As one of the intellectuals of this journey, I am entitled to certain comforts that are otherwise unavailable to the majority of the population. Where most people have to care for their own belongings and well-being, mine is always cared for. But, as such entitlements have it benefits, it gives my mind free reign to wander, to reminisce and recollect things that I’d much rather forget. For in the darkest hours of our lives, the mind often turns to despair.
I’ve seen this happen before, driven to suicide by the self-destructive forces of the underbelly of our consciousness.
To avoid such an outcome, I have volunteered to participate in the emissary missions and extend an invitation to our grand exodus. Though these encounters are immensely interesting, and above all, time-consuming, I’ve learned that these people are not only ignorant but also superstitious.
Deeper into the forest and closer to the mountains, the natives refer to the land as the land of the dead. The land where the souls of the regretful live, haunted by ghosts and wraiths that wander aimlessly and destroys anyone alive, for they are envious of the living.
Despite the horror stories engraved in them since birth, little convincing needed to be applied, for it was clear that they had no choice but to brave such superstition and hope that their tales were untrue. For the true land of the dead now lies behind us, millions upon millions that are dead and will never see their remains attended – to forever haunt the wastelands of their former homelands.
Read the rest of the series here: The Exodus Journal
When you start a website or a blog, the ultimate goal is to generate traffic. But even though their are so called, “time tested methods” in how to acquire such traffic, it often becomes apparent how shallow they are if they have no passion for what they do.
I want this site to be a place where I can present my stories and to show of the capabilities that the fantasy world “Book of Legacy” have. But to do so, I’m going to have to take the next step in becoming a well visited site; and that is to put a schedule on when and what I publish.
Stories from now on will be posted on Monday’s and Friday’s (The current one you can read here: The Exodus Journal).
I also aim to posts poetry on Wednesdays and maybe a personal blog post on the weekend… Maybe.
So, yeah, lets see if this works out and if I can indeed follow a schedule at all!
I had a dream last night. A frightening dream. It was nighttime and the earth was scorched. I stood on a hill, at a ledge with a view of the horizon; although it was too dark to see anything clearly. At the corner of my eye, a man watched me with a vacant expression, or perhaps it was a woman? She was sitting on a rough looking bike, something out of a Mad Max movie.
As I was staring at this person I saw two glowing eyes shining behind her in the distance. There was a dark silhouette underneath the eyes, like a large robotic body taller than any building I had ever seen.
There was also, no smell, no taste, no feel – only emotion. Like it usually is when I dream. And my emotion was utter despair, for the eyes turned towards me and with an ominous humming sound, a bright yellow beam went towards me, creating an ark so that it destroyed anything around me.
I hid behind a boulder but the laser pierced parts of it and burned my ankles. Again, I didn’t feel any pain. Only fear. The person on the bike seemed unaffected by the beam as she kept staring vacantly at me. I crouched on the ground and pressed my hands against my head and reverberated: Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up.
And so I opened my eyes, lying in bed with drool on my pillow. But somehow, my heart was not racing as if I knew that it was a dream all along, and something I knew I could escape from.
This is actually a true story. It is remarkable when you can remember your dream so clearly even now, several days afterwards. What was even more remarkable was the level of control I had. I really did consciously make a decision to wake up, and then I did. I guess that is what you call a lucid dream.
Also, please check out my new short story series here
The lands to the east are truly wild, dense with ancient trees that tower high above our heads; unexploited by human hands. There is no road to follow either, only a small path that is leading us in the general direction of our destination – a mountain both tall in legend and height, that separates the known with the unknown. Our hopes are that once ascended, the cataclysm will be unable to follow and we will once again know peace.
Sometimes we encounter small villages along our way, small hints of civilisation represented by the smoke from their campfires. We send emissaries whenever we are able, and the people often accepts our offer to join as they are aware of the impending danger. But there are those that refuse our invitation. I do not know why they would as they should be aware of the destructive forces of the cataclysm by now; the smoke blackening the sky and the smouldering flames that illuminates the horizon in the west.
Though, I do not mourn for those that are left behind, for these eastern folk are as wild as the forest they live in. A land not claimed by neither tribe nor nation. What else would one expect of a people living at the edges of the known world, by the foot of the mountain that separates this world and the next.
I myself is not familiar with this land for I come from the land furthest to the west where the sea is plentiful and the beaches are beautiful. But I refrain from recalling too vividly my former homelands for the pain such memories cause is unimaginable. Nor do I have any inclination of writing it down for I could never, with mere words, do justice of its beauty.
No, it is better for it to be lost by the ages. To focus on the prospects ahead rather than what we have lost.
Read the rest of the series here: The Exodus Journal
I aimed to post these stories once a day, but I was immediately thwarted by a writers block… so I took a break. Good thing I did because I changed the name of the series from “Baxter Helbard’s Journal” to “Exodus Journal”. Better to change it early when the series is still young.
