Author: Matthew

Are you trapped in an area of the country where scientific illiteracy and an overall unapologetic ignorance has got you totally bugged out? Do you want to know how to engage with the individuals among you in that area to encourage an honest abandonment of their emanating imbecility?

Well, don’t we all.

Now, I don’t mean to isolate the bible belt as a unique regional cesspool of bungling idiocy. But it is. During so calamitous a time as we find ourselves in now, individuals are struggling with perhaps a uniquely capitalistic existential crisis. Should I sacrifice my health and well-being to provide for those I care about, potentially endangering them? Or should I abandon my inclination to provide in order to protect loved-ones and citizens in the long run? This is a daunting position to be in. Typically, individuals must ultimately answer questions like this for themselves if they’re to legitimately employ their values in a problem-solving way. But our society is structured such that somebody with a value-system encouraging them to isolate could rapidly impoverish not only their reality, but the reality of the very loved-ones they want to protect.

It’s a false manifestation of existentialism since the right answer is pretty fucked. People in the United States simply cannot not make money. Our continued participation in the workplace safeguards not only the powerful elite—heavily invested in the stock market—but also our ability to provide for ourselves and our families. And while mass citizen economic abandonment is truly the fear of the powerful elite, they must find reassurance in the average individual’s necessity to work. It is a juxtaposition of power maintenance and mere existence.  So, the ethicality of economical sustenance amid a pandemic which plagues the fragile is certainly minimal, if not non-existent, but few American citizens are financially situated to employ ethicality in deciding what to do here.

The decision becomes even harder in the bible belt. Georgia, where I live, is led by so bungling an idiot that now, while we as a country test so few per capita and thus barely know who among us may be carrying this virus, our state is charged with getting back to normal. What constituted a non-essential business here already pushed the envelope. Now, pretty much everybody aught to just get back to work.

At the very least, steps should be taken to adapt each social environment to as least deadly a situation as possible. I wear a mask and goggles at work, where we have been significantly busier than ever. Even still, I hear from many individuals in my area that “this is a democratic hoax,” or “it’s all to make Trump look bad.” These individuals often quote the nonsense or pseudoscience their fed on either Faux News or conservative radio. Many champion the savior treatment Hydrochloroquine, which had they done a smidgen of research would see that there is little to no benefit and possible harm from incorporating this Lupus treatment into the toolbelt of medical professionals around the country. We’ll see if this propaganda continues to be parroted by these media-sheeple now that even Faux and the president have abandoned this drug.

So we have:

– Scientific illiteracy

– Mass ignorance

– Powerful incentives to work

– Leaders encouraging unsafe conditions

and

– Brainwashed imbeciles regurgitating force-fed horseshit.

Now, it is increasingly likely that COVID-19 is less deadly than originally thought. And while that is to some extent reassuring, as the percentages of individuals with anti-bodies indicate a heard-immunity on the up-and-up, the practical measures to ensure that as that happens the fragile among us endure as well are sadly being abandoned. What can we do? I guess go bowling and get our hair done.

No, don’t stick your fingers in the same balls other people’ve just used. And have a partner or loved one cut your hair . . . or cut it yourself.

It’s difficult for me to implore any individual to stay home though because I’ve worked this entire time and I have yet to experience the economic misfortunes plaguing so many right now.  At any rate, I hope you guys can employ your own values to your best ability to make the most reasonable and beneficial decisions for yourself and those you care about. Be safe and God bless!

-Matt

 

“With flames as manifold resplendent all

Was the eighth Bolgia, as I grew aware

As soon as I was where the depth appeared.”

-Dante’s Inferno, Canto XXVI

 

 

 

     Motivation is an elusive mistress and often manifests amid idle hours. Nevertheless, her fruits respire a lively oneness, the achievements of which are the hallmark of life. Woe be to those whom she regularly infrequents.

“At first, man was enslaved by the gods. But he broke their chains. Then he was enslaved by the kings. But he broke their chains. He was enslaved by his birth, by his kin, by his race. But he broke their chains. He declared to all his brothers that a man has rights which neither god nor king nor other men can take away from him, no matter what their number, for his is the right of man, and there is no right on earth above this right. And he stood on the threshold of freedom for which the blood of the centuries behind him had been spilled.”

-Ayn Rand, Anthem

     It is indeed odd to find that those who champion this particular muse minimize any legitimate aspect of egalitarianism in so empathetic a quote to preclude other individuals’ potential to achieve it. To be sure, the “free-ness” of a Rand-like philosophy is very much semantically maximized, frivolously charging constrained subordinates nationwide to exercise their fruitful potential whilst frolicking amid an ever emburdening livelihood. Contemporary Republican parsimonious attendrissement encourages our diligent citizenry’s passivity despite a waning provisional procurement, particularly considering the fervorous fidelity expected by affluent liege-like overlords. The continually degenerating psychological turmoil collected during a progressively intolerable subjugation, necessary for mere existence, albeit, geographically-dependent, often insufficient, thwarts any preservation or manifestation at all of a Rand-like oneness. The creation of a nation of “second-handers” is no easy prescription from which to self-liberate. It is fraught with economic turmoil. Thus, a most abysmal depression manifests amid occupational reconsideration. So precarious is any self-serving exodus, regardless of its temporariness, that any attention to betterment is thoughtfully suppressed. Lo, even if the escape occurs, one must then embrace barely survivable capital-provisions, which often exhaust before securing even a weekly livability.

     The charge of a Pseudo-Randian disciple is to encourage each of the 330 million among us to participate in an entrepreneurial enterprise of whatever the sort their luxurious abundance of capital and free time will afford–an obvious solution on the eve of automation.

“Yes! And isn’t that the root of every despicable action? Not selfishness, but precisely the absence of a self. Look at them. The man who cheats and lies, but preserves a respectable front. He knows himself to be dishonest, but others think he’s honest and he derives his self-respect from that, second-hand. The man who takes credit for an achievement which is not his own. He knows himself to be mediocre, but he’s great in the eyes of others. The frustrated wretch who professes love for the inferior and clings to those less endowed, in order to establish his own superiority by comparison. The man whose sole aim is to make money. Now I don’t see anything evil in a desire to make money. But money is only a means to some end. If a man wants it for a personal purpose–to invest in his industry, to create, to study, to travel, to enjoy luxury–he’s completely moral. But the men who place money first go much beyond that. Personal luxury is a limited endeavor. What they want is ostentation: to show, to stun, to entertain, to impress others. They’re second-handers. Look at our so-called cultural endeavors. A lecturer who spouts some borrowed rehash of nothing at all that means nothing at all to him–and the people who listen and don’t give a damn, but sit there in order to tell their friends that they have attended a lecture by a famous name. All second-handers.”

-Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

     It’s really as if the current Republican torchbearers’ve conjured some sinister doppelganger spirit of Ayn Rand to lately commandeer the Republican party and perpetuate a false patriotism to indenture a gullible populace. But this depraved contortion of Lincoln’s party has no greater claim to American prosperity than anybody else. So read Ayn Rand, because it’s good stuff, and don’t let the Republican second-handers, hoping to scapegoat their ravaged reality upon us all, convince you that what she has to say is anything but what you find in her pages for yourself.

I hope you’ve all enjoyed a powerfully contemplative Independence Day.

-Matt

“…I find that I am wandering beyond the limits of my walk and will therefore bid you adieu.”

-Thomas Jefferson to James Madison, Oct. 28, 1785

 

 

Copyright © 2019 Matthew Bell. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

     Gilfred Wayne Osiris (Freddy-Wayne for short) didn’t know it, but whatever typical anatomical-degradation had accompanied his everyday, average aging had also been aggressively expedited by his loquacious consumption of that syrupy delight–honey-rye whiskey on the rocks. But, irregardless of this, since he was entirely unaware of it, although he’d had his suspicions, Freddy-Wayne decided there’d be no more drinking for him . . . after one more night anyway; and he’d arrived at so seemingly brash a conclusion after the recent, dramatically-inflated legal consequences regarding any such indulgence whatever. Truly, drinking had become a dangerous frivolity, akin to hypocodrone and practically-meth. It seemed the leader of the free world and his legislative specialist had declared aggressive punishments for any individual involved in an arguably-discernible mind-altering avocation and the on-the-spot execution of any individual either peddling the contributory wares or in possession of “excessive narcotical quantities.” This was a real bummer for drunks and their dealers . . . I mean bar owners.

     Poor Freddy-Wayned had attempted all the last month long to abandon his fancy for the sauce, but no try would take root. And on this night there was not a drip of substance at his house, and so Gilfred Wayne Osiris had had to brave great peril for a sip at the last local spot to still serve the ruinous dribbles of the devil’s water. So there he sat, savoring every unforgivable drop. One by one, the glasses emptied down the delightable tippler’s gullet until he could hardly produce a reasonable sounding sentence for the gentleman to his left:

     “Seems so strange to come time I myself be abandoning all those luscious driplets of whiskey and the sorts, the government gone declared the termination of evildoing drug-kinds . . . even if they ain’t killed nobody.”

     The man sitting at Freddy-Wayne’s left was steadfastly situated atop his stool, in a crisp brown suit, and having a glass of icy lime-water:

     “Whatever seems so strange about it, good man?”

     “It just ain’t right, you know. Gotta have someway to escape.”

     “Oh, simple citizen, best be on your way, lest you collect some trouble; wouldn’t you say?”

     “And why is that, Mr. Coffee suit? It’s my last night ain’t it? Why should I leave?”

     “Because, woodland spirit-drinker, we are here to end the peddler of which fruits ye now take.”

     At that moment, merry Mr. Marmenheim–the tavern owner and its regular tender (a double strike for him)–was with great effort dragged from the back room out into the bar and dropped on the floor. He’d been so severely battered that Freddy-Wayne could hardly recognize his longtime friend and confidant.

     Now, Mr. Marmenheim was almost exclusively jolly, but lately his protestuous inclinations had enraged a fervent disobedience regarding the swift outlaw of indulgeable substances. He’d refused to shut his doors and continued to alleviate his patrons’ daily woes to a capitulatory incapacitation up until this very night. His unapologetic judicial disregard would henceforth never again materialize into some substantive distribution.

     Mr. Marmenheim gasped a curdling appeal for air which flung spritz of blood across the floor. The two men who’d dragged him out into the bar had certainly defeated the barkeep’s formidable physique, but at considerable damage to themselves. They were panting, bloodied, and disheveled. Evidently Mr. Marmenheim had put up quite the fight.

     They dragged Marmenheim to the man in the coffee suit, who collectedly erected himself at the man’s devastated condition:

     “Do you, Mortimer Marmenheim, admit the legitimacy of your being charged with being in possession of extremely large quantities of drugs?”

     To which Mr. Marmenheim gurgled a surprisingly boisterous: “What!? Hell No!!”

     But the gentleman in the coffee suit cut him short with a deliberate: “Nonsense!” He motioned to the two men, who were in fact members of the police force: “Officers.”

     The policemen lifted Mr. Marmenheim on to the bar and flattened his back down soundly. Creamy gobs of ether were smeared under his nostrils as Mr. Coffee Suit himself produced a pair of needled vials filled with fluorescent liquids. The officers on each side restrained any of the victim’s floundering the ether’d yet subdued. The first needle slid into Mr. Marmenheim’s arm. The iciest sensation crawled through the man’s veins leaving behind a fleeting sensation of warmness. The chemically-intensified realization of his final moments alive stirred the once-jolly bar tender’s thoughts to his wife and daughter. His lips fumbled a nearly inaudible: “please . . . no . . . ” And with that, Mr. Marmenheim went limp in the arms of his fast-holding civil-servants.

     “How did you like that, Mr. Gilfred Wayne Osiris?” called the man in the coffee suit.

     Gilfred Wayne fell from his stool and staggered backwards toward the doors.

     “Not so fast, my good man. Gentlemen, please bring him to me.”

     Gilfred clambered to his feet and made for as quickly a bound as his body could muster to the hopefully awaiting safety outside, but it was of no use. His determined survival was no match for the failed reality of inebriated kinesthetics. Freddy-Wayne fell almost immediately to the floor and sunk into a brief visual blackness.

    When Gilfred Wayne Osiris came to, he was in the clutches of the very officers who’d assisted in his bartender friend’s single dose of capital punishment. The ghastly likelihood of his similar demise panicked a medley of violent frolicking which contributed minimally, if at all, to any possibility of Freddy-Wayne’s imminent escape. And with that the men raised him up and flattened him atop the bar as they’d done to Marmenheim’s tattered body moments before.

