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."

  No, never I could imagine that I'd find myself at the center of such oxidized gears, belonging to the affective and psychic world of the human beings. How I yearn for the Golden Age!, far in the past, when the dawns were many issue of comics; in which my deeds were caress by her fingers; with gaps of ecstasy, in which she use to stop to give me a space in her imagination. She took the clay, and behold¡, I was made after the image of her fears for the magnanimous Vaporous Dragons from the dark side; her romantic fantasies with my superpowers of seduction; her dreams of adventures along the Warrior Jewels— the high brigade of the powers of the light... of her faints in my imaginary arms.

  It was a gloomy afternoon, wrapped with a blind and apocalyptic grey. The people weren't expecting rain. In fact, they were imagining that behind the shroud of clouds, a gang of angels with scavengers' faces, were waiting for the proper time to  fall over the humans and devour them like characters in a living dead's movie. For a moment, I try to convince myself that the general paranoia was cause by the fanaticism that my deeds woke in every inhabitant of the city. But I myself was filled with dismay. For I knew very well that the kind of thriller lurking behind the clouds, weren't angels playing demons, but my archenemies, The Vaporous Dragons, from the planet hell, Xidron.

  She rushed to get the latest issue of my comic; surely with the hope that the present of her favorite superhero very close to her, would mean more protection. My colors got brighter by the joy, the peace and the safety that she casted on me. At last, I was out of that chilly kiosk— to me, the best version of the House of Usher, out of Poe's imagination; far away, floating among her fingers and totally doped by her perfume. In deed, the sensation was much more fantastic, the estate much more divine, than in those occasions in which, after regain one of the diamond that contain The Time of the Colors —safeguard of the perpetual darkness—, I show myself up in the magic realm of the princess Cristerval, to give it in offering to her, together with the heart of the dragon that had swallowed it, and a cup filled with its blood—for to drink of the blood of the dragons enhance more the symbolism of the triumph, moreover, it was the best narcotic of the entire universe to wake up the prophetic faculties. The Revelation of the Time, was the name of the hellish beverage. Under its effect, the good get the ecstasy through the ancient frenzy of the evil and its victories. That's the reason why the parents don't want their sons rooted before a TV raving because of my deeds. 

  The technology and its damned progress became a great handicap to me. There was a time in which I had faith in it. My creator used it to perfect my movements, to draw the characters and for the high definition of sounds and colors. But that was a light blow of fresh air in the cartoons' hell, far away from the Golden Age, in which I reign like a comic's character. Ah... the digital television and its damned remote control!—that's been my greatest disgrace, the huge obstacle and setback, in my evolutionary march toward a being made of bones and flesh, or better yet, toward the possession of her body— and be able to touch it as she did it with all the pages of my comic. There are too many stimulations, too many channels in the cable TV that weaken the once strong spiritual relation that we shared. Now, the time-space she devote to me every afternoon before the television's screen, is dispute by dozen of programs; she can go jumping from one to the other thanks to the spring of the remote control. A real mania that rust even more that affective and psychic gear of man call need for information.

  She looks beautiful when sit down with her night gown on, and get in tune the sounds and colors of the television while de music prelude my day's deeds... but I don't bother myself threading illusions. In many occasions, even in full battle with a mighty dragon, I distract myself in order to watch her eating her cookies with marmalade; drinking a sip of chocolate; raise her legs and cross them, while the soft gown's silk glides backwards over the slopes of her thighs, till it reach her hip, and... just a flash of darkness, projected by the change of channel. When it fade, the only thing I can perceive inside me, is the motion of affective and psychic gears such of sadness, loneliness and holy shit!... jealousy. Jealousy, because I know that somebody else is taking her heart from me, her admiration, her imagination. And I know his identity: an insipid movie star. Seemingly my fall never come to an end. On the other hand, the only human faculties within me, are those affective and psychic gears whose only function is to turn the homos sapiens into a shapeless, channeling mass of negative and hypnotic emotions—"homos perturbationis perturbationis!". I'm ashamed of myself. Because after all, I'm a superhero. The knight Glowfix! The supreme comic's hero of the future cosmic crusades, the chosen one!... overwhelmed by jealousy.

  Since that gloomy afternoon, my life struggled at the bottom of bidimensional abysses, and isn't a reference to my flat, drawn body. Inside me, the pencil's lines that use to draw who, till that moment was my god, fight each other for her body's curves, which I don't waste my time trying to find out. My nose drew a straight line to cut off my visual field and my attention between my superhero's duties, and it meant the normal development of the series, and my new destiny like an imaginary lover of a human fan. My own creator realized that there was something wicked in the way. From that very moment, creative difficulties sprung up; the poor guy was getting mad trying to give fluidity to my outlines and write the plots. That problem only happened with me. The other characters adapted themselves to the new story's nature. I was the only one who, from that moment on, became a social problem, putting behind bars the imaginative channels. And it was obvious, for I was the one obsessed.

