Saturn Devouring his Son

The reason is because the painting was hung up right inside Richard's office. It wasn't the actual piece of course, though if he really wished it he could easily procure the money to obtain the original. Still, he liked the picture. Really liked it. Where all others obtained a sense of fear and anxiety from it, Mr. Richard felt calmed. By intimidating the others who entered the room it aided him. He prayed it would aid him tonight.

There was the expected knock. Richard opened it an out came the expected son. The two of them sat down across from each other on Richard's old mahogany table. The following conversation occurred:

“My son.”

“My father.”

A short period of silence.

“So you know why I'm here, correct?”

The father didn't answer.

“You know why I'm here, correct?”

“I have the idea.”

“I... I... I, listen, I talked about it to Marilyn. In full detail. Now I'm not saying you're lying to me, but you should-”

“I know exactly why you're here. There, I said it. I know exactly why you're here.”

“I'm of age now.”

“Yes.”

“I am the eldest.”

“Yes.”

“So, I am wishing to make the transaction now. To make it easier for us both, down the road.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“This isn't a negotiation father. This isn't a deal – hell, it isn't even a wager. This is set in stone. You promised me this a long time ago, and I've come to take-”

“I'm not giving it to you.”

“So you're going back on promise?”

“That's not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about? 'Cause I'm beginning to have a hard time-”

“When I wrote your inheritance, I declared that I would only give you it if I knew for sure you were going to be something worthwhile and do something successful with it.”

“Oh, god, please. Don't go down this route. Don't do this.”

“At the time, it seemed like nothing. Of course you were going to get the money. That's why I was so hopeful about it, that's why, at the time, it may have seemed like a promise to you-”

“It was a promise.”

“It was a promise that you'd get it if you followed the conditions. Now, I was certain you were going to be successful, but... do you even remember how I became who I am-”

“Even? What's that supposed to mean?”

“Do you know who I am? I am a deal maker. I have gotten schinded by a lot of people who I otherwise thought were really great business partners. I know how to make contracts. I've been doing this for fourty years. Fourty fucking years. I made my clam business when I was a little fuckin' hoodwink Albanian immigrant in the middle of chink town.”

“It wasn't even a business...”

“Oh, huh? Really? It wasn't? You say that like you've got some authority. Please, please – if you – if you at all have any expertise in business, or entrepreneurship, or … hell, I'll allow anything. Anything at all. Listen all your fucking accomplishments out, right here. Just spell them out to me.”

“I wrote a book.”

“No you didn't. No you fucking didn't. You didn't write shit. You said you were going to write a book and you didn't write shit. Waste of fucking talent.”

“I did write- no, now hold on. Don't you speak like that to me.”

“What? What? You're my son, not the other way around. I can say what I-”

“Don't. Speak.”

“Haha, what? Whatya fuckin' doing? Are you threatening me right now?”

“I made my own fucking fortune without you. I lived my own god damn life without you. While you were busy fuckin' two-cent Bolivian daddy's girls twenty years younger than you who probably felt like having your ancient wood was worse than rape but they did it for the money... while you were doing that... I was establishing a community. I have a fuckin' community of people coming after me, looking after me, caring about what I say, because I wrote that book. What, what you think someone cares about what you have to say? Like actually, genuinely cares? The fuckin' shareholders are just dealing with your shit by this point because they can't force you to resign since you're the piece of stubborn shit you are. And don't even get me started... don't even get me started on Tony and Lewis... ha ha, if you think Tony and Lewis like you, then you really are fuckin' delusional.”

“Well I'm certainly sure that Lewis has done a lot more in his short life than you have in your miserable one.”

“Miserable? Oh no, my life isn't miserable. It's just when I have to talk to you. When I have to talk to you it feels like Hell has invaded the land of the living.”

“I... can't... do this, not right now. Fuck this, I'm getting a drink.”

“How does it feel?”

“I said I'm getting a drink.”

“Don't walk away from me, I'm not done until I have my money.”

“I'm only walking to the alcohol cabinet, calm the fuck down.”

A short silence.

“Alright, alright. Listen, we can make a deal.”

“Yes, we can make a deal. You give me all the money I deserve.”

“No.”

“Fuck you.”

“I am not giving you one point five million dollars. But I'm willing to go a bit lower than that.”

“Oh, so when I first walk in you're adamant that you're not giving shit. Then I knock you down a few pegs and you say you're willing to negotiate?”

“I'm giving you a fair deal, don't talk shit.”

“Yes, and my fair deal is the million. The one that is owed to me. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Then we don't have a deal.”

A quick silence.

“Jesus, the fuck are you-”

“Listen. Listen to me. I am done playing around, alright? You come – look at me – look here, at me – I am done with the fucking deals. I am done with you. I am not standing here all damn... LOOK at me.”

“Good fucking Christ, were you trying to hit me? Calm the fuck-- AH GOD, JESUS.”

Silence.

More silence.

The door is shut.

Heavy breathing.

“What have I done.”

The painting is taken down.

Some minor scuffling.

A vault is opened.

“For the better.”

The door is opened.

The door is closed.