     The gentleman in the coffee suit appeared over Freddy-Wayne and calmly exhibited the glass syringe with its glowing contents as the officers applied the probably unnecessary gobs of either under his nostrils. Gilfred shuddered; the second needle was for him. It pinched into his arm with the cocktail’s hallmark icy surge. Freddy-Wayne felt light and happy. The vial’s contents seemed to quench his thirst, and he relished amid the chilly pleasantries of chocolate and coconuts until his ability to produce astounding recollections extinguished forever on the last night of Freddy-Wayne’s frivolous narcotical indulgence.

 

     Have a nice day guys!

-Matt

 

Copyright © 2018 Matthew Bell. All Rights Reserved.

Cartoon quote from Star Wars: Episode I — The Phantom Menace.

Italicized snippet taken from an actual memo by Jeff Sessions articulating his hopeful employment of capital punishment for nonviolent drug offenses. 

 

 

“Ye shall know them by their fruits.”

-Jesus

“Man of the worldly mind [. . .] do you believe in me or not?”

-Marley

“Nothing is so firmly believed as what we least know.”

-Michel de Montaigne

     It is that merriest of momentous festivial yearly-conclusions, when that Turkishly saint stuffs my socks with old trees and steals all my red hair ties . . . but I have plenty of pink ones, which, evidently, that night-flying Huckleberry and his Moorish companion are too frivolous to realize is simply light-red. I suppose then, though, they (being those ties with a light-redishly hue) would off-balance that Babbo’s dear crimson snow suit, lest it be faded or fluorescently ‘80s.

     But this all must be wrong; it most clearly ain’t right–that blonde-ginger fake news host (Ole Meganly Kelly) has televiciously tribed that Saint Nicholas is white . . . or was . . . I don’t know. That’s queer, I suppose; though, Old Clause could’ve been a geographical odd-ball with the purest of skin.

     This, once again, as believed by the Kelly, is a condition which has not only sabotaged the dermatological regularities of Santa Clause and Michael Jackson, but also the Jesus, whose well-documented monochromatic illumination greatly contributed to his founding of the United States some six thousand years ago . . . or something like that.

     Ah, yes . . . the one and only gentle Jesus. You know, the humble Jew who hates fags, kills the poor, heals only for profit, disenfranchises women, rides a horse, wears a cowboy hat, shoots black people, and accuses everybody of harassment and microaggressions. I mean he definitely didn’t go about bronze-aged Palestine (where whites are well-known to’ve retrospectively dwelt) sometimes on a donkey, or in sandles, hanging out with twelve totally heterosexual dudes and an energetically-clingy possible-whore. I guess Jesus could be a collaboration of all those contradictory, coincidently contemporarily-compatible dispositions . . . in which case he’d be kinda like Richard Gere–some rich douche, wooing a kind-hearted harlot (who may or may not have herpes . . . probably she does though). Yeah, I could live with a Richard Gere Jesus.

     Ah-hah, but no! Jesus is Alabama man-Jesus, and you can bring his extra-white ass to the motherfucking “bowling alley where he drinks heavily and chews tobacco.” Alabama man-Jesus is also “almost impossible to steer, and [he] glows in the dark.”*

     One thing’s for sure–Jesus has liberally-lengthy, lavantishly-locky, lovely long hair, which the other gospel of Matthew tells us has been worn up in a bun since the end of ‘04. I wonder if Santa steals his hair ties too . . . and on his fucking birthday . . . goddamn!

Merry Christmas Everybody!

-Matt

     BTW, my sister also has a blog called cafethenightaway.com. It’s much better than mine, so check it out!

 

Copyright © 2017 Matthew Bell. All Rights Reserved.

*Disclaimer: All references to Alabama Man and Wild Wacky Action Bike are the ideas and intellectual property of the South Park creators and are entirely their comical ingenuity.

Title quote by Charles Dickens.

     Hello and Merry Christmas!

     Did you know that, according to some Ancient Astronaut theorists, a mighty extraterrestrial, often called something like ‘Wodnes,’ descended the heavens amid that very miraculous an astronomical event—the winter solstice?  Indeed, it is true.  Good Wodnes, piloting his lofty luge, ferried along by his octet of perilous steeds, would befall a torrent of good cheer upon humanity.  Trailing his hibernal visits were droplets of goodies for his admirers and charred remains for his foes.  The man’s curly mane and fluffy suit of periwinkle and frosting were seldom forgotten between annual returns.

     ‘Periwinkle?’ . . . is that right?  I was sure that was the right word.  It turns out to be probably not the right word.  But if you’re trapped under a downed camel that’s unwilling to roll out from under the most burdensome cargo, you’ve likely not got with you some contemporary English usage book . . . or it’s on top of the camel.  But you’ll power through, which I did.  And when I finally escaped, I was like:

     “Oh my, where’s fled the time?  Have we thus abandoned Beltchat aloft the periwinkle of discarded attempts—that downtrodden spiral of exercisable frivolity?  Indeed, to be sure, we’ve certainly not!”

     And, careless of ‘periwinkle’s’ proper perception, I sprinted off to my word processor to reproduce what compositional peculiarities I’d amassed amid my camelous imprisonment, plucked from what recollectable cerebration had survived all that heat, spit, and hey.

     Nevertheless, I do so apologize, of course, but Ben Carsen and I’ve been licking the huff off his glue pops to fix America’s housing dilemma back together again (Otherwise I’d have been writing all this time).  So far there are nearly a hundred and forty pyramids for which to store grain.  Good job.

     Anyway, did you know that December is the month of stuffed animals?  Truly, it is.

     I always had plenty of stuffed animals growing up to encourage my pre-adolescent zoological inclinations, but I’ve only ever caught one turning its head to watch me, and that was Bearspot—my teddy bear.

     I remember I used to line all my animals up around my bed and either hold some combative competition or entertain them with some whimsical adventure.  I also had a blue and white bird, Sky, who had a mirror in his cage.  Once, when I was changing Sky’s water, I caught a glimpse of Bearspot in the mirror, who was looking straight ahead.  When I replaced the water bowl, and looked at Bearspot once again, he was looking right at me.  I whipped around to find my stuffed friend back looking straight ahead.  I always felt thereafter that Bearspot was quite real.

     Of course, this is bullshit; but, there manifests a particular bond between a child and their singularly favorite stuffed animal.  And if you’ve never known this relationship, then I shall weep for you.

     I received Bearspot on my first Christmas and have now dragged him along many of my life’s adventures, including the first time I flew a plane—Bearspot floated in midair during a nosedive . . . it was special.  He now sits on my desk, encouraging my studious creativity.  I’ll often put a book out for him when I leave.  Most recently it was The Satyricon, but I think he swapped it for Alice in Wonderland (who could blame him).

