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Episode 49: The Man Of Letters
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes The Dark Verse, Volume I hardcover book is available at SharkchildsRemains.com as well as on Amazon.com! Excerpt: Words were my masters. Their colloquial voices chattered in my mind, enlivening an unconventional form of command. They had agendas and hate and disgust, all of which brought about a tumultuous ocean of demands within my head, so vast that I drifted upon it as weathered wreckage—for I was but an insignificant muse bent to the will of these illustriously literate germs of my thoughts. Their deeds were mischievous and wicked, and although their actions could be assigned to nothing but my ownership, I knew their origin was not native to my existence. They were foreign; they were toxic. And in making tangible through writing their iniquitous flare, such intense, ravenous desire was conjured within me. I so desperately wished to banish their sinister saturation, but I was a slave to the feelings and erotica of their master-play. These creatures of my mind coveted the writing of letters. With their incredible prowess of locution, they could bend circumstance—even life. Through my hand and the simple ink upon a pen, they could sculpt diabolical imageries, demented emotions, and jarring, torturing revelations. To the reader they were just words, and to me they were just words, but to the universe of things visible and not, sensible and insane, these markings that traveled from the holes of realms to mind and mind to hand and hand to paper were—in their perfect collection—unimaginable hexes. And so as the mind’s eyes of these letters’ recipients placed the words together, recreating them in thought, the workings of a dark, dark magic were birthed. |
Episode 50: The Concomitant
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes The Dark Verse, Volume I hardcover book is available at SharkchildsRemains.com as well as on Amazon.com! Excerpt: I was an ancient navigator. My mission was to collect data from the universe and pass it on into the vibrations of existence—stars, planets, moons, meteors—where there it would be embedded for the millions of years it would take until its presence reached an entity worthy enough to be susceptible to its slight, but powerful influence. What I did, I did out of reason—reason for understanding. What I learned, I learned to be a pollinator of evolution. My mission was endless. I carried it out from within a spherical ship that soared through the distances of space. This home, and shell, enslaved me to life; just as my mission was endless, so was my life. I had been in the ship for so long that I could not recall even the most miniscule of memories preceding its launch or beginning. There was nothing I remembered except what I saw and felt: a round chamber of pinkish flesh surrounding me and fluctuating with the energy of propulsion; a chair that I sat upon made of the chamber’s same flesh that connected to my body, channeling nutrients and extracting waste; a panel of controls, known and used by me to direct the ship to the boundaries of the universe—even unto its ends as they further created upon themselves; a portal of visibility, lining the center of the circumference of the chamber; and knowledge—the intricate map of space that I unwrapped and then wrote upon into the grains of matter where the chance of discovery may later be probable. |
We should exchange review PDFs, old sport.
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Episode 51: No More Resistance
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes The Dark Verse, Volume I hardcover book is available at SharkchildsRemains.com as well as on Amazon.com! Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: I taped her entire body with thick, clear packing tape—every inch. I taped her fingers and toes to one another. I taped her legs together and her arms to her sides. I ran tape from her head to her shoulders, locking it in place. Her eyes were taped open; her mouth was taped shut; her ears were taped closed. Then I wrapped her over and over with the transparent tape, confining her within an immuring, mummy-like cocoon. Each wrap was a test of my strength—forceful and unmerciful—leaving not the smallest gap within the spaces of her imprisonment; there was no chance that she could have even moved a follicle of hair. The only vestige of this woman left unbridled was her nose, so that she could tap into air and remain alive. It flared and retracted violently, but I did not mind this movement. Resistance, for this poor woman, was no more. There was nothing she could use to stifle my actions—not her movements, not her emotion, not her voice. I could crack a plank of wood across her, pour scalding water over her, or cut her into pieces and she would not even flinch. She was but a block of life—nothing more than a tree, frozen and unable to react to the dangers that befell her. This was my Mistress Doll Number One. |
Episode 52: When Eyes Have Seen Too Much
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes The Dark Verse, Volume I hardcover book is available at SharkchildsRemains.com as well as on Amazon.com! Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: My squad and I were at the end of our assignment. A brigade of three heavily armored vehicles and twenty-four exhausted, anxious men raced through the canyon of Nazlit. Dust churned behind us in wellsprings of the fleeting memories we hoped to leave behind. If the mind could have held its thoughts as lungs contained breath, we would have clenched out those menacing jesters of contemplation until the journey was through—for the road was long before us. Even the reverie and hope of being home was too much a torment. All we wanted was the sound of rubber on road and the wind of movement. Surrounding us, red rock ascended to the heavens, enslaving us to a route of unruly exit. The sky was daunting, hanging above in an incredible intangibleness—it appeared to be the covering of a distant country not connected to our own. “Halt!” Captain Tershery’s voice boomed and echoed throughout the canyon. The three vehicles stopped. I was in the last. “Skillins, what is that?” the captain asked of the first in command beside him who wore binoculars around his neck. I did not need any enhancements to see that something was coming towards us on the road ahead. It waddled, and it was no more the size of a man, but it was not man. |
The Dark Verse, Volume I was given a greater review than I could have ever asked for from Fatally-Yours.com!
