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Episode 69: The Demise Sequence
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: I understand many things about life, how it comes and goes and how it exists in the present—in thought and in the unseen. I have the guide of perfect discernment—an immaculate compass of the ages etched into my bone and burned into my breath by a creature of creation long hidden from the eyes and knowledge of man. With such a tool, I have access to wisdom concealed from the wise. I know patterns, desires, decisions, even thoughts of those I encounter. I know their steps, their actions, their words even before they themselves have acted them out. I am a weapon to the world—a weapon wrought without contact, unhindered without touch. Every day I awake and dress in the same clothes. I brush my hair the same. I eat the same foods. I look at the same photographs that slowly, bitterly slide from their importance in my past. And then I set out into the teeming populations of damnable promise. I walk through markets and malls, amusement parks and stadiums. I wait, watch, and wonder at futures to be and futures to be destroyed. I marvel at the potential of all things good and all things terrible; I marvel at the possibility of altering one to the other and the other way around. Life is an untrustworthy machine laded with levers, switches, and pulleys. There is nothing definitive—nothing certain. Promises are broken, love is impure, and not a single soul can stand by its beliefs. In these places I thrive and draw energy beyond measure. One life after another I manipulate and cut off from its source, letting it waste away as an ephemeral particle of dust. |
Episode 70: Names: Dietchelnin, Dietchellin
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: The castle of the Lord Brasher stood as it always had—sharply cut black stone jutting upward to create halls and chambers and towers and spires. The front gate, before which I stood, eerily hung open as like a gaping wound run dry of blood. No one foreign to these walls would dare enter, so the powers therein dared to leave it open. The castle’s sins had long outlived their mortal bindings, creating within it a world of evil unconquerable by mortal means. I had come to cleanse it; or, more truly, I had come to summon the vessel that would carry out the deed. From a jug, I poured a puddle of clean river water atop the dusty road leading into the castle’s darkness. I poured enough to create a watery span of two feet. Then, with utmost concern and delicacy, I retrieved a rose and its stem that had been laced with string across my back. The surfaces of the rose had been intricately decorated with paint—the most absurd and archaic illustrations being the result of such artistry. It was such designs that were the spell of this summoning—the ideas and lore that reached between worlds of life into worlds of magic and played between the two, merging to define abnormities beyond the land of dreams. I tossed the rose into the puddle. It landed silently and sent brief ripples outwardly upon the surface of the water. The display was beautiful, but the act was insidious—insidious, but necessary. |
Episode 71: Names: Craytick
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: Death is but a tangent of existence, for I have lived many different lives in different worlds through death—death being the medium through which I reached these lives. There are different layers of afterlives. They are each unique, and they do not blend. And whether or not all who perish will share with me the adventure into the endless haze of possibility is uncertain. What is certain, for me, is that death brings life and not unending darkness. Death is a button that each time pressed reconstructs matter and sets me within it. So, as a drug instills its ecstasy, I have been led into a spiral of repeated suicide for its thrill of reinvention. No, this is not reincarnation; this is rematerialization in flesh and body with the full transfer of mind and memory. Each new world comes with the remembrance of those prior. And these worlds are both real and ethereal. I can live a full, new life. I can feel pain. I can die, but death only brings upon me that which I desire: rebirth. How I come to be in such places in the fullness of life after each death is the key to understanding the actualization of my situation—that I am caught in a cycle of wholesome ghostliness, a form of eternity. Death upon death upon death is my gift and ability within the universe of known and unknown matters. Such worlds have I seen. Such pleasures have I experienced. Such creativity in demise have I expressed. Although, as with living comes disease, so with my infinity comes conditional powers of parallel iniquity. It has been in these various fate-defiers—deep in this cycle of ongoing living despite death—that a damnable thing has been forced upon me, an estranged evil more cunning and absolute than the full capacity of the mental construct, intellect. How terribly disease can drain life. How excruciatingly Craytick can deaden immortality. The further into the deaths I travel, the more Craytick reveals itself to me. But let me begin at the end—the end of my first life and the beginning of all the others. |