     Now the tale to come, I should warn, can only be recalled retrospectively, as it begins with my death, which is fine as we shall all die.  Of course, this tale could hardly begin should I not die, and you’ll soon know why.  But first, let me tell you a bit about that one special stuffed animal you so dearly cherished amid your hopefully imaginative childhood.

 

     “Man is most nearly himself when he achieves the seriousness of a child at play.”

-Heraclitus

 

     There exists amid some magical reality a fantastic woodland realm, which sprung from the overgrown flora aloft the most monstrous of mushrooms.  A bubblegum sky illuminates the evergreen wood with the warmest meadows and cranberry pleasures.  And, in case you’ve no thought for scale, and why should you, this place is veraciously immense.  It is called Mushrest, and amid its cozy comfort there is indeed much rest to be had.

     It is here where stuffed critters reside, living in little tree trunk cottages with warm bake and smoke billowing from their chimneys.  These little bundles of joy dwell in their homes and walk about the wood until beckoned to serve as companion to some happy little child.  The call could come at any time.

     A soft bell rings inside a wooden box on a table as a small patch of parchment rolls out from an opening in the front.  Depending on the type of stuffed creature receiving it, the note may read something like:

     A young girl has been recently given a handsomely stuffed green alligator.  She seems to already care for it very much.  Would you be interested in assisting this adorable human child along a hopefully imaginative childhood?

     Should the stuffed alligator, and let’s call him Widdle, decide to be this child’s companion, he must simply write ‘yes’ at the bottom of the patch, roll it up, and slide it in the hole on the side of the box, at which time a small parcel is dropped at the alligator’s door, containing a cloth-wrapped bit of carrot cake and a brass/wooden hourglass.  Widdle then concludes his necessary affairs, eats the bit of carrot cake (which is really just enough for one bite anyway), crawls into bed, flips the hourglass over on his nightstand, and waits the slumberous assumption of his charge to slip upon his heavy journey.

     He will thus wake amid the arms of a loving child and assist their Earthly reality as best he can, and, when he is ultimately forgotten and abandoned, Widdle will find himself back in bed, comfy under his blanket, next to a halted hourglass, which will have completed some portion of its one hundred year potential.

     It is not the fabrication of a stuffed critter which sparks the breath of life into a fluffy companion but the moment of expressed affection which beckons them to join you.

     Once, when I still lived in Kennesaw, Georgia, my older sister had come to visit me before a particular test necessary for possible acceptance into a graduate school program.  We sat at the Marietta Starbucks,  which was, as Starbucks go, not very good . . . of course, I was not a regular Starbucks goer way back then and so could not properly gauge the potential introvertable recovering satisfaction a mid-work Starbucks break could produce.  I am now, and it’s a fascinating addiction.  Augusta’s Starbucks are all pretty good . . . although, I can only ever seem to get accurate beverages at one location’s drive-thru . . . at 4:30 am.  But who cares—the Starbucks drive-thru is for fools, right?  If I don’t sit for a few minutes and just leave after getting my drink, it takes only three to five drive-thru cars worth of time for me to be pulling from the parking lot.  The most convenient Starbucks between my house and work nearly always has ten or more running vehicles waiting for their convoluted, almost-coffee, overpriced, affluent indulgence.  Too harsh?  My bad; however, If you get real coffee from Starbucks . . . it is amazing.  Add espresso and it’s basically the best tasting snow you’ll ever consider everything on.

     Anyway, my sister and I had visited the Art supply store she frequented while studying Architecture and were now just relaxing at Starbucks, doodling on a large sheet of construction paper.  It was placed between us, on top of one of those too-tiny, two-person Starbucks stool/tables.  She and I doodled all kinds of ridiculous things.  I recall her happening to draw something which resembled a teddy bear sitting under a mushroom with a pipe.  That was six years ago, and I’ve been writing little journeys for my teddy bear explorer ever since.  It’s certainly something fun to write when I can think of nothing else.

     And with that, have a very Merry Christmas everybody.  Enjoy family and anyone close enough to give you the feelings of familial equivalence.

-Matt

Copyright © 2016 Matthew Bell. All Rights Reserved.

     Now we have heard tell of Moultine Monck and his deeds, the fall of young Mary, and the musicians’ tragedy.  And there is a final story here to tell.  So let us begin:

Leshy

Part three (part one, part two)

 

      “If able, I would bear it, I do not deny my effort—but the god of Love has conquered me…”

-Orpheus

 

     Quite literally an exact week beyond the consumption of our musical revolutionaries, a young trapper called Stogan Woolverton, that so merry a humble huntsman, sought to marry the fair Yuelle Everhart, the gentrous daughter of a local landowner, Pealcut Everhart—seriously, that was his name.

     Of course, no contemptuous lesser dare endure their child’s positional descent.  Thus, the cavalier Pealcut refused good Stogan his daughter’s hand.

     But the two were ever amid so perilous a mighty whim—love.  The huntsman and his devoted match shared a bond which twisted between what admissible affairs had lately preoccupied their futures, charging their detached marital abandonment.  Since Lord Everhart would have none of this conspicuous charade, he forbade his daughter from indulging her heart’s delight.

     Reclusion overwhelmed the poor Stogan and he would hear not his love’s pleas to meet so as to dissuade his unacceptable attraction.  This was until a midnight visit from the Reverend Edicet.  The daring Reverend offered to wed the two lovers in three night’s time amid the ruins of St. Gibb’s chapel, lest they lose their affectional rarity forever.

     Bewildering euphoria consumed the pair amid lovely contemplation for three long days.  They met on the third night at the chapel with Reverend Edicet and Stogan’s trusty comrade, Nevil, to witness.  Young Yuelle donned her handmade gown while the three men exchanged haunted theories of their necessarily distant venue.

     It was then that Stogan Woolverton happened to spot an abandoned fiddle—the lost device of our third late soldier, unfortunately released amid the swampous flood which carried him away—and began to jest a lighthearted sinfonia.  He stopped when Yuelle appeared from behind a chapel wall, dumbfounded amid his bride’s perfection.  He could hardly speak, let alone produce something of an equivalent grandeur on the violin.

     They rushed to an embrace and encouraged the wedding’s conclusion.  But the quivering Reverend had begun considering how foolish a venture braving the chapel was.  His woe was met with the rousing herald of drum and flute.  Soon enough, the floor of the wood quickened and with its haste crawled the muddy scraps of men.  The Reverend was plucked from among the trespassers first and swallowed into the marsh.