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Episode 53: The First Innovation
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Become my fan: Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: If the stars were maps of history, then my heart would have been their maker. If there were a way to look within the earliest light still traveling upon the edges of the universe, then my face would have been the subject there discovered. Bittersweet were the eons of my life. *** In my first memory, I was but an idea—a germ of thought traveling the endless roads of realms intangible and unspeakable where both colossal and minuscule entities roamed without substantial shape or purpose; the only purpose, if even at all, was to everlastingly be. The sizes of things varied, but not by any visible measurements; the hierarchy of existence was a computation of reason within the boundaries and scope of will—what made more decisions, if any, and what acted effectively on those decisions? I was more of a virus, but unlike a virus that would destroy its host, I sought out to change it with the incredible power of suggestion. I sought to inhabit an entity worthy of the resources I required so that I might release what I held: innovation. I was the First Innovation—a robust malfunction floating in a chaotic system of purposelessness with a purpose that before me did not exist. When I latched upon the entity capable of my inspiring toxins—an indiscernible mountain of being—the innovation ingrained within me came to life and set in motion an awful and instantaneous effect: the creation of physicality. |
Episode 54: Soul Divided
THE DARK VERSE is 14th on the list of top 100 literary podcasts on iTunes right now!
Download Episode 54: Soul Divided TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Become my fan: Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: I stood behind a black, baby grand piano. The instrument was unfamiliar to me and its keys, both black and white, held reflections that heightened their alluring appearance. As I looked upon it, I longed to hear a sweet melody. Surrounding the piano, two rows of seats filled with women arced in crescent form. The women’s ages ranged from young to old, and they wore black attire and grave semblances. Quietly, they conversed amongst themselves while I stood gazing out upon them. This arena was set within the living room of my great grandfather’s plantation house—a home passed down from one generation to the next. The soft light of candles was the only source of illumination, and with it, the shadows danced more confidently. “Please, can I have everyone’s attention,” I addressed the women. Their conversations ceased; their eyes probed me. “I would like us to begin our session. “This piano was delivered yesterday—beautiful, isn’t it? Well, I have never played such a grand instrument before; I have not even tried. I want you to make me play it. Please begin whenever you are ready.” |
Episode 55: In Placing The Titan's Emotion
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Become my fan: Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: I sat back in my rocking chair and subdued my thoughts with the gentle swaying of my bones. The chair, as well as my body, creaked with the tender noise of old age. In my vision, flames within the fireplace communed with one another and my son and daughter-in-law played an immersive game of chess. On an end table, my record player hummed off the tunes of Lanton Templestock’s Fifth Symphony entitled Invasive Things. The music very accurately encapsulated the essence of my feelings at that very lucid moment. Sweeping crescendo’s peeling off into a prominent melody from flutes purported the surreal story of the music’s hidden language. The layers of things around me were oddly discernible and vividly clear. It was like the abstract entity of my mind itself had laid its head upon an ethereal pillow, hushing absurdities and harnessing the craft of time and space. Beside me, on a small table, my cup of tea expelled steam as if in rehearsal with the notes that flew through its particles; its display unlocked the secrets of the universe. I found myself lost within their complexity, and as I stared on into the unknowable, the delusion of consciousness encroached, putting me to sleep. |
Episode 56: A Lonely, Imprisoned Stranger
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Become my fan: Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: I had an aunt who lived in the house beside my own; she was a very peculiar woman. The very nature of her peculiarity allowed me only rare opportunities to see her, although she was never more than a couple room lengths away. She called the inside of her home the Sterile Sanctuary, which, specifically, meant that she arranged her belongings and adapted her living conditions in a way that promoted cleanliness to an astonishing degree. To achieve such an endeavor, she put everything into transparent, plexiglass cases, creating pockets of living. These cases encapsulated everything from lights, cupboards, and dressers to the sofa and her bed. The house itself had a unique ventilation system installed that filtered and rotated the air over and over—never letting outside air in and never letting inside air out. The smaller cases were not