many a priest or temple worker was cut down in those religious riots, but no less were the number of those who were sacrificed
to the gods for their sins.
During the thirty-third turning of the emerald, the journal was taken and placed into our place of educational refinement. Here, the pages were copied by
scribes, bound in oil cloth, and made available for scholars to study. The religious riots and killings had largely ceased by this point, but the religion
of non-religion was still quite prominent. It now lived within only a few souls, but those who believed began to do so in secrecy -- gathering in their
own circles to learn from one another away from the eyes of the church.
The idea that there may be gods in our secluded world has yet to be proven neither true nor false. And while it is not the duty of this appending author
to judge one way or another, some very outstanding points must be brought into the light, so to speak:
Firstly, had there truly been gods during the chaos of the religious upheaval, why were the envoys of the gods (their priests and fellow worshippers) not
protected? Furthermore, why have these gods not shown themselves before the people to quell the bloodshed that was the result of differing minds?
However, if there be no gods, where is it that our people came from? We have never known another world. We live in a place buried in rock and dirt, isolated
from any world should there be one. But from whence did we originate? Were we the stuff of the soil brought to sentience? Are we bacteria grown from the
damp of the deep?
While the answers may not be found within the pages of this journal, one hopes that they are not beyond the reaches of those who seek. For if life is the
pursuit of greater knowledge, then there is no greater knowledge than knowing from whom or where life began.
One fears that the religious persecutions will sadly continue for a very long time. Until such time as the questions are answered, our people will invent
their own answers. They will fiercely defend their beliefs and conceptions of the truths, going so far as to spill the blood of those who fail to see their
version of the light.
‘Tis not the task of sword nor pen To find the solution to the ways of men.
If truly an answer might therein be found:
It must surely come from voice and sound.
‘Tis not the chore of knife nor quill To define the actions of human will:
Let that lie in the mind of those who seek And in realization might gift us in their speech.
If it lies not in blade nor ink, then Surely it must be the task of fellow men To brave the questions and ride the tides Toward alien shores, where answers
hide?
3. The Unholy Wars
Náduell Elana Van-Durai - Fourth Quarter, Sixty-second Sapphire’s Turning
Few are the pages yet remaining within the confines of this meager book. What pages there are remaining, I shall endeavor to fill with the story of where
our people are now.
Having read the entirety of this journal’s passed text repeatedly, I now understand the origins of our current situation. In the semblance of those who
have written before me, I shall attempt to give an accurate account of the state of affairs as they are now.
The Church Wars, as they have been known, have been raging on and off ever since the last author of this journal last touched his pen to these crumbling
pages. In that time, prelates and generals have come and gone, bishops and captains have fallen and been replaced, religious sects on both sides have blossomed
into brilliant life then wilted into rotting buds that break apart beneath the fingers. The flux of belief has shifted back and forth from god-worshipers
to non-believers so often that I will not even attempt to recount all the stages and changes.
During the forty-fifth amethyst’s turning, lady Elana Van-Durai was born. Her father, Sir Van-Durai, was a fervent member of the non-believer’s church,
and thus was she raised.
During her childhood, her father introduced her to the teachings of their founder -- the very first author you will find in this journal. She was ever the
attentive student, learning much more than just the religion of non-religion.
During her adolescent turning, she joined in many raids and political wars against the church of the worshippers, securing herself a place in the ranks
of the atheist church for her participation. In that period, she was nearly sacrificed three times, beaten on multiple occasions, kidnapped, and was even
rumored to have been raped by some of the members of the worshippers (though this has never and may never be proven either way).
Despite her near escapes from both brutal and deadly situations, she persisted in her pursuit of a godless world. She began to lead raids into worshipper
temples and places of sacred rights, was in the front lines defending against likewise raids from said worshippers, had killed no less than twenty men
and wounded countless others, and even committed mock sacrifices of enemy priests on their own altars.
Her efforts began to spur more and more people on to joining their side. The church of worshippers was now growing thinner and thinner, their followers
having failed to see the miracles promised to them by their leaders. Soon she had a small army (that is to say, a majority of our people) enlisted into
the ranks of her church. These achievements elevated her to the rank of The Flame of Truth, a title granted to the most devout of the non-worshippers.