Episode 72: Names: Vaucifyr (The Unreasoned Voice)
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: Metek, Alaya, Sturge, and Crim sat anxiously on hard wooden chairs around a wooden table in the basement of the Abandoned House in Semtar’s Forest. The basement was lit by candle-flame, but the moonlit, night sky peeked through holes and cracks in the faltering, aged floorboards above. Animals and insects scurried in the shadows. A strange scent saturated and impregnated the air. The atmosphere was dense and heavy. *** These four aforementioned friends were those who chose to initiate the Inspirited of Vaucifyr—so to become commissioners of distant things. In vulgar communication, each of them had heard the Unreasoned Voice—the necromantical acoustics of Vaucifyr’s ever-reaching wisdoms—and followed it into dream, passing mind to it, allowing it to transfer elementary knowledge of outlying, pre-creation matters and instill seeds of ethereal connection. It was not by faith or fate that these four stumbled into ear’s grasp of the Unreasoned Voice’s accounts. The four Pre-Inspirited, Metek, Alaya, Sturge, and Crim, had each read of Vaucifyr; they had uncovered peculiar tomes of explanation in the backwoods of Semtar’s Forest—in the trees, in the soil, in the stones, rocks, and boulders. By looking at these items, they saw maps of interspersed space that flashed before them like implants of memory. And when these testaments were visually ingested from those whimsical media—whether consciously or in the subconscious, in wood or dust or cloud—the Unreasoned Voice entangled itself upon the words in mind, birthing in sight, but culminating as sound. Upon such interaction, the relationship between life and thought were altered while senses of unnatural utility were equipped. Each of the Pre-Inspirited was touched in a unique way: Metek by intellect, Alaya by artistry, Sturge by audacity, and Crim by translation—an ability to convert the Unreasoned Voice’s words to their own. Within these links, Vaucifyr sparked flames of otherworldly power and infernal curiosity, communicating to them the ritual for its access to their flesh and to their world. It was this ritual that they were about to perform. |
Episode 73: Entering Weightlessness
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: The cool, still water embraced me as I jumped into it and submerged within it, leaving the sounds of laughter behind. The water wrapped its ever-changing arms around my shape and held it perfectly. I exorcized air—one quick blast to balance my buoyancy. Then there was the Calm; I did not rise, I did not fall. The dawn of time ended and then began again, churning the moments of now into a serum of rich thought and sensation. There, within the water, I hung within a suspended capsule, unknowingly engaging an energy hidden from the world within the secret place of weightlessness. I mouthed a series of ancient words given to me through the passing and connecting of distant minds—words I did not know of a moment earlier or a moment later; I knew them only as I spoke them for the brief moments that I was a receptacle of realms. Each syllable came and went like lightning—precise, crisp, gone. My eyes were closed. My limbs were motionless. My essence roamed free. A fey danced into my mind’s eye—so beautiful, so alluring. She twirled around my insides, caressing them with touches of deep tranquility. “How are you, my love?” she whispered to me, over and over again—not intending a question, but instilling a comfort. The peacefulness was beyond me; I was beyond my self. Then, suddenly and shockingly, there came a sting—one beneath each of my feet—ending unpleasantly the euphoric reverie of weightlessness’ tithing. The stings immediately grew deeper, reaching through me as if I were a puppet filled by controlling hands. I tried to open my eyes, but I could not, or if I could, I still could not see. And with the blackness, the nourishment of my breath depleted. Panic followed, coming for me on wings of dissolute hope, plunging through the surface of the water to make its kill. Not death, I beseeched. Not death. |
Episode 74: The Cry Of The Crooked
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: Upward I climbed, foot over foot, and hand over hand. Blood pounded at my temples while I strained to maintain strength and focus. Beads of sweat rolled off of my forehead and fell the depths of my course. My sight was set on nothing but the path I had already traveled. My feet were above me and my hands were below. Backwards I crawled to achieve my movement—the future reversed; the past to come—to trick the summit, to allow me passage. I took my time; I rehearsed each movement meticulously in my mind. I pressed fiercely my feet into stone and moved at the pace of a turtle’s stride. Double-jointed knees abled my legs with the necessary angles of grip and with pull. My hands supported me and helped spring me to new footholds. I did not climb because I had to. I did not climb because I wanted to. I climbed because of ill-fated ability—I climbed because I could and no one else—not the strong, not the powerful; only I—one of the strange, one of the outcasts, one of the deformed of miscreation. I climbed Mount Usen Riddiddexdedet to prove the worthiness of imperfection and to scream its curse atop the peak of existence. |