connected to this system and were always airtight, but the cases that allowed human entrance were only airtight until vents that were affixed to them were opened—these included cases around the kitchen table, her rocking chair, and the toilets. Everything my aunt owned was protected from those things that collected in the air. To maintain habitable levels of oxygen, my aunt housed a plethora of small trees, each stationed beside a window inside a case with a vent. These trees were the heart of her system and so she took immaculate care of them. Before being brought into the house and placed in their proper cases, the trees were hosed off, removed from their previous pots and soil, scrubbed down in my aunt’s own sterilizing solution, and placed in the transitional vacuum chamber connected to the house’s front door. In this chamber, the air from the outside was completely extracted from around the trees before they were brought inside and planted into pots and soil that had been scrupulously cleaned; a similar process was required for any item or person who wished to enter my aunt’s house. |
Episode 57: What The Water Means
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Become my fan: Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: On the top of a thirty-two foot long counter, I lived amongst a population of two-hundred and forty-three—a civilization wrought by the hands of man in the age of his illustrious prime. Our kind was called humids—life forms birthed from a mixture of DNA and infinitesimal computer processors. Our size was measurably minute, but our appearances were only marginally different than that of our creators. Life, essence, and love were ours to behold and share and abuse. And by logic and labor we fought to maintain purpose, although it passed like air through our lungs, coming and going, sustaining, then depleting. We existed for forty-four years and two-hundred and sixteen days before our world came to an end. On the morning of our last day, I awoke to the sound of pandemonium. Cries of abhorrence echoed throughout the societal chamber on the top of the counter as those who became sentient to the noise made their way to the source and discovered the disturbance first-hand. I got out of bed and collected myself. My head throbbed as if the bothersome noise had surrounded me for the entirety of my sleep and dreaming and only now continued into the reality that it was. When the haze behind my eyes had passed, I awoke my companion and alerted her of the situation. We, too, then set out to investigate. |
If you're fans of Gaiman, Dunsany or trippy Lovecraft. Sharkchild's work is well worth checking out.
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Excellent audio work too.
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Well thanks, guys.
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Episode 58: The Long Travel
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Become my fan: Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: There is a hidden labyrinth of pathways linking the worlds of things that can be seen. It can be found with the use of elementary magic. A rune, spoken as a beseecher to the fabric of life, is all it takes to beckon forth the portal and gateway to this land of overwhelming connectivity. The pathways are the Veins of Existence; they connect all folds of life together, from places separated by distances ranging in the unfathomable to doorways between universes. This conglomeration of veins is the chauffeur to all possible knowledge and experience. I was part of a brotherhood of sorcerers who centuries before me had by luck stumbled upon the rune that led to the Veins of Existence. At that time, the brotherhood was only a congregation of petty common-folk, but over those same centuries preceding my upbringing, the discoverers traveled the pathways of the Veins and accumulated the knowledge of bizarre places, sciences, and magics, recording them as a history of all things and using them to tap into near-unlimited energy. Upon my arrival into life, this same brotherhood of sorcerers had become practitioners of godliness—not in the ways of holiness or righteousness, but in incomparable, awesome power and ability. |
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Episode 59: The Power In A Father
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Become my fan: Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: It was a fare as ripe as an appetite had ever known. Its short, curly brown hair bobbed innocently. Its blue eyes blinked unabashedly. Its smile cut space curiously. The cheer of its mouth lit the atmosphere with the chorus of purity while it held the hand of its father, who led it in a capsule of abundant confidence. It knew no worry, nor the idea of it. The Father and his child walked a winding road in a peaceful afternoon, enjoying the company of the other and the wonderfully cool breeze passing its gentle caress on the wanderer who was willing to stop and feel it. Through excited words, the Father passed to his son wisdom and an eagerness to be. Two miles off from home, this pair had not a care in the world. But watching and listening keenly from within the smallest shadows that laced across the terrain, the Snatcher followed with nether stealth, diabolical and starved. The muscles on its limbs were paper thin, but they were quicker and nimbler than the speed of sight. In its mind danced a mechanism of musical craving—hunger by sound, by pitch, by noise—and its prey’s laughter was the ring of sweet devouring. |
