Update for July

Well it’s been a month since my last update and I needed to explain some things as for the lack of updates and what was happening in the background.

I have been looking for a new job, since the joy was completely sucked out by a series of vampires management hired to boost morale. Unfortunately, these so-called children of the night have fed of my colleagues, and me, to continue their own damned, undead existence. There have been some difficulties in removing the parasites from their jobs as they managed to keep the HR department in their constant thrall with the promise of immortality and eternal beauty.

I may be transferred within the company away from the vampires, but there is no promise of this. I was told that cultists keep management in fear of more impending economic and financial doom. This has resulted in several rounds of redundancies and wicker men being built. The cultists claim that such sacrifices will be a greater benefit to the company. I do not believe this to be true.

So as a side thing, I needed a distraction and right now I have a photographer that pursues me like a bloodhound for website work. It’s modest stuff, but it gives me extra cash. And I need it. I was hit hard on the maintenance side of things, with equipment giving up the very spirits that I spent enslaving to work for me. I saw ghosts leave my laptop battery and something I cannot name rapidly aged the power supply. It cost me some good livestock to replenish these items, because the shaman wouldn’t just accept mushrooms, or precious beads.

Likewise, I needed some new eyes. And this was difficult at best. Especially, after hunting down the right person who had the same colour (off-grey) and then the delicate operation of removing them. I could never find the right tool. Ice cream scoop – too big, melon baller – too small. I just could not win.

I also got really bored, lonely and sad.

So to distract me overcome my issues, I decided to take on other projects, where hopefully I meet new people and create something others may enjoy. If we are all lucky, updates will be posted in due course.

Lastly, I am still writing Magpie, in case anyone was hanging out for it. I want to finish this story right, so I am going to complete it, edit and arrange it in the right order and then post it on a weekly basis. Hopefully. I’ll ask a magic 8-Ball about this while incanting the right words to check my course.

Thanks for keeping a silent vigil however, the few of you there are left.

Aeaeae,

Jack

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Magpie Part 5

High on the mountain, sat a lone shape. Cross-legged, his hands on his knees and eyes closed, Shaman let his thoughts wander, clearing his mind. He had not eaten in several days but he did not need food. Not at this point. He worked on a trick a wise man once taught him. He squinted his eyes for a second and then opened them. Everything that Shaman saw was now different.
The sky was no longer blue, but an iridescent black that glowed white at the edges of the horizon. The sun looked burnt out and a cold rusted brown. The land around the mountain was dotted with pits and craters where blood and other bodily fluids boiled up like lava and fumed like brimstone. The mountain too felt different, like it was made of skin and flesh and bone. As if it were some giant creature sleeping and dreaming, something that Shaman dared not to wake. The sky was filled with terrible winged creatures, forever screeching in torment for somewhere to land but finding no safety.

It was with this terrible vision that Shaman could see how things were connected. Lines glowing with phosphorescence came to and from him and lay their way across the world. He saw the Colonel’s getting fainter. His time was nearly up. He saw another line, glowing bright. Cassandra. Shaman wondered what might happen to his daughter when he was gone. He remembered the joy and brilliance of her birth. Then he felt the cold hard earth of the mountain beneath him. His lungs where filling with blood. A shadow passed over him. He was scared, because he didn’t know if he had the strength now. Because he didn’t know what she might do when he was gone. Would he be gone?

Shaman’s mind shifted back. Time meant little in this place. His future seemed to be present.

Wait, he thought to himself, concentrate. Do not get lost.

These were the words of his master.

Shaman was on this mountain decades ago, before his body was scarred from ink and battle. There he had sought something that no one else would. And his master lived on that mountain. This mountain.

His master was dark-skinned with long black hair, matted with beads and feathers. Just stood there laughing. Laughing at a half-starved Shaman.

- You foolish white man! You’ve killed yourself coming out here. What makes you think I will teach you what the World has forgotten?

Shaman drank from his master skull that night before the valley. When nothing that crossed him lived. The sky then was filled fire that rose so high it would burn the sun and roast the moon. In that moment the world had become like Shaman’s vision, an eternity of terror, lost souls trapped forever, cut and shot and split open, screaming, wanting only to go home.

After that day, everyone had seen what Shaman was capable of. Paris had seen it all in the mountain above, with those special eyes of his. Ichi, Jackson, Clarke and Clara knew what he had done on his own. They all feared him, especially Paris. He took his leave, because he knew it would be his last battle. Though he still provided information over glasses over whiskey from a bottle that survived such destruction that the fire and Shaman brought.