It is now 368 days since the exodus from our homelands and the horrors that we’ve witnessed have been many; images that I’d rather forget, much less describe. Yet, they are burned into my consciousness and will haunt me for the rest of my life. But I will continue to repress them and look onward into the future, in the hopes that I, and our people, will once again know peace.
What else can one do than to hope for a better future, lest you lay down and die in defeat? which I have seen many do. Completely and utterly giving up on the future. I don’t blame them, however. I’m not ashamed to admit that the thought had crossed my mind, as well. For what do I possibly have to live for? when everything that I know, and thought I knew, has been shattered by forces that I, nor anyone else, can explain but the acts of god all mighty?
Some believe that Lord Avos is testing us, while others believe that he have abandoned us. I don’t subscribe to any of those statements for who are we to interpret his infinite wisdom? That is to say, if such a man truly exists? It doesn’t matter, however. For those that have survived, they look toward the future, how bleak it may be. Hence I write this journal, to document a new beginning instead of our demise.
Read it at all in one place here
The moon shone through the window, revealing many shelves inside the dark room. Only the candle in his hand gleamed in bright orange and yellow, the light moving along the stacks of books on the lower shelf. Some of the books were well used and in tatters, while others were virtually new and easy to recognise. She had a system for organising her books, he knew, but he could never figure it out – not fully. This only made him more excited, feeling as if he was on a grand adventure and explored an old forgotten dungeon. But as the light of the candle fell on a piece of cloth hanging on the wall, the illusion faded, and his mind once again turned to gloom.
The banner was made of red cloth with golden thread-work that depicted a blood moon eclipsed by a curved blade. It was the banner of his family, or rather, his tribe; the rulers of this world.
Fendrael’s eyes glistened in the candle light as he looked, his eyes almost as red as the moon on the banner.
But the banner represented something else to him, a society which he could not fully understand; a family he could not fully be a part of. Sometimes he wondered if he knew his mother at all. At times, she was understanding and warm, in others, she was brisk and secluded. Hiding herself in her library and immersing herself in her many books. Today was one of those days when briskness took control of her; and his father was not far behind in adding to the scolding, for he trusted his wife immensely. There was no such thing as being too strict with his son.
Fendrael felt his punishment to be uncalled for, being locked inside as he was. All he had done was asking an old man about the strange looking ornaments hanging from his beard, and commented on his funny accent…
Bored and bitter, he let out a sigh, blew out the candle, and let himself fall onto the only chair in the room behind him. The chair creaked dangerously under his weight. But instead of checking for damage, he furrowed his brow and remained on the seat, caring not for the scolding he would surely receive later.
Now, sitting comfortably, he stared at the ceiling that was as black as night itself. They say it is dangerous to look too deeply into the night, lest your mind traps itself in the void. Shuddering from the thought, his eyes drifted down to a table next to him. On it, there was a well worn book, half open and inviting. Curious, he grabbed it, but wrinkled his nose as a pungent smell entered his nostrils. The book was old (really old) and the leather cover seemed to barely hold the yellowed pages together. Holding it far from his face to avoid the smell, he read the title on the cover: “The Exodus Journal.”
There was no author on the cover, only the title. Figuring there was nothing else he could do, he placed the book back on the table, lit the candle again, and carefully turned to the first page. The pages were dry, but they still held, and the smell, that had made his nose wrinkle moments before, no longer affected him as he leaned forward and read the first sentence:
Every night they haunted me
Stories that didn’t exist
Stories that I refused to make
That was trapped inside my mind
Only at night did their powers awaken
With control over my body,
they made me walk the night
Scream the night
Never giving me rest
Only when I finally wrote them into existence
Sealing them in ink and paper
Did they vanish from my dreams
Giving space for new ones
New stories to be made
With all my great capacity to imagine and convey the fantastic; why can’t I imagine someone sitting next to me? What she would be like; what she would look like?
Am I incapable of seeing another person in my life? Or perhaps that person doesn’t simply exist; the one to make me whole, the one to support me and always be by my side?
I’m destined to be alone for I’m an egoist. Not capable of love. Not capable of showing affection. Only when I change will that person materialize before me. Only then will I meet her, the one, the one destined for one another.
He is the creator of all that is good
And all that is evil
The caster of doubt
The Lord that cast us away
Though, in his infinite wisdom
Gave us a way to repent
Gave us strengths to survive
We are the children of Avos
and soul of Avos
The manifest of his very being into our world
One day he will take us back
Back to his kingdom
When we have repented
When we have been judged worthy to stand by his side once more
At the eternal kingdom of light
Read the short story the poetry is based on here
It is unmistaken
The significance they have among our people
Though they are not of my kind
– In fact, they are of the kind I used to trust the least –
They are the strength that guides us
Keeps us together
The brother and the sister
The strength of Avos
Read the short story the poetry is based on here