Episode 60: The Stone House
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Become my fan: Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: From the letter addressed to the Strong, written by the hands of Tinus Perpentin: There is an immovable place at the edge of a far-off, isolated cliff (this is all I can divulge with regards to location). On the outside it is but an enormous rock, seizing space like a gorging wolf. But on the inside lies the madness of evil—both the spawning pool and deathbed of ever-cycling nefariousness. Time wears on the exterior of this boulder, but within, time is departed. I can say assertively—with no one else believing this other than myself—that this place is a home, but not I, or evil and its brood, can possibly bear the turmoil in passing on the name of the master that lives there. This place has been told of here and there in passing rumors—more incorrectly than correctly, for only I know of its real truth—and those tongues that have relinquished such woes have shriveled before blighted eyes. I would always say, “Better the tongue than the soul,” but the sting of such a comment is as potent as a weapon. It is as such that I have not shared any of my knowledge of the Stone House until that day that I have chosen to die; thankfully, it is that day, and I may finally drive away the haunts stored in my mind and soul. As I further write about the House, I will, to the best of my ability, describe also the way in which my life is taken, for it will assuredly follow my words steadily. |
Episode 61: Knave (Part 1)
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Become my fan: Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: I once had in my possession a unique thermometer I called the Gapetha. Using the buoyancy of five silver circlets in liquid contained in a tall, slim, clear cylinder, it determined temperature. If the temperature was to reach a very specific reading, down to fractions of a degree, these five silver circlets aligned in a pattern that, for while they were in that alignment, unlocked a gateway in the space between airs. The precise distance between these air particles, which would alter at any minor change in temperature, allowed matter from a place called the Devoted Man’s Bazaar to connect with the world. To enter the Devoted Man’s Bazaar by means of the thermometer was to let air slice between flesh, allowing it to come together again in a strange domain. The Devoted Man’s Bazaar was indeed a marketplace, and it was operated by none other than the Devoted Man—the traveling being who was not man, but only called himself so. He engineered things beyond understanding and found ways to come and go, creating pockets in the continuum of space—havens where he could lead his trade at the apex of mystery. Under these circumstances, people acquired merchandise from his inventory, whether knowing or not—intending to visit or not intending to visit. More often than not, people had no idea they procured items from this inter-dimensional economy because the Devoted Man had his ways of blending his refuge flawlessly with the world and had other ways of masking his secrets. When he chose to carry out business, the Bazaar would appear in a remote location—never within or even close to a city. There would nearly always be a large, silver meadow surrounding the Bazaar, with the Bazaar itself appearing as a glowing, striped tent. And it always came at night—never when there was a single spot of sunlight. |
Episode 62: The Thief Of Timeworn Lives And His Fortress
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NEW SITE: TheDarkVerse.com (now one of the sickest podcast websites around--if not the sickest) NEW IMAGE NEW INTRO iTunes Become my fan: Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: I sat beside my grandmother, who lay calmly and quietly within her bed. Nothing but her shallow breaths penetrated the atmosphere of her room. I intently watched her chest as it rose and fell. Only by the visual motion could I even discern and align the sound of those faint breaths with my audible perception. My mother was in the kitchen cooking dinner. My father was in the den, listening to the radio. But those sounds did not matter; they were distant and out of mind. As I gave my attention to my grandmother, I began to notice the uncanny vibration of life within her. It quivered with each breath as an aura of pale color. The hue of this color waned in and out of darker and lighter shades as death came and went, fighting for full, undeniable control. And with this apparition, all sounds vanished. Like a dream, I witnessed visual phenomena that I could hold no conscious understanding of or control over. Then, with a new breath, I saw the aura of life around my grandmother change as like the gentle change of a breeze. I walked over to the head of her bed, leaned against the edge, and moved in my face close to hers. Then, with what was supposed to be her last breath, I breathed. Before she could sip in, I snagged the breath from her, taking it into my own essence, stealing away those last seconds of life she had left. For a moment, I tasted death. As a fortune teller communes with the future, so this breath within me told of death and its beyond. It tainted my insides, burning them yet tingling them with vibrant, magnificent feeling. And as this breath reached the ends of its paths within my lungs, I sensed the beginnings of an incredible power, an indestructible presence. This first breath that I had stolen was laid within me as a brick—the first brick lain towards the construction of a menacing apparatus. I could not fathom its shape or even guess at its purpose, but it now rested within me as an artifact of vision, destiny, and perseverance—those things required to complete its work. |
