January 2010
0 posts
Day Forty and Two: The Skyward Window of Hell
Hark! and O! and Ye Gods! Ye Gods!
What hole hast Thou wrought? The window to Hell lay before me. The entryway to Satan’s great halls, all decorated with ornate, lusty sculptures and tables full of chalices gleaming with greed; swords glinting menacingly upon sconces assembled from the bones of long-fingered traitors and liars and criminals, whispering self-righteous and aggrandizing tales...
October 2009
1 post
day forty and one: In Refusal of Honesty's Gambit.
The sun has risen twice, in my fevered reckoning, since my last entry. I say there is a part of me which believes it was scribbled by a hand bent not in service of mine own consciousness; but, alas, kneeling in allegiance to some other thing: some rebellious and radical thing, some scandalously savage thing, some thing which hath secceeded from my original nature and declared war.
A twig is...
September 2009
1 post
day thirty and nine: the befevered dream.
Dawn has barely arrived and already I find myself awake, eyes staring wide into the horizon, waiting for the sun to ensure me that it is not so terrible a thing to be awake, at least. that the dreams which plagued my mind in the hours following his departure, perhaps his turning his back his back on me, were not real. And that at least they were over, in any case.
It is yet dark. Once already...
April 2009
9 posts
day thirty and seven: footprints and fugue.
Midnight has stricken the thicket. Twigs rattle and click ‘gainst one another, and echo, and become a chorus of hungry spiders’ mandibles in the twinkling dark. I draw cold breath in deep, lick my dried lips, and follow his oafish footsteps deeper into the trees.
By my count, it has been nearly 19 hours since that cruel mongrel, the Snowbeast, hunkered down and, in his reckless...
day thirty and six: cold vulnerability.
I have yet to leave the thicket of trees I came upon yesterday. For a number of reasons, I feel that it is best to linger. For one, I am safer here from the howling wind. Yet I can endure cold gusts, I have endured them. It is nothing so basic as visceral comfort that keeps me here. It is something more. The rattling echo of mystery is swelling in my mind, the knowledge that there exist out...
day thirty and five: berries in the cold.
Last night passed with difficulty. The creeping thought that there is something more, something greater than the drama between the wretched Snowbeast and myself left me awake throughout. Staring at the stars above, through the branches of the trees which I huddled under, my attention was caught by what appeared to be berries upon the outstretched twigs. This being the most vivid sign of...
day thirty and four: into the wild.
Away, away! Gone from that cursed compound. As noted in this log’s previous entry, the vile Snowbeast extended to me what I interpreted as some form of either invitation or provocation which, regardless of specific intent, has prodded me to carry onward. While I have no plan—indeed, I have resigned myself to die here, frozen, if that be my fate—I quite strangely have found...
day thirty and three: a message in white.
Rue, rue, rue. To rue, to wait. To imagine an end to this trial, this tribulation which I have been cast away upon. Hiding in the lower bunker, reeking of wretched Snowbeast excrement. Tucked away in the shed with the rats, my only friends and yet my primary food source. When I became too disgusted with my diet—thinking, always, of the Snowbeast consuming my friends before, that I was...
day twenty and four: reflection.
24 days have come and gone. The sun has touched the horizon 48 times. I have consumed what may pass for food 15 times. I have wept openly 10 times. Shut my finger in the door 3 times. Stepped in my own feces 1 time. Burning regret relentlessly clutches my breast and with every breath it advances the pressure with which it holds me. An anaconda upon my very soul, I can hear it hiss,...
day twenty: the shed, still.
It is, by my count, the 20th day of my maroonment. I count days in sunrises and sunsets and measure time by watching icicles melt. And with them, my hope of rescue. I remain in the shed, which I discovered through violence to my face parts—the result of running full-bore into it’s splintered wooden walls. Yesterday, as the sun dropped below the horizon, i discovered a small patch of...
day seventeen: the shed.
It is the 17th day and yet I live. Whether ‘tis to the chagrin of the reproachful snowbeast or by his will I know not. What I do know is that there is a shed in this cursed compound. I think this because I am now hiding within its confines. I came into this wooden tomb by accident. Lured to the outdoors by the hellish snowbeast on the afternoon of day 16, during a blinding snowstorm, I...
day thirteen: the lower bunker.
The days grow shorter, but time stretches ever on. Snow is building up against the doors, the paddock walls are groaning. The abominable snowbeast, that cursed creature all of white and blood, stalks me in his stealthy blanket of frozen precipitate. Either he will find a way in, or I will find a way to rid this Earth of him! Curse his icy beard to the heated depths of fiery hell! My food...