Coming back to the present, he could see that the Colonel’s glowing line was now gone. Cassandra’s nearby still glowed strong. Then Shaman saw something new. Dark and pulsing with power, iridescent like the sky. Shaman knew who this was. There was no separating that line from him. He felt cold, cold as the mountain, a shadow was passing over him. The dark line was drawing closer to Cassandra’s line. He was no longer on the mountain, he was in town, shocked onlookers were all around him. Cassandra felt cold in his arms. A shadow moved step by step to the horizon. No. Shaman was too late. The black steel gun is still smoking in Cassandra’s hands. A pale boy lies dead in bed, red splattered against the walls like some macabre halo. Shaman tries to look at his daughter, but a shadow has passed over her like a mourning veil. The shadow has become her. The ground feels as cold as Shaman’s body…

No. None of this has come to be yet. There is still time. Shaman blinked three times and world of endless horrors had transformed back to a mountain of stone and earth surrounded by what seemed to be an endless wasteland. Getting to his feet, he moved from the summit down to where a cave lay hidden behind a massive boulder. To him the boulder was light as a feather. And with both hands, Shaman shifted it with ease.

A glow came from within the cave, though no fires were lit. Shaman walked inside. The passage spiralled down deeper into the mountain. The narrow passage was warm, and moist, as though Shaman was slowly stepping down the gullet of a giant beast. It smelled faintly of a swamp. A sound of quiet breathing, of slumber could be heard. Shaman made no sound as he slowly descended down, deep into the earth..

Soon enough the passage opened up into a chamber hewn from rock. Into the walls shelves and niches were carved. On each of these was a skull. The light in here was spectral as it moved between a smoky yellow to phosphorate green to an alien indigo. Shaman stood in the centre of the chamber surrounded by the bones of dead men, former wise men and men like Shaman.

- Foolish White Man! You have gotten yourself killed…

It was the voice of his master. Shaman knew where the skull was. He had placed it there. He had killed his master. It was required. It was the final test. Single combat. To prove who was the stronger in will and form. It was a battle that felt like it raged for days, but could only have been moments. And until the very end, his master never submitted, never backed down. Even when Shaman had his hands around his throat and squeezed tighter and tighter and tighter.

- It is not too late to sever the threads. To save yourself. To save all of us.

Another voice, older than that of Shaman’s master.

- You want me to cut and run? Like a coward? And for how long? And to where? To the ends of the earth? The sky? The oceans?

Shaman turned to face the skull that barked out at him.

- Then who will teach what the World has Forgotten and Lost?

Then another spoke, it sounded the oldest of all. A patient voice that barely hid the tone of bitterness towards the potential futures that lay before them.

- How do you think you can defeat him?

To this Shaman did not answer. But every spirit in the chamber knew his plan. And soon they all began to scream and yell at him, calling him obscenities. Shaman turned to leave. His destiny was manifest, only so to ensure others were not. As he began to ascend up the narrow passage again, he remembered what he had said to his master on top of that mountain all those years ago. When his master asked him whether he should teach him his secrets.

A young Shaman looked around the barren wasteland, void of anything spare two men and a mountain. Shaman looked back at the master and said:

- Well I don’t see anyone else here.

It was this that made his master laugh. And he then went on to teach him every beautiful and terrible thing that he knew.

Stepping out of the passage and into fresh air, Shaman stared across the endless desert, focusing on saving his daughter.

And destroying his adversary.

Preceded by Part 4

Continued in Part 6

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Magpie Part 4

The Colonel had placed posters around the town, the ink still glistening, fresh from the local newspaper’s press. The posters read:

Wanted: A Group of Skilled Individuals for Protection and Capture of Dangerous Person. All Fees Paid in Hard Currency. Enquire within Southpaw Saloon.

All day the Colonel sat at the back of the Southpaw, his back against the wall and facing the entry. He could see the entire establishment from his corner. Feet clunked across wooden floors boards that were loose in places.
So far everyone that had enquired about the job Colonel had rejected. He received all manner of people who could (or thought they could) handle a gun, or as one gentleman put it - sling shooting irons. If it wasn’t their boasting, the first thing that would escape their lips was:

- So how much does this pay?