  Truth be told, the whole situation didn't matter to me. My god could punish me, erase me, scribble me, rip off the paper in which moments before he shaped me, turn me into a freak alien out of pulp magazine's cover, anything his free lance demon advice him. Because, when she showed up each week, walking out like a goddess from the mahogany's trees of the park, in the opposite side of the street; when she made a stop in the sidewalk's verge to wait till the street gets clean of vehicles; when her steps blessed the street's pavement that separated us; while the wind, drunk by the the spring season, crashed happily among her dress' folds... all my hardships got evaporate like the ink in the molted rage of my creator. She drew nearer to the kiosk, inlaid between two huge building, like a human's tooth among the elephant's... smile, make a payment and...

  Sometimes, the rapture was so intense, that de plastic wrapper around the issue got tarnished by my cold, abstract sweat. Our union was sublime. At times, it was in her favorite bench in the farthest corner of the park, half hidden by the white lilies that climbed up like goats the narrow reed's arch over it. Others, it was in her room, next to the window. I liked it, only night and silence. The first contact always fed the tension—a tension too much real in my world as to makes me lose my missions. In those moments, was very hard to me to ride my Steed Ship; to lost myself into the vast blackness that stretched out through the hells of Xidron, chasing my archenemies, The Vaporous Dragons; defeating them, rescue maidens and jewels of sacred powers, and all that, while her fingers turn gently the pages of my comic. The rescued maidens complaint about my indifference, and they were right. Really I didn't pay them any heed. The Princess Cristerval was thrown into the same basement. Before the apparition of the human, she stood for the beginning and the end of my attention. But ultimately, I only gave her the usual bows. Nobody could understand, neither my creator nor the others characters of the story, what the hell was going on. It seemed as if an invisible power clouded his will to create; he lost all control over me, once the comic got to the shelves. But, I knew very well that invisible power—the Obsession. Visible only to me, its victim and its greatest admirer. It was the period that saw the birth of my pathology, my frustration for being a comic's character, and my craving for become a human being.

  There she comes! It is now long since she turned on the television set, but so far, hasn't pay any attention to my deeds—deeds? At this stage I should say torments. It seems to me that she's taking much time to prepare her snack. As days go by, the need for her presence grew to the sized of Xidron's multihell. So too, the need for her illusions, her emotions, her grief, her cult and her reflections. Those manifestations of her being, born from the impressions that my adventures carved on her, are the chemical and ethereal elements that, through an astral channel, march like zombies to fulfill the complex alchemic duty in the constructions of what I want to be. The pose she adopt while seated is the usual one. Her legs and breast, as exquisite as the last time I saw them, get melted in a mix of sleepless nights, coffee, cigarettes and the pressure of my creator to keep me in good shape—in order to avoid my plunge in the common grave of the forgotten heroes. 

  What wonderful! She's absorbed. I'm obliged to do a masterful performance to amaze her. I need her stick to my destiny like a traumatic event to the memory. Maybe, I should to send her a sign that builds up a more intimate link. Oh no... she took the remote control! Must be the damned movie star that... No, it's not... but... Who's that man?

  Long ago, in the Golden Age in which our destinies met, thanks to the fame of my knight's virtues, courage and genius, I didn't stop to watch the many disorders that my newborn obsession was causing to the noble feelings dwelling behind the blank spaces bounded by the ink. She came to me in the highest point of my career. Just in time to get involve with the cycle entitled: "Rosy Flashes at the Bottom of the Black Hearts". That cycle of adventures made my universe another point in favor of the theory of inflation, for it became a new bubble in the block of the multiverse. And it wasn't only because of my obvious appeal, but for the rest of the character too. Especially the evil ones. Nobody who praises himself of being my fan; who at least once in his life have mistaken my mind with his; who got every single issue of my comic... can forget that cycle.

  Its great impact was due, above all, to the apparition of a new character. The revered archdemon, the chosen one by the dark side of the soul: Azdöömik. He was a powerful entity conceived by my creator after spend a season hearing the call of Cthulhu. He finished it in the asylum's room in which was secluded. She fell in love with this entity, but, who could blame her? He was a silver-grey spectrum, whose figure resembled a human skeleton made with iron's rags, wrapped with a black robe. Even the reckless Vaporous Dragons, felt their stellar fire got freeze before the coolness of his eyes, sunk in a swamp of deep, bluish phosphorescence—indeed, he was a treasure of the darkness. It was an honor to be scared by him. She read voraciously, and even better, started to read naked on her bed. From that moment on, I got poisoned with other of the affective and psychic gears of the human being—Desperation. Simply I couldn't wait till the end of the reading to burn in the fire between her legs; while she looked with dreaming eyes the stars. "In which of them you live?"... Once, I heard her muttered. Another gear was born—Love. It must be a supervitamin this gear, for the frantic march of my obsession reached divine levels after a series of overdose. 

