Back in that time, the earth was a geology tapestry over which the aeons had painted minimalist and monochromatic landscapes with a carboniferous inspiration. Every kind of life form, except the Homos Plus Ultra, had disappeared. This species, obliged by the challenges that the natural selection at a cosmic level imposed to it, took its self-evolution into a new course resulting in the molecular modification of an organism that wasn't base on carbon anymore, but on silicon; with a photosynthetic metabolism that —lacking of an atmosphere whose oxygen atoms had burnt long time ago, or had escaped toward the outer space because of the weakness of the gravity force— processed the gamma and X radiations like a substitute for oxygen.
By the time Hercules reached the other shore of the river, the water that coated his body had been literally evaporated. Without casting a look at Deianira, he extracted the arrow from the dying body of the centaur Nessus. Nessus, could have put in motion the first scheme of revenge, but at the last moment changed his mind. His blood was too pure to bath the body of a simple, anthropomorphic being. His last words fallowed very close the blood pouring through his mouth:
—Hercules —he said— I know very well that the Oracle of Delphic ordered you to complete another labor, the number thirteen, to expiate the killing of your own children and the pain in which that action threw Megara. King Eurystheus couldn't have given you a harder task; for not even the Olympians gods can fathom the riddle of this new creature which, from the darkness of the forest, deliver death throughout Greece under the dim and ghostly look of Hecate. A creature that's not a fix hybrid like the sirens or my own species, the centaurs —but keeps itself flouting between human and animal form; a creature that really belongs to a coming time, to a coming mythology... Darker than ours. Here this mirror. The next time Hecate cast her round look upon the earth, behold it under her pale light... for on its shining crystal you'll see reflected the real identity of the mysterious creature.
We walk over the footsteps of the fears that have casted us. There're monsters, but we can't see them; we're suffering punishments, but we're not aware of them. We only distinguish a great desolation we long for touch it, but it's not really there. Our movements are fluent, like the aurora borealis' flashes in a pool of blood that stretch itself with tiny grains of salt flouting within it —crystalized tears drooping from the eyes squeezed by the comets which motion is cause by millions of third dimensional beings. They walk over the asphalt melted by their own thoughts. They're forsaking us! They're getting away toward the ghostly castles with thick walls made out of sepulchral madness; far away... in the dark forest of bleak foliage.
We move on blindfolded through begging symbols. There isn't any joy, except when the slimy light of the moon fall over us —it weaken us, just like the mud under the hungry jaws of the hyena. She sees things. There're goblins making fun out of her; showing her mirages that sneak away among the burning bushes of juicy rays of sun; while serving a feast in her empty stomach. Now the goblins are sleeping —dreaming with the slippery reality of all the dreams they create. Are we in the goblins' dreams? It's possible that our invisible torments spring out of a goblin's subconscious; there, where is all the reality that escaped while we were dreaming?
They've forsaken us. I've got the feeling we're in the same place of those memoirs that behold the past through a narcotic windows, while the memory itself it's absorb by its own reflection in the time's mirror. We know nothing about the things existing here, though we know that there're tombs —we feel them through the shivers that hunt us from time to time. Strange visions of moon-light over the ice; colorful shadows with black eyes; the heartbeats of a pregnant serpent reining over us. Moments in which we persist to be in chains —because at least they make us to hallucinate. Outside those moments, everything is a midnight in a wolf's mouth: a night that reach the dawn through the dark secrets of the light. Here, the best way to be alive is dying inside the tomb of those instances of necrophile vitality. They relief our present, reading the invisible images of our imagination.
Again this chilly path, what sinister forces have driven me to it? I cast into my thoughts a frozen glance. Hidden behind their shadows are the night's spirits, taking care that these endlessly footsteps tread the spaces from where hang the underground suns. On and on I'm walking, without the hope to get tire or uneasy, for my footsteps don't have a goal. Don't look to the sides! The gloomy weaving of trees that just a moment ago shrouded the forest... it's no there anymore. No! It's the emptiness what stare at me from out there. Its domains start from each one of my flanks. The piece of land occupied by my body right now, it's its only frontier.
No, don't look! I know that it's more than the echo of my voice —it's that of my body too, and alas¡ It stand for my fears. I want to turn around, but I can't. I must to defeat this curiosity, very much to the heart of those who are dying, and long before the dead, want to know what kind of deity forged their coffin. I feel the rage of the loneliness inside me, because there are intruders, they're quiet —showing their silhouettes in the emptiness.
Spirits! Why you like to take refuge within the sugary fetus thrown to the Leviathan from this fabulous black ink sea's shores? Don't get in the domains of those cemeteries. There, the spectres keep a jealous guard over the corpses in which in former ages the fire made to them the offering of passions. Beside, the black out that fell over their memories, needs bodies that times after times vomit the dust from which they are made. They are in a dire situation. The spaces revealed by the sun in the daydreams of the legendary forest—aren't cradle for newborns.