The Colonel knew how much they were after, but always gave the lowest price to send them away with sour, disappointed faces. However, the Colonel knew he was running out of time. The stranger had killed his compatriots, people he trained and supported across this frontier. There was only he and Shaman left. Part of his mind would cling to the hope that the killer might seek Shaman first. And maybe, there would be a chance that Shaman would be the one to finally despatch this adversary. But it was last conversation with Shaman chilled him. He had seen Shaman do many things. He had seen him at the end of that terrible day in the valley. Covered in the ink of old tattoos and the blood of his enemies. Of his victims. He had seen for the moment an inhuman look in Shaman, which in a blink was gone. Paris avoided him after that day. The Colonel kept his promise and allowed Shaman to walk away and never enter another battle again.

The whiskey bottle was empty, and so it seemed that the Colonel’s time was up. But the Colonel wouldn’t go without bringing one final war.

The train of thought was ended when a newcomer entered the saloon. Dressed in a dark coat, covered in the dust from the desert wind. A mottled black hat with a wide brim hid his features. The Colonel could feel the cold steel of the derringer in the palm of his hand. The killer always got very close to his kills. The man came up to the table without a word, heavy boot thudded across the floor. And then stopped opposite to the Colonel.

- Excuse me, sir.

His voice was gravely and low

The Colonel narrowed his eyes, his finger felt for the trigger.

- Are you the one who has put up those posters around town? The same which claims you are looking for – skilled individuals?

Exhaling, the Colonel eased his grip on the derringer in his hand.

- Yes.

The tall man removed his hat from the crown of his head in respect.
His face seemed worn like the cliffs in a desert wind.

- Well I was wondering, in regards to the certain dangerous person you needed protecting from, how dangerous is he?

The Colonel smiled.

- You know something, you are the first person to ask me that all day. Please take a seat.

- Much obliged.

The man took out a chair and sat down, placing his hat on the table.

- And what is your name?

The Colonel eyed the man, which the man returned in kind.

- Most of all people call me Eli, so I guess that’s what I go by now. But you still haven’t answered my question.

The Colonel sat back, his smile eroded.

- Very dangerous. He has killed a number of my friends and a few others. All very skilled people. Such as I imagine you would be.

Eli nodded, rubbing his with his index finger.

- Oh I’ve been in a situation or two. And I’m around still to say how it got resolved. Do you know what he looks like?

- I’ve had reports that it’s just some pale kid in a coat that just too big for him. He guns down anybody that stands in his way, but he’s always hunting someone in particular. Heard that he walks the entire way too. Doesn’t have a horse, can’t ride or won’t. Thing is that he takes the weapon they’ve used and something else they’ve had on their person. Never takes any currency. Whatever he takes of value isn’t for selling, but for some kind of memento. And now I believe he’s coming after me.

- Your adversary sounds mighty interesting. Any reason why he might be coming after you?

- And that is the damnedest thing. I have no idea why. I figured it might be a job we did a number of years ago, figured it was a family member out for a spot of revenge. But I heard the boy barely speaks, or he some kind of mute. I’ve seen plenty of people on a vendetta. They all have a story and they are all proud to tell it to anyone. This boy, well, he just doesn’t have a story. He just kills. And he kills very well.

Eli sat silently taking this in. The Colonel leaned in slightly.

- And you’re still interested in the job?

Eli nodded contemplatively.

- Yeah. Yeah, why not. And I’ll help you find others, considering the turnout I’ve heard you had today.

A smile slithered across the Colonel’s face. He signalled over to the barkeeper

- Excellent. Let’s have a drink.

One of the bar staff brought over a fresh bottle of hard liquor and two glasses. A young woman poured out the amber liquid with soft hands. The Colonel watched her intently, rubbing his index finger against his bottom lip. Eli watched them both. The girl seemed to ignore the Colonel body language, as a woman working in such a place, with men filled with drink and certain ideas might. Eli knew the Colonel was no better than anyone he worked for. But a job was a job. And Eli knew this might turn out to be the strangest yet.

The Colonel raised his glass to toast the newfound deal. Eli raised his.

- Salud.

Chrystal clinked together and both Eli and the Colonel found each other sipping at their whiskey. They both smiled.