     Stogan and Nevil were seasoned combatants and stout with courage, but never a horde of damned had they encountered.  They resisted the mud with ferocity and hurried Yuelle to high ground.

     But ere they could reach a hill, Berkeley Monck collected the young bride from their clutches and whisked her back into the fog.

     “No!”  And with that, Stogan dove directly into the stream of the dead and fought his way back to the chapel.  Nevil charged closely behind.

     It would appear their valiant efforts afforded a moment of asylum as all about the men retreated.  Even Yuelle stood alone within the chapel walls in utter disbelief.  But her fear had not diminished and the laughter and chimes of young Mary Githblid resonated about the wood in a discouraging revulsion.

     Yuelle turned to Stogan to catch his frightful stare as he clambered upon a felled stone.  Her eyes widened in disbelief as the long fingers of the Leshy folded around her waist.

     “Yuelle!”

     “Stogan!”

     But it was for not and she wept as the Leshy lifted her to his horrific expression.  The creature’s face opened wide and Yuelle thrashed for release, but the Leshy consumed the poor girl with a hideous gulp.

     The Leshy turned to amble back to the swamp and Stogan endeavored a charge, but Nevil seized his arm.  “You will do nothing for Yuelle to die here tonight.  Let us collect our stead and return in might.”

     This hardly assured the enraged hunter, but he conceded to return another time.  There was never a more grimly moonlit walk among friends as Stogan and Nevil’s return to town.

     The fault of Yuelle’s demise it would appear belonged to many: Pealcut’s dismissal of Stogan’s love, encouraging a secret wedding, the Revernd Edicet’s unmanageable terror, Stogan and Nevil’s willing to expose Yuelle to so treacherous a place, and many decades of fearful townsfolk too shaken to test the Leshy.

     And so, to expire the fiendish demon, a mighty hunt was held to flesh out the beast.  The party was over fifty strong and most were filled with dread—a necessary misdeed on so paramount an eve.  There were torches and rifles, crossbows and pitchforks.

     But the torches and machines of men frightened the Leshy not and soon into the night ten men were quickly lost, engulfed by the succubic mire.  Those enchanted to follow Berkeley Monck encountered the Leshy first and were quickly gobbled up to the jestful laughter of Mary Githblid.

     The dozen men with Stogan, and Nevil was among them, ventured to locate the Leshy’s lair.  And soon enough, they did.  With casks of oil and torches ready, the burning of the cave would soon commence.  But the Leshy shed his consumed victim’s spirits like a snake sheds skin, and the voice of Yuelle called to her lover from within the cavern.

     “Men, stop!  Yuelle?”

     Nevil placed a hand on Stogan’s shoulder.  “Brother, it is not your bride.”

     “Be off of me!” He cried, and charged into the cave.

     Down Stogan ventured, into the deep of the mire.

     “Yuelle, where are you.”

     “I am here.”

     Having dispatched the group’s others, the mudland horde, spirituous wonderers, and the Leshy’s grotesque figure hastened to the cave.  The sludge arose with asunder and swiftly drowned Nevil’s men.  He’d no choice but to brave the cavern now himself.

     Nevil found Stogan deep within the cave amid a spectral embrace with the spirit of his lover.  Her kiss pulled from Stogan what life was in him and the stout trapper soon fell to the ground.  He was lost.

     It would be well to say Nevil feared not his newfound predicament, but no man could courageously endure so ghastly a night dispelling all traces of fright.

     The Leshy’s sludge poured into the cave with the foulest of odors and Nevil flailed a futile brawl against his mud-ridden adversaries until there was no fight left within him.  The swamp moved upon the boy and pulled him down.  Nevil caught the hellish gaze of the Leshy and cursed the demon as he plummeted to his doom.  The brave lad’s combative scowl twisted into horror as his wide, disbelieving stare vanished beneath the mire.

     I hope you guys’ve enjoyed these shorts about the Leshy!  Have a wonderful Halloween and be safe!

-Matt

Copyright © 2016 Matthew Bell. All Rights Reserved.

Title quote by Opeth.

Leshy

Part Two

This is part two of a multipart short.  For part one, click here.

     Ayrno Githblid, a strange called man indeed, had produced for his impoverished family fine fish dinners for weeks, plucked from a location evidently untapped.  To be sure, this fishing spot of poor man Ayrno was nearly a mile from the Gibb church ruins.  Most dared not to get so close, but his family’s health charged his actions.  As no harm had chanced him and he had seen nothing evil, good man Githblid indulged his twins’ wish to tag along on one particular morning.

     Todd and Mary were each seven and had a playful disposition, which enlivened their family’s ever unfortunate reality.  But now, Ayrno’s fish stores were turning things around.  And so out they went at day’s first light.  To keep track of the playful children, Ayrno gave Mary her mother’s tambourine and beckoned the twins to stay close and play it lest he lose track of them.

     Two large trout were secured in not even an hour and during that time Todd and Mary made quite the distance into the swamp.  Neither feared the misty wood until Todd hid from his sister to produce a startling fright.

     “Gotcha!”

     That moment buried the seed of the chilling unfamiliar within Mary’s juvenile heart, the aromatic qualities of which beguiled to her tambourine’s melody the Leshy.

     Ayrno Githblid arose for a stretch and harkened to his children.  He had long forgotten his task to keep the tambourine’s song near.  Nevertheless, as he stood, the faint jingles tickled his ears into a smile, reassured of his children’s safety.

     But then . . . nothing.  The children’s father peered into the descending fog but could decipher nothing.

     “Mary!  Todd!  Come here children!”

     Nothing.

     Ayrno dropped his rod and charged into the mist.  “Mary . . . Todd!”  He stopped cold amid the frozen shrieks of his daughter.  “Mary!”

     As Ayrno bounded to her, Todd came running to him in a deathly pale and breathless.  He collapsed in his father’s arms.  “It got her . . . the monster.  I saw it, he . . .  ate her.  Mary . . . she’s gone.”

     The man rose to give chase to what beast dared violate his family, but found nothing.  Even the fog diminished into midday sunshine.

     Ayrno Githblid understandingly only ever blamed himself for the loss of his daughter and he soon turned to consumption.  Amid these treacherous bouts of chemical inebriation, Ayrno would venture to the old Gibb church and call to his daughter.  He recalled seeing the ghostly shadow of a woman moving about the fog.  But when he would call to her, the woman would vanish deep into the bog.