  She leaves. Again without wait the conclusion of today's episode. It's sure that after the next commercial break, I won't find her before the television's screen, looking forward to the happy ending. Foolish! Why get excited with other boring happy ending when she got the beginning and the end of happiness embodied in the guy who took her out of me? Not even the movie star could stand that assail. She's on the way to meet him—she loves him. Seemingly, will be the fire of his flesh and not the "maybe could be flesh" of my imagination, that makes her body born with pleasure, orgasms beforehand and low pace sighs. I don't even know the number of the affective and psychic gears that have been added to my being—doubts, rage, the vice of masturbation, murderous instincts, suicide tendencies, delusions of grandeur... Oh please stop it! In the darkest and barren corners of my desperation, I've schemed to forge a fleshy body to my archenemies, the Vaporous Dragons. Yes!... a covenant. They are greedy, and there are many jewels in the world. Yes!... and Azdöömik too. They only have to help me to get rid of that blonde superficiality. He's beautiful, and to admit it, embitter my ink. 

  I can give my legions a three dimensional existence. Mankind got a gear that, just in the same way of the imagination, reign over all its affective and psychic levels—The Soul. I've already got that everlasting breath of energy; thanks to the way in which she use to stare at my vignettes in the good times; to the atoms cast by her excited breath, panting by the emotion; to her heart's beating, that hammered the pages whenever her hands held them against her breast. Yes, I've made up my mind. I don't care a bit the aftermath, only her. The planet may be devoured by the dragons, after all... it's a great jewel.

  Azdöömik gesticulate hellish thoughts. He holds in his right hand one of the three sacred rosy diamonds. His robe stretch backwards behind him, giving the impression —due to the pencil strokes around him —, that he suddenly halted a dizzy speed. His eyes cast over the vignette their phosphorescence mist, of a deep, mindblowing blue, herald of his evil will. It's a sinister sight against the dark vacuum of the space. I'm standing before him, with my body bent and my legs joined. It's a retreat's movement, for I was taken by surprise. My armor, made of silver's rings, it's glittering. I hold in both hands the sacred sword, forged with the coagulated blood of the ancient semi-divine heroes. Its handle was made with a carved tooth of Mozgrat, the forefather of the dragons. It's the final battle; the last of the three rosy diamonds to regain; the end of the cycle... and she cast an eternal look over the vignette, long ago, in the Golden Age.

  But, why keep myself mining the better moments of my memories? No, the Golden Age became blurred, rusted by the time's witchcraft. Now, it is the heaviness of an iron's age that lying down, like an acid sprinkle, on my memories. It's useless trying to awaken in her being another Golden Age; in which I can be able to finish my evolutionary task. I'm going to evolve by my own means, till reach the human level, making use of the last two affective and psychic gears I've obtained—Hatred and Imagination. She'll be mine or won't be at all! To be, or not to be? My creator was fond of that phrase... yes, that's the question.

  A week has past since the last I saw of her. The eternity got a miserable side, when the path traced by the time, must be travel over by a desire that doesn't begin nor end in ourselves, but in an indifferent heart—beyond the frontier of our inner's universe. I don't give a shit the numberless of people, including children, who are vibrating before the television's screen with my new adventures, enhanced with cutting edge digital techniques. What really matter to me, is to see her TV turned on. Behind the apparent war with my eternal enemies, the Vaporous Dragons; of the never ending persecutions through the ice's caverns of Xidron... the secret covenant, the scheme and the promises, are agreed.  

  The mood I perceived it's very far from being a vast savanna full of violet flowers, joined in the horizon with the orange steps of a sleepwalker twilight. She looks pale and slovenly. The nervous, brief smiles that she sketches from time to time, are sickening. The television was turned on, I know it. I know too, that before get into the shelter within me, she was seeing some absurd movie stared by the blonde superficiality. A tear rolls down, a disappointment gets reflected on her; a fist that stopped just at the threshold of her cheek, and on top of all, a... get lost! I meditate. Affective and psychic gears of the human machine, still unknown to me? Why she comes back to me? What may I stand for her, that can't be found in the movie or in the wicked one who threw her into this state of sadness and desperation? It's this what's in the store for me too? To end up in such a fucking way I struggling to become a human and give up the fantastic realm of pure magic, evil and innocence in which I reign?

  Innocence!... that's the word. I belong to a season in her life, in which she uses to dream for the pleasure of it, waiting nothing of it. Long ago, under the reed's arch wrapped with white lilies. A sky full of stars at the bottom of a cup of chocolate, and the stars themselves, drunk by the smell of fresh printed paper. The silent night, she and me; the princess Cristerval and the Vaporous Dragons; Azdöömik!; the Warrior Jewels of the powers of the light; The Xidron's multihell. Again, the famous knight of the cosmic crusades. We'll be able to come back to that time, to the fairy tale of your life? Let's fight that battle together. I need it too, because I'm too much corrupted with many human's affective and psychic gears and vices that haven't nothing to do with our first love, long ago, in the Golden Age. Yes, without television, its superficial nature and damnable commercial breaks. Yes, tie your hair into a knot, that's it... wipe a littler more your tears. Where you go? Of course, to check the collection of my comics. Don't bother yourself making a choice, you can pick up anyone. Because in each one of them, shines the light of our everlasting spring. Someday, I'll got the chance to apologize myself for the grim scheme I conceived. The dragons are amazed too. Every one in this dimension is watching you through a portal that others use to call television. Ok, you've already chosen one and hold it very tight in your hand. Yes, now you can turn off the fucking TV—for the farthest corner of any park is waiting for us.

                                                           The End


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About Me

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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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