Preceded by: Part 3
Continued in Part 5 (Coming Soon)

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Magpie - Part 3

A lone oak stood on the steep hill, providing the only shade for seemingly miles around. From this point, an entire horizon of countryside could be seen. Rolling green meadows and grazing fields, rising hills, sparse woods and rows of orchards made this vista. Beneath the tree, Paris sat back dozing on a chair, his hat lowered over his face. Nearby sat an easel and on it, a canvas. Below was a toolbox of paints in tubes, brushes, palette knives and rags.

Above Paris a couple of birds chirped sweetly before fluttering out of the foliage and into the sky. Behind him a voice spoke out.

- You’ll never finish it if you keep sleeping.

Paris, not moving from his spot, spoke in return.

- Just resting the eyes. Need to pick out the detail, you know.

- So you keep saying.

The voice was closer. Like the birds it was sweet and song. Paris felt as if a shadow had crossed over him. Slowly lifting the brim of his hat, Paris already knew who it was. Heather. His love had long golden hair that came alive in the wind and faded freckles on her skin from a childhood in the sun. She wore a dress the colour of leaves in autumn, that kind of sweet dry brown. She held a covered basket, her arm looped through the handle.

- I brought something in case you were hungry.

Paris smiled.

- And this is why I love you.

Heather rested the basket near the chair and moved over to the painting resting on the easel.

- So I want to see this painting that you seem so satisfied with that you sleep away the day.

Paris lifted himself from his seat, adjusting his hat so that it staying atop of his head.

- It’s not quite finished yet.

Heather smiled at his modesty.

- Oh you always say that. With nothing finished, it’s no surprise that you never sell any of your paintings.

- Well I’ll be sure that I finish this one.

Heather always marvelled at the intricate detail of each of her lover’s works. Every one was so well painted, it seemed like he took the scenery itself and stretched into a canvas. Most of the time she had to peer around the canvas just to see if there wasn’t a hole that Paris had cut from the world.

Heather looked around the painting and easel to see the landscape still there. But there was something else. A dark figure strode across the emerald meadows. Its pace was fast, like the speed someone gets when it’s near the end of a long journey. The figure didn’t follow the road that curled its way around the mountain. It climbed over the fences that separated the pastures. The person was making a direct line for Paris and Heather.

Heather turned to look at Paris. He seemed more focused on his painting, as if there was something missing. In the back of her head she knew that something terrible was going to happen. But Paris didn’t seem concerned.

- You know what I think? I think I need some Parisian Blue. But I left it in the workshop. Would you mind getting me some?

Heather understood the meaning of this. She understood that her love had made many enemies. And that one day one of those enemies might come around. She nodded nervously and then began to move up over the back of the hill, back to the home they shared.

Paris had seen the shadow making its way across the landscape for sometime. On a clear day like this and at this elevation, he could see all the way to the horizon. He always thought a day like this might come and ran through it countless times over. When the figure reached the bottom of the hill, Paris lent over and reached into the box at the bottom of the easel. He felt the cool steel, the warm wooden grip. He pulled his SAA from the box, feeling from its weight that it was loaded. He let his arm relax, letting the heavy sidearm take his hand down to his hip.

The figure began to take form. It was a young man dressed in long black coat and underneath, sour white clothes. He was staring directly at Paris. He moved up the steep hill with ease, as if the terrain were merely an illusion.

Paris was ready, but the man had not drawn any weapon. It seemed unreasonable to Paris to fire. As the man in black reached the top of the hill, Paris stepped back to give him some room. The man had stopped. Paris observed this man. He seemed barely out of boyhood. Hair was as black as coal and skin as white as driven snow. His eyes were grey with dark rings, as if he had never slept. He seemed slightly hunched over, as though he had been driven like a beast across this landscape. His coat was overly long, his hands disappeared into the sleeves. A moment of silence passed until Paris realised that nothing had been said. He expected this man to say something, his name, Paris’ name, to call out every grievance and misery that Paris somehow caused since those days. But there was nothing. The man was silent.

- Why are you here?

The man seemed to have difficultly speaking. He bared his teeth and shifted his lips trying to shape the words. Finally, he spoke:

- You.

The word seemed to smoke its way out of his mouth.

Paris’ forearm tensed, ready for the first sign of trouble. So Paris asked again:

- Then what have I done to you?

The young man paused at this, as if trying to understand the question.

- Nothing.

Paris could feel his heart beat in his chest. He couldn’t read this man. Here he was travelling miles on foot, dressed clothes that didn’t fit, to walk in a straight line directly for him. Why? If not for revenge, then what?