     Even after recovering from bitter mourning, the bereaved father fearlessly ventured into the wood in search for a glimmer of hope.  But not even young Mary’s tambourine was ever recovered.

     It was at Githblid’s request that the perceptible border of the Leshy’s realm was rightly marked in longstanding inks of red and yellow, foreboding adventurous thrill seekers to stay their quests.

     For sixty-three years did those stark alarms keep locals at bay.  And then, following the conclusion of our great rebellion, three of good Washington’s, ‘alayhi as-salām, youthful revolutionary musicians, hoping to hasten home, swifted through the woodland, caring not for the faded flamboyant markers harkening their cautionary steps.

     They became quickly misplaced in the dark of Leshy’s wood and soon enough the tones of the damned resounded upon them.  The ground began to slip and the moonlit swamp produced the silhouettes of shaded faces aghast for empathetic submission.  Then faint giggles and the ringing of paired jingles danced playfully around them.

     The three lads quickened to a sloggish amble, finding St. Gibb’s before the infernal grabbing of felled men’s hands could abduct them.  There, aloft chunks of chapel bricks, the boys awaited dawn’s arrival.

     But a sad sung song amid the fog assured their party’s unlikely survival.  Nevertheless, they peered from behind the tattered church to glimpse the eerie voice.

     “There, do you see.”  The drummer boy pointed into the haze at the pale figure of a woman gently stepping from the tree line.

     “I am my beloved’s, and his desire is for me.” the woman sang.

     The boys continued to watch as the woman moved toward them.

     “The mandrakes give a smell, and at our gates are all manner of pleasant fruits, new and old, which I have laid up for thee, O my beloved.”

     “That’s the ghost of Berkeley Monck!” whispered the piper.  “We must be at Saint Gibb’s.”

     “They say she ran off with her lover to marry here, but he abandoned her in the marsh.”

     “I heard the sheriff killed them both and dumped their bodies in the swamp.”

      “Quickly, let us move.  This place is wrought with dread.”

     But as they turned to flee, the boys froze in terror before the ghost of Berkeley Monck drifting beneath the archway, her melancholy gaze upon them, and little Mary Githblid prancing tambourine beside; and they brought with them the swamp, which engulfed the chapel and filled its walls with sludge.  The boys attempted to clamber, but were seized by the mudmen who’d accompanied the flood.  As the swamp retreated, whisking away the poor lads, Berkeley Monck blew a kiss and vanished into the night with little dancing Mary.

     Along once meager channels, the swampy mud-slip thrashed the boys to the mouth of a small cave.  There they were tendered to the Leshy.  He plucked them from his minions and descended his earthly lair, caring none for their youthful pleas.  Great horrors befell the little soldiers as a tasty night’s delight for the guardian of the bog—the Leshy.

 

Copyright © 2016 Matthew Bell. All Rights Reserved.

Title quote by Opeth.

 

     I’ve not yet determined the necessity of an introduction to every post.  To be sure, they certainly help get the juices flowing.  I will, of course, discard this preference amid topical irrelevance if ever I spot so foolish a calamity . . . so how about this:

     The cyclical reality of self-destruction and the pursuit of individuality necessitate one another, the haunting discoveries of which often belatedly manifest.

     Now lemme scare the shit out of you.  This is:

Leshy
The losts’ keeper

If ever you’ve heard of the Leshy
You’ll certainly know to be true
A moment of fear in his woodland
And his smell and taste are for you

 

Part One

     So long ago, in the wee hours of our colonial yesteryears, where a meager brook abandoned its maritime charge and descended amid the earth, a stone church—St. Gibb’s Chapel—was set atop the marshy woodland.  Yet it would not keep.  Small but lofty, this fortification was condemned to regular submersion, its weight being much for the mireous sod.  Lo, the builders ceased construction not—their manifestory Vortigernous persistence saw the sanctuary’s assembly thrice, and thrice it cumbled until no celestial accordance could stay absolute abandonment.

     To be sure, something else plagued St. Gibb’s erection.  Many laborers and artisans vanished during the continued construction.  It must have been a demon to have condemned so holy a venture.  And soon word had spread of a dreadful forest horror—a guardian of the bog . . . the Leshy.

 

     “I am game for his crooked jaw, and for the jaws of Death too […] if it fairly comes in the way of the business we follow…”

-Starbuck

     “Stranger, you are a simple fool, or come from far off, when you tell me to avoid the wrath of the gods or fear them.”

-Polyphemos

 

     Now four score before our good man Washington, ‘alayhi as-salām, managed America’s eventual secessionatory declaration, St. Gibb’s ruins had long lingered amid a demonic perception.  And on one autumn’s evening, a clothly Sheriff, called Monck, stole away his wife and her lover to atone their sins before the Abbadonic apparition.

     “And the man that committeth adultery with another man’s wife, even he that committeth adultery with his neighbor’s wife, the adulterer and the adulteress shall surely be put to death.” quoth the Sheriff.

     Moultine Monck may have been religious but stayed not did this charge his malevolence, for he had his foot upon a stool—the only thing staying the rope around Penson Furst’s neck—his youthfully adulterous deputy.

     “If a man be found lying with a woman married to an husband, then they shall both of them die, both the man that lay with the woman, and the woman.”

     “Moultie . . . honey . . . I beg you . . . please!”

     Berkeley Monck was not noosed, but rather lashed to a chair beyond the ruins, sobbing for her enchanted lover impending beneath the nearly-felled archway.

     “A righteous man falling down before the wicked is as a troubled fountain, and a muddied spring.”

     And with that, Sheriff Moultine Monck shoved the stool from beneath the terrified boy.  The swinger’s gaze begged the Sherriff’s wife for a long last moment of restrained affection.

     “Creature!” Cried the Sheriff.  “Come upon me and washeth mine life of this debaucherous swine and her dangling trough.”

     The marsh roots crooked and the bog bubbled with the voices of the consumed.  The bound Sheriff’s wife’s desperate shrieks produced only the hastened  arrival of her mudland executioner.  His figure rolled upon the ruins in a wave of swamp and stench.

     “I have tasted the smell of fear in my wood and have gathered here to collect its consequence.  Who is here for me?”

     “Foulest kraken, taketh mine wife and this corpse which lingereth before her.”

     “It fears me not, thus it shall remain.  But this Lilithian Yuki-onna, send her to me.”

     Monck’s foot shoved his wife’s chair as he had her lover’s stool.  “I commit thy soul into this waste and weep for thou not.”

     The Leshy clutched Berkeley around the mouth amid her final howl of misfortune.  “Come hither, tasty child, and embrace what fear thou hast.”

