Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Art of Corpses (story)

(read the prologue <a href="http://www.kunabee.blogspot.com/2012/08/the-prologue-story.html">here</a>)

The Lady was in her coffin, as the Lord ranted and raged, pacing back and forth.  The crime she had committed against him was an unforgivable one, but yet he was not able to punish her!  The whole town was laid with greed and bitterness, anger and fear, that each, a toxin on its own, made it dangerous to be within a single mile on any end of the town.  Entry to the town would kill a psychokinetic synthesete; and none dared enter.
That is, none but the resident of the town.  Perhaps it was foolish of him - no, most assuredly it was foolish of him - but his wife at last had a babe in her belly and he could not leave her.  They had spent nearly ten years of trying, struggling to produce a babe of their own.  And now at last she was with child.  He could not leave her.
He himself, a self-proclaimed atheist, had even started praying to God and gods, his voice echoing to the elusive and never seen God of all powers; and even falling on the ears of the gods which did indeed sometimes mingle among mortals for whatever bitter purpose.  But at last she was with child.
It was clear God, gods, or even Fate itself took pity on them.  He had spent every day, fifteen minutes, tending to the child within her belly to maximize the chances for the babe to have a psychokinetic synthesete, as it was a recessive trait.
But five months into her pregnancy, the baby was able to telepathically talk with her mother - and the baby was a girl - to express and receive basic and simplistic... images nor thoughts aren't the right words; it was concepts, but perhaps even more basic then a concept.  It was so important for the father to be there, so important for the child to be as beautiful as she would but with the rare and magnificent powers of a psychokinetic synthesete.
And no woman, no matter how far into the pregnancy, should ever be made to travel with a growing child within her.  So he stayed, fearing for himself, his wife, and his unborn child, at the time with seven months of development.  The toxins in the air, the toxins of deceit and greed and horrible things, lingered and hovered, and it required him and his wife to do rituals to purify their house.
I am scared he admitted, and he felt the sympathy, tasted it on his tongue.  His wife was scared too, but she tried to be strong.  After all, these emotions were reasonable - especially fear, especially with the potential of a corpse artist - and they were practically stuck in the town.

A psychokinetic synthesete; the best way to understand it would be to understand the words themselves.  "Psych" tends to deal with the mind; while "psycho" is a short hand term for someone who is crazy, "psych" is actually just a relation to the mind ("psycho" equals someone who is a mind?).  "Kinetic" is motion, or active; "kinetic energy" refers to energy in action.  So a psychokinetic would be a mind in motion; or, rather, someone who can move and interact things without touching them, speak with other minds, and so on and so forth.  A synthesete is typically someone with synthesia, which is where senses overlap with others; such as seeing what is typically heard, tasting what is typically felt, and so on and so forth.  Each psychokinetic synthesete has a unique "array" of powers.  Of course there were some "staples", so to speak: telepathy, telekineses, the ability to manipulate certain things that were noticed with the senses (i.e. one could have hearing, or taste, and manipulate only what they could hear or taste, respectfully).
Ah, but now the story must continue, for any side-journeys detract and leave the main of the story vulnerable...

But the psychokinetic synthesete and his wife, heavy with child, are not the characters we view.  Instead, we look back at the wooden house with the stone door.  The mismatched materials of an ugly, broken toy.  Inside rested a man, his eyes half-closed as he rocked on a broken stone chair that should not have rocked.  He was the corpse artist, a manipulative and cold person that was bitter and frozen.  The goodness had long been pulled out of the man, allowing him two choices.  Become a shell and be nothing, or turn to the darkness inside of him.  He chose the darkness, and so it was always a favorite past time of his to kill people and arrange their corpses.
He traveled often, using the enchanted and terrible house to hide him.  Then he killed, and killed some more, then went on to the next place.  Already he had hundreds of years to his  name: indeed, his practical immortality was surprising and scary to others.  For he chose the dark inside of him, where a creature nameless and terrible hovered.
And then he and the creature were one, their age endless, their evil insurmountable.  But even the cruelest of creatures have their pleasures, their histories, and their surprises.
Children always have powers, though they may be hidden...