- Then what the hell do you want?

When Paris spoke the fear cracked in his voice. Fear he hadn’t felt since when he stared down the eye piece of his rifle and saw a man covered in blood and tattoos in that burning valley. Staring back at Paris with possessed eyes. Paris pulled the hammer back on his gun with his thumb.

Again, the young man in black had trouble finding the words, as if the entire concept was foreign.

- You.

Then his hand began to snake out of the sleeve and into his coat. Paris felt he should react, but could not shake himself from the stranger’s dark eyes. The hand pulled the coat open slowly, to reveal a pistol that was silver with a black handle.

Paris blinked, snapping out of his trance. His arm raised, his finger squeezed the trigger. The SAA spoke loudly. At the same time, the young man darted to the side, his other hand darting out of the sleeve into the coat like a sidewinder on the attack. In a fluid motion, the young man drew and fired.

Paris let out a hot smoky breath, stumbled back and fell to the ground. It was noon, the sun beamed down him from high above. Then a shadow eclipsed everything. The young man drank deep of Paris’ final breath. Standing up, the young man stretched out, exhaling slowly. He lent over again to pick up Paris’ gun. He held it like a curiosity, between thumb and forefinger, staring at it like a child might with a spider or frog, studying its form. Standing up again, the dark man tucked the gun into his belt and turned to leave. The painting seemed to catch his eye. Something felt unfinished about it, though the man never touched pigment to canvas before. He titled his head to one side, and thought it might be a blue. Though he couldn’t be sure which. Then without further thought, the young man went down the hill. In a new direction.

Later Heather returned, with a rifle in one hand and a tube of paint in another. As she reached the top of the hill, she couldn’t see either Paris or the stranger. Fearing the worst she ran to the tree, only to find the easel and her love lying on the ground. In her grief, Heather couldn’t feel the tears run down her face, nor the Parisian Blue running over her clenched fingers.

Preceded by: Part 2
Continued in Part 4

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Playlist

Here’s a quick cap to what I am listening to at this very moment.

Venetian Snares – Filth

Yet to be released in the Antipodes, Aaron Funk’s latest release is full of dirty beat, grimy glitches and rusty sawtooth synth. As usual each Venetian Snares album is a little different from the previous, with some similar veins from his previous album, Detrementlist. And a theme that makes me wonder how much porn he’s been watching lately. I mean the titles of the songs include “Deep Dicking”, “Chainsaw Fellatio”, “Splooj Guzzlers” and “Pussy Skull”. Despite this, all of the tracks are very listenable. Though keep it away from your kids. You don’t them turning into weirdos. Right?

Ratatat – LP3

On a totally different end of the spectrum, the smooth guitar and synth workings of a Brooklyn duo are played out in this album. Only listened to it a couple of times, but a number of the items are pretty catchy, particularly Mirando. If you check out their webpage, you can see the music videos they made. Kinda weird and freaky. This weekend I’m going to see what they are like live. Should be entertaining. If you’re a fan of Pivot, Boards of Canada, Chrystal Castles or Ladytron, should also find this entertaining.

Afrirampo – Urusa in Japan

This weird J-Girl punk duo that hails from Osaka, along with their blood-siblings Acid Mother’s Temple and The Boredoms, made this album back in 2005. And what a gem it is. It’s raw, random and energetic. Just about every thing that Afrirampo do feels like a jam session (the same charm that the Acid Mothers Temple have). In this album they revisit some old singles and give them a re-record. Normally, I oppose this (finger pointing at you Wolfmother) but in this case, some of the tracks are tighter and without the static hiss. Expect a lot of two girls screaming into the mics. The best parts of the album are two tracks, Thunder and In The Space Night. If you really enjoy this one move on their stranger album Kore Ga Mayaku Da.

The Drones – Gala Mill

Having seen them live last week, I’ve just been listening to their Gala Mill album, all recorded in some backwater farm in the Antipodean Deep South. They make a really energetic live show. At the bar where I saw them play, they proved to be too much for the sound system. Everything blew out and turned black right at the last second when they wound up “Nail It Down”. For me “Jezebel” and “I Don’t Want To Ever Change” really stand out for me. But I guess that’s because I’m more partial to their first album, Here Come The Lies. Still the Drones are truly underrated and any chance you have to seem them, go and do it.

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