Episode 63: Blood Host Authentication
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes My Facebook fan page was disabled for no reason! Help me get it back by sending an email to [email protected] requesting that the page M. Amanuensis Sharkchild (URL: http://facebook.com/sharkchild) be reactivated. Excerpt: The blood determines the majesty of the host. For most, the constituents of blood are—in order of greatest volume—plasma, red blood cells, and then white blood cells. But for those I served, these typical figures were not so. The Templars Aryiglen had a notably higher amount of red blood cells and less plasma, and thus, had a significantly higher density and thickness of blood. However, this extraordinary blood—Templar Blood—had more unique attributes than just its thickness. Those who contained this blood healed faster, lived longer, and rarely, if ever, got sick. This blood was rich and said to have been passed down from a lineage of beings that dwelled inside stone—prisoners of a world lost in darkness. In a distant time, several of these lava-skinned beings escaped and began a new life upon the surface of what is known, forging bonds with different races, blending and diminishing the occurrence of their special blood over the centuries. When I served the Templars Aryiglen, I was known as a Validator. I was the authenticator and certifier of Templar Blood—for not always did the offspring of a Templar bear the blood of a Templar; its occasion was rare, and as such, it was in my right to prove or disprove this exalted blood’s existence. And even when the Templar Blood did flow in the veins of its host, its thickness differentiated. It was also my responsibility to accredit this thickness. The thicker the blood, the higher in the ranking of authority a Templar could reside. And so in my duty, I, a simple servant, was able to bestow the hierarchy of power amongst the greatest leaders of the Hurrowing world. |
Episode 64: There They Freeze
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: The Cantlebrin Bridge was high up and made of ice. It connected one side of the Rezlinought Canyon to the other, a railless pathway joining opposing caves that nested thirty yards down from the canyon’s ridges. Although made entirely of ice—ice partially fused, partially wedged—the bridge had been a reliable mode of travel for centuries; it had been crossed countless times. This was to be my four-hundredth and forty-ninth crossing of the Cantlebrin Bridge. And the Nebulae of Dust standing rigidly at the other end caused me to believe it would be my last. These were nefarious beings that traveled in packs, leeching upon the misfortunate. And they were evasive; they could be solid or gaseous when desired, and travel to places unbeknownst to the world of man. To encounter a Nebula of Dust without the proper safeguard was to encounter a certain but slow death. Once upon its victim, it would oscillate rapidly between its forms beneath the flesh, never fully allowing either form to settle. In this manner it would burst like bubble-sized, miniature explosions while feeding on the wounded, pulped leftovers. The only defense against such creatures was a tempered rod imbued with a copper outer coating, which acted like a magnet, drawing the things away from their hosts—hopefully before too much damage had been exacted. I had no such implement, and the base of the canyon—nearly two clicks downward—holding hundreds of pockets of frozen water—a sheath of giant, frosted honeycomb—would have killed me had the Nebulae failed. This was not a depth wisely gazed upon for but a moment. There was no course safe except to trek back the way I had come. And I would have reversed, if I was able, but such a choice would have left me in the cave upon nightfall, stranded as easy prey for the Coming of Death. |
Episode 65: That Which Makes Up The World
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: The articulate sound of the school bell’s conclusive note awoke me from my hazy hell. It came as if with swift reckoning—a domino effect to my distant self that lived the same moment fractions of seconds earlier and fractions of seconds later. Perhaps even a transfer of consciousness occurred, shifting me between universes via the cracks of unnoticeable time. After the ring faded, I could not even recall what I had been speaking about. But before the children in my kindergarten class could leave, I quickly addressed them and gave them my tidings. Then they were gone, and I was left alone to the quandary of my day. I was a good teacher, for the most part, but the days were beginning to drag. On and on they went, baffling my orientation within the world and my permanence within my thoughts. There was nothing within me to hold me still and keep me in tangibility. There was not a child that deserved my best; there was not a future that deserved my wisdom. I was fading away. |
