One (relatively) small piece from Sacred. Officially my second book. I would say about 90% of the work is complete; only minor things need be added plus additional cover art.
“The girl screamed. The murderer laughs like made, she begs, he takes out a large knife. She prays, tears rolling from her eyes, a bone-crunching sound is heard. A shot from the policeman’s nine-millimeter pistol, the fatal shot to the head of the murderer. She pleads to her hero ‘I just want to go home’ “
“This novel is my masterpiece,” said an eleven year-old boy struggling to become a horror writer, the author of the above paragraph. He has had two short stories published in very, very small fanzines and he has posted four more on the Internet. This “masterpiece” is a typical slasher story; so typical it would’ve been rejected for a Friday The 13th screenplay. He shows the novel to his boyfriends, and they love it. This Naïve boy who is devout to the followers of a passion-less manifesto, when the novel is sold to a large publishing house and it does all right on the market. People for the most part are simplistic and desire to be left un-challenged.
I write myself in, “Naïve boy, you must challenge people.” he screams that he does not want to, that he only wants to be a jester, to be remembered for his entertainment. I retaliate, “True, that after your death people will remember you, but for only a shot period of time, fifteen minutes to be exact if we are to follow Warholla and his pretension. For decades after no one will care about your rotten corpse that the worm defecates upon, and they won’t give a damn about your work either; yet we always remember the pariah’s who wish to change the world and to show us glory whether introverted or extroverted.” A critic descends, casting me as perverted and unworthy. I will show misanthropy personified, this is the catalyst to view a new art such as the atrocity which inspires hope, pain, and numbness:
In a room of turquoise blue we watch three figures through an iris window, looking out from within my two eyes. A man dressed like an aristocrat except for a black hood that hides his face who stands between a blonde-haired girl no older then seventeen trying to cover herself, and her mother with matching hair; whose limbs are chained to the concrete ceiling, holding her several feet in the air. Both are of course nude (for nudity echoes mutual fear, to be uncovered and filleted by wicked spears). The daughter cries, her hands blocking out her pubic hair. The aristocrat who does not show his face brandishes a very clean and defined sickle with a metallic handle painted yellow. The mother is silent. A portrait ten feet by ten feet descends attached to two near-invisible strings, almost a foot or two just above the mother’s skull. This portrait is in fact an enlarged photograph tainted (artistically) in sepia; the image becomes visible, showing off a victim of Ed Gein’s immortalized by her violation. Gein, one of the first American serial killers: his victim, this aged woman that hangs by her lifeless feet chained by ankles, torn open from anus to chest much like a hunter would give to a dear while the head is missing from this body. It is so beautiful yet so horrific that you’d think Dali would masturbate to it. The executioner tilts his skull slightly upward for which beams of light shine on him, thereupon a bent halo tears through his eyes and hangs above the skull; suddenly two large wings rip through his back and these wings are plastered with lined paper which drip ink. From this man’s spine the epitome of Goodness wrings loose from him, born form the pores of skin and showing its innocent flesh to human eyes. Goodness emerges as a limbless dwarf with empty, plastic bottles planted in its mouth. It’s Asiatic (recalling Shinto) skin turns violet from the exposure to oxygen, no longer shelled within polluted man, crawling slowly like the wounded slug while it approaches the child and rapes her with it’s bottles, to give her pleasure, for that is mutually good to the corrupt individual. The sickle approaches the mother, her child still is watching with a penetrated cunt magnified by a see-through bottle:
The sickle (moving upward) penetrates the asshole by six inches, and then a slow lift approaches; working in a see-saw motion, the blade moving quickly; slowly tearing through the outer wall of the cunt, tearing through stomach. Torn en half. The mother is dead.
The boy and the critic vomit in unison, I speak, “You see how I’ve made art out of a tragedy? Showing how our world is a constant mirror, I have taken a man who wanted to fuck his mother out of love and hate. He wore the flesh of his victims much as the same as we wear masks; whereas he wore them to become what he wanted to be, we wear a mask to be acceptable. And, by that dismembered woman we witness the birth of new pleasures, and new freedom. The mask becomes our weapon, and the trophy is our freedom.”
“You’re sick!” the boy screams.
“No, you’ve glorified Gein’s crime for your own profit. Simply creating a series of violent episodes does not make you a writer, it makes you a pornographer” said the critic.
I speak again, “I don’t give a damn if I’m right or wrong. I will change people by showing them our world simply as it is; deep down inside they know this is true! It is all a reflection of our corrupt universe that offers no solace but a blind faith while the elites continue on in murder and monopoly, while faith has only given us shit and democides.”
“What is true? Showing men committing bestiality? Saying there is no God? You’re nothing but a hack wishing to gain attention for his crimes!” said the critic.
“What crimes? This is everyday violence; you simply ignore it and refer to it as a tragedy. It is no tragedy; this is the way of life. Social Darwinism prophesized by the divine Marquis De Sade! To do away with it is to do away with the society that created it, a solution through artistic genocide.” I speak again.
“I sincerely doubt that the essence of Good is a crippled dwarf, or champions of capital punishment fuck on a mountain in celebration. This is obscene. Enough of your ‘mirrored’ world, people want the truth” said the critic.
In defiance, “I am giving it to them”
The critic shakes his head, bemused. I speak once more, “You hate people like me don’t you? It is of course obscene but people need obscenity! Enough of this cushy world where imaginary characters are created to live in a tedious cycle of life and death, enough of these anecdotal biographies written exclusively for money, enough of everything that rebuilds people as puppets meant to follow the words of an invented prophet. We NEED work that will fuckin’ murder our glee and take with it our restraining morals. To gut punch us and implant it’s terrible voice in us” foaming from the mouth “We need violence to show violence! There must be this conclusion, the end of the moral coda and the end of the meaningless life, as with it the end of meaning. No more a truth to be found, that Absolution may only be a word to satiate the herd while men lie and give of them selves to nothing, and they die for nothing. Only in the extremes may we find what we have ignored, the Gray. Love and hate, horror and the paradise, are the same. No different to fly or fall.”
The critic gives a good review of the boy’s work. They quickly undress and begin to fuck like student and teacher.
“True that at times I must exaggerate my point, violence may be my one way of reaching you that is available to me.” I collapse, the critic and the boy still going at it. I laugh a little now when thinking of the readers who were captured, amused, or who masturbated to these words.