During the forty-eighth topaz’s turning, a degree of peace was established and the two churches ceased their wars. This is not to say that conflicts did
not erupt, but these were mostly skirmishes and no where near the level of the raids and killings which used to be the norm. Our people prospered for a
time during that peace, returning once more to our age-old profession of finding better, brighter, and ever more colorful gems.
During the third quarter of the forty-ninth emerald’s turning, the peace was shattered when Elana’s father was brutally murdered at the hands of a fellow
non-worshipper who had secretly betrayed them during the lull.
She responded by spearheading a venture deep into the territories of the worshippers to capture the traitor. The venture was indeed successful and, upon
returning to their grounds, she slowly slew the traitor over a period of no less than ten days.
Angered and grieving, she disappeared into seclusion for a time. It is not known how she disappeared; the common consensus is that she discovered the tunnel
used by this journal's original author all those turnings ago and went through it.
In the first quarter of the forty-ninth garnet’s turning, she reappeared. Some say that she stepped out from the rock wall and spoke to them. It is my guess
that she found an obscure gap in the rocks and stepped out from that -- no supernatural powers were really involved in my opinion.
She gathered together all those who might follow her and led a large expedition into enemy lands. There they butchered like crazed and blood thirsty demons:
those who would not denounce the belief of the gods were cut down without mercy, those who sought to mount a resistance were unceremoniously slaughtered
and left to rot.
She returned to her lands soaked in the blood of the worshippers. Trains of the former believers trailed behind her religious army. Once her and her warriors
had a week to rest, they proceeded to butchering the former nonbelievers.
“We dare leave no trace of the old belief of the imagination behind,” she would preach to her butchers. “Our people will not have died and suffered all
that they have just to have us let these fools live to torment us another day when our guard is again down. Cut them all down, let not even the ones too
young to know their name live. We shall be free from their gods once and for all.”
Within two changes of the gem clock, the worshippers were eradicated. Any who might have decided to go into hiding did not dare show their face again; there
were no longer any who would show them any sympathy.
Our people fell into a militaristic kind of rule, with the general presiding at that time as leader. Elana was elevated further to the rank of Náduell which,
in the language of our ancient fathers, means “the demon of vengeful truth”. Soon after, she married the son of the general and when he died, she took
over the ruling of the people for the deceased general’s son was quite the incompetent.
When she died during the fifty-third tourmaline’s turning, the people erected a huge gem-studded monument in her honor. Across the face of the monument
were chiseled the words: “may you be free from any gods even in death”.
The world as I know it now is once again simple. We’ve reverted to our quest for more gems, more food, and a way to expand our cavern -- our population is
growing and we are running out of space. All that I write here has been passed down to me from my family members, though many of the facts have been researched
at the Institute for Educational Refinement.
I hope that the final chapter in this old crumbling journal will remain the most peaceful one. I wish my children to be free from the horrors of those religious
wars. May those who might have escaped never pass down their foolish beliefs to any misguided offspring.
Kai, it's excellent. Your writing is so flowing and expressive and stuff. And I love the twist it puts on God and faith and such. If you do decide to continue it, I definitely want to read more, but I agree that it wraps up nicely.
EXCELLENT! This journal, or memoir of sorts, has some very complex and intricate levels to it. You have the surface story, then you have the symbolism within each chapter, then you have the theme to eac chapter, then you have the symbolism of the place as a whole. Please do pardon the messy typing.
Furthermore, I find it quite intriguing how this writing reflects somewhat our current circumstance, although not a such an extreme. it's very well-concluded!
So, in summary, excellent!
P.S. You surely weren't using modern norms of punctuation. Did you revert back to King James punctuation?
Excellent work, Kai, but you already knew that, lol. Great job hun.
Well, Kai,
Most of what I wished to say has already been said here, except...
While this does indeed wrap up nicely, I think this could be expanded if, say, the scholar's journal fell into the hands of one—or a group—who escaped the religious wars with their beliefs intact.
Great job!
Excellent. If it was put on a site that you could favorite things, I'd gladly do that for you.