Episode 66: Knave (Part 2)
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: There is such a thing as the chaos of fate—an endless-fingered glove, a maze of only dead-end paths. And there is such a thing as living separated from life—not by the escaping of death, but by the living outside of life in a place where its wholesome reaches fail. There is such living and there is such a place. The living is like being a dog: aware, emotional, but void of self purpose. The place is like a beehive—active, inconstant, volatile. Life is linear: it runs from one point of time to another while immuring its contestants in a singular transition at any given moment, placing them on a one-track outcome: fate. There are boundaries in place—rules. There cannot be multiple futures or multiple endings. There cannot be purpose beyond what is attained in a two-dimensional timeline. But if not governed by these rules, then what? Life is these rules, and so to be outside of these rules is to be outside of life, and this uncertain place of living outside of life is the chaos of fate. *** The chaos of fate was my home, and had been since I ingested into my body the myriad of Obstructions of Fate from the Devoted Man’s Bazaar. Life disgorged me in a mass of unscrupulous discord. Every particle in my body—down to the most miniscule—was pitted against every other particle in my body. There was a battle within me; every part and piece of me wanted to go a different way, make a different choice, follow a different fate. By these things alone, I was not human; I was Knave—a servant to pandemonium. |
Episode 67: The Summit And The Sacrifice
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: I found the perfect summit to erect the altar for my sacrifice. It was sunken down in a valley surrounded by mountains of tremendous size. Instead of aiding in the formation of the valley, this mountain housing the summit I eyed stood independent within the valley, standing against erosion of age old time—an oddity of nature. As I stared at this gem of existence, my heart raced with gladness. I knew there was no better place to proclaim and exalt the One Whom I Followed. I had walked hundreds of miles in search of such a destination—miles covered by the scourge of rock, plant, and tree. Not a single civilization was remotely nearby; there were not even wandering nomads, and so certainly there were no roads, paths, or trails. My journey was dominated by coarse, seemingly impassable terrain. And all through this traveling, I carried with me an immense prisoner wrapped in a thick tarp tethered to my back that writhed in such ways that sent ripples of exhaustion through my limbs. It longed to kill me even in its capture, and it often came close. Every time I propped open its immurement of tarp to pour it water or feed it food, I cringed terribly at this thing that laded me; it only avoided death by the facet of my purpose. |
Episode 68: Filling The Empty Throne
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TheDarkVerse.com iTunes Facebook.com/Sharkchild Excerpt: I thought I had told the Doctors nothing but the truth regarding my wounds, yet their doubt in my words led me to not wholly believe in those insects of memories crawling behind my eyes. They wanted to know how the rings of flesh were once missing at the wrists of my bloodless arms and how a ring of flesh was once missing at my neck without the décor of crimson. Indeed, anyone should wish to know such answers, so I told them the truth—the only truth I knew and the only story I knew how to tell. But the Doctors would not receive it. Every week they came and withdrew me from my cell and every week they asked me the same questions. Mainly their probing led to the defining of the role I played concerning the wounds, but my account did not involve any of my doings; I was a victim, and especially not of myself. As the weeks came and went, I began to divulge less and less of what I remembered when the Doctors came to inquire of me. For one thing, I realized that the florescence of my details gave ignition to punitive results, and second, the line between nightmare and reality had become a pool of mixed elements, leading me astray from the substantial qualities of confident testimony, and beyond that, cognizance. I would rather have not remembered anything regarding the incident at all; that would have saved me great torment, or at least given cause to administer it. *** The wounds they found upon me as I lay on the floor of my prison cell were deep—almost all of the way to the bone. They were circular cuts—rings: one on each of my wrists and one around my neck. There was no bleeding; the wounds were completely clean as if those rings of flesh had been removed by teleportation and the fissured blood vessels somehow instantly sealed. |
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. |
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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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