     Sheriff Moultine caught the shimmer of his wife’s tears before the beast’s mouth shut to a gulp and the adulterous bride was no more.

     Since few dared the bog at St. Gibb’s, Sheriff Moultine ever evaded persecution for his deeds.  He died of diphtheria at 74—a ripe old age in those days indeed.

     So grim a tale, should this be the end . . . but it is not—there is more to tell.  Before even Sheriff Moultine departed this earth, another soul joined the Leshy’s spirituous ranks.  But we’ll leave it here for now . . .

 

Copyright © 2016 Matthew Bell. All Rights Reserved.

Title quote by Opeth.

     Greetings, ghastly specian, and welcome to October.

     I’m sorry for my lengthy absence, but producing material before my vacation was a priority.  Publishing material during my vacation was not.  I do apologize and certainly plan for a regular production frequency henceforth.

     Now I know uncountable readers are parched for Kaga’s moonlit desert dessert, but let us not abandon our frightening Octoberian obligations.

     Autumn is far and away a most discernably fabulous time of year, even if you don’t agree, and it concludes, to some extent, with a hastened, if not nearly forgotten, holiday.  Yea, even the profiteering consumer locales replace their ghoulish décor with boughs of holly before our archaic new year’s evening gala hath commenced.

     But do not fret, fellow foul friends, as there are among us those who relish in Autumn’s delight, and we champion candious celebrations.  So brandish thine turnips and prepratorilly harvest boxes of fruitsnacks.  This is:

 

Harvest
Foreshadowing Fan Fiction

 

“It is difficult to free fools from the chains they revere.”

-Voltaire

 

     The Inn at Brynnwood and 11th was a decrepitous wooden mansion—a relic lost amid misfortune while endeavorous profiteers ventured the land around it for fairs, shops, churches, and banks.

     Had I any sense about me, the damp odor dawdling around the hardly-lit foyer would’ve put me off in search of some newer structure.

     But I was tired . . . and the rain.  It so drove me to shelter that I cared not to return to the falling treachery behind—the cobblestone roads outside ran with minor, muddy tributaries, gathering for a midnight flood.

     And so I did not leave, but meandered the crimson carpetway to a tall oaken desk with an ancient librarianesque crone seated behind it.  She scowled over her spectacles as I took a dribble of ink to the occupant roster, which was yet empty.  Beneath ‘evenings,’ I inscribed a 1.

     “Dollar fifty.”

     “Very well.”  I produced the precise charge, and her trembling appendages carefully retrieved it.  She then lumbered to the wall behind her and struggled for the highest key of the lot.  “I’ll settle for a lower room, if you like.”

     “I care little where you sleep, but if you’d prefer a roof and a sound window, particularly amid so precarious a gale, then leave me to my charge . . . our highest room is the soundest of them all.”

     “As you say, madam.”

     The woman prepared a lantern, having infernally caught my gaze as she whispered the match into submission.  She moved from behind the desk and fought the lantern into a forthright stead.

     “If you’ve gathered your things, you may follow me.”

     There were no lights about the place, save our meager lamp, which illuminated our cavernous ascent, ever beyond the mansion’s many doors.

     “Each of these rooms is unfit?” I beckoned, hoping to stay our venture.

     “So enough, lest you welcome an evening shower.”

     My momentary misinterpretation of her meaning proved a revitalizing contemplation, which dissolved facing our final flight.  This last stairway was snug and smelled foul.  I climbed the spire, trailing the dim-lit profile of the lantern-clad woman before me.  Our steps produced a carol of horrific creaks until the last.  Beyond a small landing was a lonely door.

     “Here is your room.” She said, unlocking the door, handing me the key, and hanging the lantern.

     “Do you not require it for your descent, madam?”

     “I shall light another.”

     I’ve no idea whence she produced said replacement, but she’d done so ere I’d fastened the door.  I watched the warm light spill into the room to my boot tips, linger for a moment, and slowly fade away.

     I peered through the keyhole swiftly enough to watch as the light moved down the stairwell until I was sure the woman was gone, after which I secured the lock and tossed my key under a pillow.

     The air was cold and damp, but there was no sign of the rain invading what I imagined to be the attic.  I arranged my effects, kindled a stout candle, and produced my log to record the evening’s strange affair.

     I fell a few dribbles of laudanum into my brandywine and ventured a relaxing conclusion to a troublesome journey.  Once I’d finished with my journal, I extinguished the light and swam into a pleasant trance.

     I woke amid thunder and reached for my pocket watch to find I’d slept for only a few hours.  But then, as I considered my forthcoming struggle to reclaim sleep, I discerned the faint climbing of stairs amid the rain’s clatter.  Was the woman returning?

     I retrieved my key, hastily reignited my candle, and moved to the door.  Sure enough, someone was climbing the stairs.  I fastened my ear to the door.  The stairwell creaking turned into a shuffle across the landing right up to my room and then stopped.

     I fetched a knife and prepared to confront who could only be the old woman.  I rotated the key and the doorknob began twisting with an overwhelming strength.

     “Holy Hell!”  I fought the knob to a halt, waited, and then, knife at the ready, opened the door.

     Nothing . . . no one.  I blinked to a reassured conclusion.  There was nothing.

     I returned to my bed, but did not extinguish my candle.  Despite my opiatic hallucinatory potential, my childlike fears had rekindled into a wretched fright.  Nevertheless, I soon resubmitted to a slumber.

     POP!

     My eyes shot open.  Something was in my room.  There was still light, but I could not turn my head . . . nay, I could not even move.  I glanced down to watch the blanket slowly retreat from my chest.  I gulped, which was met with a heavy breath.  What was happening . . . where was this nightly fiend.  Then . . . the candle extinguished itself.

     Finally I heard the lighting of a match and a soft whisper.  The light approached until the partly illuminated, wrinkled face of the old woman peered down into my eyes.  She brought her hand to my face and I tried to close my eyes, but I could not.  She ran her nails down my cheek and onto my chest whereupon she began unbuttoning my top.

     “Your heart is excited.” She crackled, and began producing a number of tubular vessels from a large cask.  She forced the hoses of one with a blue liquid into my neck.  I dizzily watched the liquid darken as my blood mixed with whatever the vessels contents were.

     “I trust you cannot feel this, young man.  Please stay alert.”

     This perceivably feeble old woman then effortlessly raised me to a seated position against the headboard and ran her middle finger down my breast.  I watched as the nail grew into a wicked device which she used to open my bowels.