It's useless a tender hope for your three-dimensional's dreams, moreover, isn't blood that runs through those images piled in the mirror's subconscious. What do you feel now that you are next to my coffin while at the same time the emotions given off by the sorrowful wolf's howls, tear you apart? Perhaps you want to take a nap on its melody; with the hope that, once awake, got your physical bodies back. Which ones they might be? What they do? Are they sleepwalkers wandering through streets on which their footsteps get mix with the dogs'? Streets that don't take the trouble to make them stumble. Maybe, they've built up a quicksilver bridge as a way to cross where they could be seen. Surely, those bodies are happy without spirits that make them uneasy.
Spirits! You like to plunge in the asphalt's vapors. But it's useless, because your existences don't take part in any breath of life. The flesh is too busy leading its herd of worms toward the stockade. Spirits! What came over your lives that suddenly made the Limbo the best option. Of course, in there the air is purer. No wonder you fell asleep when arrived to its realm. You enjoyed the oblivion's shelter, but couldn't endure so much harmony and started to miss the hell of your bodies. But they don't remember you, and they won't. They've forgotten you because they too, are in their own limbo... They're the madmen's bodies!
Useless have been my efforts to find my image's reflections; they're buried in these ancient pupils that in former times cast their grim looks upon me, hiding the light from the souls that, with heavy hearts, gave up their stars.
Everything in this park is made out of ivory, everything is lifeless. From the trees only the sap is flowing through the flowers' cracked petals —like a sneeze of dark sparks— searching for the spring that once more, brought it alive. But it's a pity that the spring itself is carved in ivory, like every being in this park.
They're on the benches, at the foot of the trees —static along the endless paths. In the gardens and beside the fountains there are men and women indifferent to each other, just like the columns of an ancient temple devoted to gods forgotten by their own minds. Only their pupils show to be alive, but only darkness is reflected from them.
I'm close to accomplish it! The only shelter for the ink is my own shadow. Is the only place whose existence depends on it. The rest of my being is burning with the energy that comes from the bones, the flesh, the muscles, the skin and all that build up a human being. With a bit of luck, the next vignette will be at night, and by then, surely I'll be at sight of my supreme goal—become a citizen of the third dimension... ¡A man! That would be the climax of my essence, which evolve from paper and ink till the sweet prize of a body that can sweat, catch a cold and have a headache—that can experience an orgasm... For everything started because of her.
That far afternoon, she expanded my universe by creating a destiny for my insipid soul made up of pencil's coal's prints; unfortunately, mixed from the very beginning with a strong feeling, a wretched union of inner radioactive impulses and Chinese's ink. They announced me with cursed echoes, the first gear acquired by me in my mad course toward a human existence: the obsession.
There are some gears in the affective and psychic mechanical of humans, that make me regret —till the point of try to get myself blurred— to have the desire of become one of them. The illusion, the enthusiasm are, for instance, some of those gears. I made a mistake. It's not true my near future success. I almost forget —forgetfulness is other of the gear that drive away my ancient envy for humans—, that a lot of things have changed since I knew her. Some freak-minded being, got the idea to take my comic story into the TV: a cartoons series. Children watching me, fighting with their parents; and the parents by their part calling me names; charging me with the accusation that their sons no longer want to study or ate, lost themselves, as they were, in the maze of my heroic deeds; children very influenced by me, cursing their parents and the school, while yelling at the same time: "No mother, I don't want to study, I only want to see the knight Glowfix. He got superpowers that my teacher doesn't have, beside, he doesn't punish me; he protect the planet from the archenemies, The Vaporous Dragons, that feed themselves with maidens, jewels and children."
Again, I'm walking somnambulist through the dream; again I've slid through the gateway of the ancient myths. Walk along with the blinded memories of time, without understand neither the absence of fatigue nor the infinite path through which I've walked in this wilderness imagined by another being.
At last, in a moment came out from the eternity's childhood, what I believed was a mirage, redeemer and stimulant, amid all this nothingness, turned out to be an apparition that populated with horrible figures the reigning desolation.
It's a gigantic pendulum, its sphere got inlaid the eye of a Cyclops. I've interrupted its distant dream; its eyelids, closed by thousand of years, lift themselves up slowly, and set my being on fire with their ardent and prophetic glare. In the very moment in which the huge eye gets rid of the iron veil that blinded its terrible gaze, the pendulum starts its hypnotic oscillation. The fire-like gleams, casting down by its iron armor, threaten with the evocation of gloomy ages within the halls of my rapture.
- Odilius Vlak
- Odilius Vlak, is the pseudonym of a guy whose real name is Juan Julio Ovando Pujols. He was born and still lives in Dominican Republic. The pen name turned out to be his spiritual name, because it was chosen by his soul, and not by two pieces of rotten flesh, namely, his parents. As a writer he likes to explore the dark aspect of the imagination and place the result in the light's showcase with a fantastic attire. So far, his main way of expression is the prose poem. Some may be very lyric; others, very narrative. But, all of them being a kind of philosophic declaration of why the Dark Fantasy should be loved. He has two unpublished books, of which several samples will be show in this virtual temple: Plexus Lunaris and Bottonless Tombs. Currently he's writing the first story of the book "Chronicles of Tandrel". It will be a universe builded in the same way that "Zothique the Last Continent", by Clark Ashton Smith; that is, showing the whole feature of it, through a series of tales. He also run a Blog in spanish devoted in part to the sacred figure of Clark Ashton smith: the «High Priest» of the Dark Fantasy.
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