And a psychokinetic synthesete's child, as one can imagine, has many powers.  While the babe slept in her mother's warm and comforting womb, the father grew sick.  He could not eat, he could not drink, he could not move.  For all he tasted was fear and anger; all he felt was sickness and despair.  He was in absolute pain, with only a day of his story being put aside.  For now the people thought they knew who, what, and where the corpse artist was.  And that was a horrid thing.
The art of corpses can be learned by anyone with even the slightest interest in it.  It can only be mastered by a certain kind of person, however.  Another corpse had been found, this one of a child.  He made it seem as if she were only playing with her dolls, having killed her in her room.  He made sure it didn't make much mess.
It was a key signature of one corpse arist, one that was practically immortal, one who was no longer human... And emotions grew so strong and terrible that the psychokinetic synthesete was dying.  His wife sat dutifully beside him, trying to give him food, performing cleansing rituals to purify the air of the awful emotions, telling him about the baby.
"Daddy," he heard, and his eyes opened a little.  Our little girl, he said, and the mother nodded, tears in her eyes.  She rubbed his hand, and he smiled, but then it fell.  She can taste it, can't she?  She can't be here... but we can't leave! he cried.  Small tears began to fall.  The mother paused, looking at nothing.
She isn't a psychokinetic synthesete.  She's a telepathic healer.  This was strange news to the psychokinetic synthesete.  It's from my side of the family, the healing.  Except it's... different for her.  She can heal the mental states, the physical states, from a distance of ten or twenty meters.  She's been keeping you alive, or at least she's said she's helping you.
"Daddy, I'm here."  The words overlapped the last words of his wife's.  He told his girl, contacting her telepathically, "Let me go."  Upon her worry, he added, "I'll be okay, it will all be okay."
Sometimes parents lie to protect their children.  They love their children.  And sometimes they lie because they know what they have to do.  The psychokinetic synthesete knew what he had to do.  And so, he lied.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

The Prologue (story)

The air had a slight flavor to it, if you could pay enough attention.  The taste of deceit laced the air like a gaseous poison, a bitter and tangy twinge if only you stuck the tip of your tongue out, catching the particle's memories of the deceptions that occurred earlier in the evening.  The deceptions that reverbrated, even now, to a wooden house with a stone door.  The make of it was an odd craftmanship; rough-hewn and ugly, broken, incomplete, a paradox of stone, wood, plaster and plastic, things without names.  The house was an impossibility; for it was wood, the door stone: windows were fake, painted in melted plastic that bubbled and burned - or at least did at one time.  Now it was still, molded on the outside, touching the partial-roof of plaster and tar, still sticky despite the moss and mold that covered it.
The house was rusted, as well; hinges and corners, and random blunt spikes of a metallic nature; turned to rust.  It was old and ugly, a broken child's toy that was left to burn and crack for a thousand years.  And here, if you were tasting the air, the trail of deception led.  Soft, hushed voices whispered in it, the deception thick within, though almost tasteless without.
For the house exuded a sort of strange power, a block to outside forces, locking that which was in, inside, and that which was out, outside.  It was locked, time-locked, in its own bubble.  With a firm little echo there was a demand to be let out, a demand that was thoroughly refused.  It seems the deception had turned back around on the deceiver, as a cry reverbrated throughout the bubble.

It was a full week before the decaying body was found.  The eyes were closed, as gentle and graceful in death - if not more - as they ever were in life.  Her hands rested demurely on her stomach, locked together in an elegant and modest way.  She was dressed in a beautiful robe, her feet bare and her stomach covered up.
It was clear that her killer had an art with the corpses, an art he took great pride in.  Or was it a she?  Any killer with an art of corpses could be any sort of thing, and art was a ladylike pastime in such lands.  But the Lady lay resting, her robe green silk, and she prettier then she had ever been in life.  But there was a mark on her ankles, identical mirrors of betrayel.
For anyone who dares hold an art of corpses always makes clear the reason of the corpsehood.  And this had thorough meaning.  One does not need a Bible to know that adultery is a cruel act that deserves an equally terrible punishment.

Thursday, August 9, 2012



For I am going to *attempt* to do a multi-part story on my blog.  It may fail miserably.  It may be finished and sit here for the rest of its days in all of its glory.
But it shall be a beautiful story, for however long it lasts.  So I'll mark all the posts with (story) that are a part of the story.
Stories :3