     Nauseated, I glanced upward to the woman’s face.  To my astonishment, as she did her work, I watched her elderly facade dissolve into that of a young girl, gleefully removing my organs and gently placing them into glass cylinders of black liquid.  I could do nothing.

     “Please pay attention.” She requested with a sweet youthfulness, pushing her thumb into my chin.

     Her eyes widened and skin paled until she resembled no discernibly earthly thing I’d encountered amid my distinguished taxidermic tenure.

     My laudanum washed into an overwhelming sadness at my life’s imminent conclusion, and at the hands of so foul a creature.

     “Aw, don’t cry.  It will soon be over.  You’re being ever such the big boy.”  Her voice was echoing into a hardly human, atmospheric monotonal-reassurance.

     I watched, but could not feel, as my heart was plucked from my chest and placed, with my lungs, into one of the cylinders.  How could I be conscious?

     “One more to go.”

     This monochromatic, wide-eyed fiend made no expression as she severed my head at the neck.  With a clutch of hair, she pulled me from my body and rotated my face into her empty gaze.  She now produced not even English, but the hums a whale might comprehend, and slowly submerged my head into the bloodied vial of blue liquid.  I could do nothing as my ears filled and vision muddied.  I was kept conscious by some magic and entrusted with only the most minimal faculties, ever to gaze through my amphibious reservoir at the shelves of poor fools before me.

     Happy October Everybody!

-Matt

Copyright © 2016 Matthew Bell. All Rights Reserved.

Title quote by Opeth.

     Hello, fabulous human.  I certainly hope you’re well!  Thank you greatly for stopping by.

     It’s likely we’ve been historically acquainted and may’ve even, at one time, been conceivably friendly.  If this is the case, then “it’s so good to see you once again,” and if not, then it’s wonderful to meet you!

     My name is Matthew Bell and welcome to Beltchat.com.  Here you’ll find only the finest historiographical discourse regarding biblically-fashioned waist accessories.  Not really, but the Bible Belt is whence spawned my anthropological perception of our species, which largely perpetuates my compositional frivolities.  It is thus subliminally relevant.  But what is this so provocative realm?

     Well, the Bible Belt’s fantastical with magical perceptions of the Universe and other things miraculously around it: like “shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—“like Dorudontinae and Australopithecus.  The Planet’s also very young and has seen a mighty flood.  Our ancestors have scarcely changed, but are rather dust and ribly.  Here is where I’ve dwelt so long—beyond a quarter century—that I think and look a lot like all those humans all around me—‘Merica!

And now, a story . . .

 

     The tumultuous reality of 69 is that, which any historian can confirm, focusing strength on either end is occupationally tricky.  So, to minimally convolute our cerebratory potential, we’ll abandon Rome, but just for now, and hang out in Alaska . . . well, Arizona.  This is:

 

Keepsake part one:

Kaga’s Achak

 

     “The wise hear them and grow in wisdom; those with understanding gain guidance.”

– Proverbs 1:5

     “Take the breath of the new dawn and make it part of you.  It will give you strength.

– Hopi saying

     “Love to his soul gave eyes; he knew things are not as they seem.  The dream is his real life; the world around him is the dream.”

-Michel de Montaigne

 

     Prologue: The Anasazi aulos was a treasured memento of Paleontologist Howard Hood, which was whimsically unearthed amid a Kayentan Dilophosaurus dig.  No flute of its kind had evidently ever been produced by the Ancestral Pre-Puebloan peoples.  Nevertheless, he kept the artifact displayed aloft his mantle.  There it remained until one day it astonishingly vanished.

.               .               .

     Kaga was a storyteller, which nobody could see, since he slaved away on end each day, chipping bits of rock.  He was reasonably strapping, of medial proportions, and fashioned heads of stone for spears to use with the atlatle.  So superb with this device was he that the elders never cared to let him chance a chronicle for all the tribe to hear.  Kaga waned dispassionate, but kept his crafty charge, hoping for the moment to exemplify his art.  Perhaps his opportunity was nearer than he’d thought.

     Kaga’s home was a sufficiently aesthetic combination of cave and clay with a wooden interior and small fire pit.  Unfortunately, however, his door dislodged so regularly that the boy conceded to resting it closed at night.  But one night, an exhausted Kaga neglected this nuisance and slogged straight to bed whereupon he satisfyingly submerged into so swift a slumber that dreamy elations were upon him in fervorous haste.

     And so night meandered merrily along Kaga’s illusions, his home comfortably chilled by evening’s efflation.  But soon, as if by magic, a sweet sound rolled upon the breeze, which stimulated Kaga into a curious stir.  A soft humming of flutes, which he weakened before, tickled with wisps of vanilla and jasmine, danced around his head, enticing autonomous euphoric responses no whispering playmate could ever produce.  And so on hummed the flutes, gentle and fragrant:

     hmmmnn hmmmnn . . . just kidding.  “I love you, and I miss you . . . hmmmnn.”  Ok, seriously.

     Anyway, Kaga lumbered from his home into waves of audible, heavenly delight, beckoned to attention by overwhelming aromatic qualities.  Further, the boy clambered, beyond the hill outside his village, venturing amid the nightly desert.  Now miles from home, Kaga kept his lustled course.

     Finally, he stopped short.  There, perched aloft a distant saguaro, nestled the moonlit profile of a lovely woman, whence harmonized the rousiest melodies, exciting Kaga’s approach.  But, as he drew near, the siren leapt from her plant.  She had not even touched the earth before backwards over hills she flew, melodically captivating the fatigued boy.

     This vixen was swift.  Kaga gave chase but could hardly hear her harmonious rhythms or catch her pleasing drift.  Alas, amid a barren clearing, nothing could be seen . . . nothing could be heard . . .  nothing could be smelled.  It would seem our foolhardy lad was alone.  Now, Kaga was a very learned chap and thus grieved:

     “Foul, this manifestory-Kokopellian, succubic aulete hath deceived me.”

     Note:  The absent Ancestral-Puebloan writing system scarcely elaborates the characteristics necessary to sufficiently decipher whatever Southwestern, Pre-historic Native American, geographically-refined linguistic manifestations these individuals potentially employed and so we’ve taken certain compositionally-Antonianesque liberties—how bittersweet a return to Rome is that!

To be continued . . .

     Once again, thank you so much.  I absolutely appreciate your time!

-Matt

Copyright © 2016 Matthew Bell. All Rights Reserved.

Intro quotation by Tool.