Episode 75: The Truncation Of Being By Folding Flesh
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Facebook.com/Sharkchild Twitter.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: Words hold power of times before, to come, and times unknown. They can exist in form or invisible space. They can exist in colorful sight or invisible sound. Words create and words destroy. They convert the weak and overthrow the wise. It was words that in astronomical infliction determined my fate—just words. But words are never just words. They are eternal. They are ageless. They are gods of communication and confusion, knowledge and history, discipline and encouragement, worship and cursing. A curse, yes, was what controlled my fate. A curse, spoken in words, was laid upon me as a bride is laid upon her wedding bed. Delicately, expectantly, soothingly I was bathed in the glory of the warm embrace of a sweet phrase. It tinged my skin and eased my heart. Then it struck with its black truth; it struck like the regret of an ill decision. It stuck its roots deep into my soul and took hold, never to let go, never to show mercy. But how are spoken curses given assignments? Words hold no ownership. They are bound for no set destination. Many ears receive words, yet only one receives the curse, if so chosen. How does this present itself in the realm of logic? Such questions were never by me deciphered, but it did not matter for the curse was real and what is real, whether explained or not, holds place in the universe of action and diabolical reaction. |
The Searing Tongue 1
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Episode 76: The Image Of Odd Transaction And Collection
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Facebook.com/Sharkchild Twitter.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: "Head down this way,” I motioned with my arms, directing the couple before me into the stairway leading down into the basement of my house. “This will be the most exquisite collection you have ever seen. I promise you,” I added. “Very good,” a man, clad in a black suit, an olive shirt, and a pale, yellow tie replied. He then escorted the woman at his side down the stairs. The woman wore an elegant and vivid yellow dress that eclipsed her form flawlessly. I followed behind the couple. We entered the white-lit wonder of my basement. Black, velvet counters lined the walls and made aisles throughout the space. On these counters were displayed an array of ancient, unfamiliar jewelry that included bracelets, earrings, necklaces, and charms—some sparkling, some dull, some with rubies, some with emeralds, some with diamonds, some silver, some gold, some carved in jade, some carved in ivory, some carved in stone, some carved in materials unknown. The arrangement of lights on the ceiling angled upon the counters perfectly and completely, leaving no piece unenchanted by the soaking of light. There were pieces in this collection older than the known civilizations of history, found by me through means no archaeologist or historian could fathom. |
Episode 77: The Changer Box
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Facebook.com/Sharkchild Twitter.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: The air was musty and smelled of a compound of fruit and charcoal. A veil of haze shrouded what distances I could see and those distances—that were not of much distance at all—contained the walls, ceiling, and floor of my current world; I stood in the center of a small room—a room that I dreadfully labeled the Changer Box. The reason for my placement in the Changer Box was uncertain, but it was inevitable that I would be changed—transformed, malformed, manipulated, altered, transfigured. There was no word quite suitable for the encompassment of the process, but there were words that could accurately capture the damnable aftermath: figure of form, but not of mass, wrapped about air without hold; screams of pain without voice; dying without death. I knew of my fate because I was a witness to those before me who entered the Box and those before me who exited the Box. I had seen what they were before and I had seen what they were afterwards. It was a line of people, stretching to the horizon upon a landscape of burnt and aged colors—colors bound by the wilting, deteriorating, flattened archetypes of mass—which led to the Changer Box standing alone upon the same landscape as a cube. It was a line of people which one by one was converted into the creation of the changing, the wicked enigma. I had served my time in that line and it was finally my turn. No more would I witness; I was to experience. |
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