Fat Man, Little Boy

When I first got across the street, I didn't quite understand what I was looking at. There was a grand group of people all surrounding a small little pocket of shadowed area on a sidewalk. Two bikes had been discarded nearby. An older man ran across to a cul-de-sac right around the corner. In all honesty I don't like moments like these getting to me – whenever there's a moment that draws peoples attention I always look away. Keeps me more focused than those around me. Yet this time I couldn't help but be curious. I figured I might as well check it out; I had to go down that path eventually.

As I got closer the figures which I had only been vaguely able to discern became more and more clear. All these people, for which there must have been seven, were all surrounding one boy. The boy was only slightly younger than I was, with much more fat. One of the men handed him water. He took it silently. They asked him questions, but he said nothing.

But perhaps the most interesting feature about the boy was the blood peppered across his body. It wasn't streaming, or dripping, or falling. It was merely there. In the time I looked at the kid, although brief, I couldn't find any source to where the blood came from. In fact, it some ways it even looked fake. The blood had mixed with the sweet and became much lighter, giving off the impression of a used marker rather than blood. Hell, the only reason I did know it was blood was because the group had mentioned it so.

I didn't get that long of a chance to look at the boy. The second I took a peek his eyes instantly found me, even with all the others around. They looked, expectantly. What they were expecting, I never found out. I continued on my way.

A few days passed before I saw him again. The crowd of people were no longer there. He was still laying down under the shade of the same tree. The blood was now gone. I took another brief glance at him. Part of me was tempted to ask him what had happened but I never did, reason being is that he gave me the same eyes he did during our previous meeting. Expectant eyes. He wanted something from me, something I wasn't giving him.

After that second meeting I became fully engrossed in the boy. What did he want? Was it something only I could give him? I tried thinking of someone he might have reminded me of, but came up with nothing. I searched around campus for him but the trip turned fruitless. I asked a close friend if she had heard of any accident that happened on that street recently. She shook her head.

Those next few days I went across that street fully wishing to see the kid again, to ask him what I had not gained the courage to ask before, but it was to no avail. It was only after, when I had begun to become frustrated, when I began to doubt myself, when I had forgotten about the fat boy entirely, that I saw him again.

My initial reaction was anger. Was he taunting me? Did he in some way know that I was looking for him and plan accordingly? I got right up to his face. He gave me expectant eyes. I didn't bother wasting any time.

“Do I know you?”

No answer, though for the first time he did look away, trailing off towards something in the distance before looking back up to me. I knew he wasn't deaf. He could hear me.

“Why do you keep showing up here?”

Once again there was no response, but the focused look on his face began to fade. Whatever I was saying, it was weakening him. I decided to go deeper.

“What happened to you last week? When you were bleeding?”

Then, he stopped looking. Just stared off into the distance. Into nothing. I asked a few more questions. Repeated some others. Now, nothing changed. He just stared. I started getting angry again.

“What the fuck do you want?”

The answer was nothing. It was the answer I expected, but not the one I wanted. I got closer to his face. He didn't react. I could feel myself rising in fury but I didn't want to do anything. So I left. I didn't want to leave, but I had no other choice. I took a long look behind me and he was still there. Hadn't changed position at all. I stopped turning around by the time I had reached the next block and just kept going.

I never saw him again.

It was only a few years later that I finally found out what was the deal with the little boy. It turns out, unlike what I thought, he didn't suffer from an accident. Rather, he came home to his father – a father who had a history of being particularly violent. The two had an argument, and the father hit him until he was unconscious. They say the father spoke These will make sure you don't talk again when he used the scissors to snip out the boy's tongue. They say the father only realized what he did when the tongue continued to move and slip within his hand, as if controlled by an act of God. They say it was the tongue, not the boy, not the argument, and not his life, that made him kill himself not long after. They say that ever since his father's death the boy, at some hour of the day, will go sit down by the shade of the shadow of that tree and just wait. Occasionally someone will come back and he would just stare at them. Stare at them expectantly. No one could ever really find out what the boy was after. Perhaps he was looking for someone to love him. Or perhaps someone to blame. Perhaps he wasn't looking for anything at all, he just sacrificed his own life to become an observer in our world, looking up at us expectantly to make some sort of move. Or perhaps, perhaps he was looking for someone to finish the job.

The Atmosphere of Souls

On a business trip I once made my way up to the Chinese province of Tibet. The place was, in my opinion, completely beautiful – richly decorated sculptures, murals fashioned in exorbitant detail, and fanciful shrines carved out of the stone of the sturdy Himalayan mountainsides. One day, when I was visiting one of these grand religious monuments, a local beggar stopped me in my steps and asked me, incredibly in English, if I could spare him some money.

“And what reason would I have to do that?” I replied to him.

“Because, I know within my soul,” the man gave a pump to his chest with his hand, “that you are a good man. And I know, within my soul, that I am a good man. And I know, within all our souls, all people are born good, and when their soul is still good and not yet soured, they commit good deeds.”

It sounded like a scam, so I laughed and took advantage of the moment to see if I could take the conversation down an entertaining path. “So, you believe all men are good?”

“Yes.”

“And you believe I am good?”

“Yes.”

“And so you believe that I should give you money, because I am good?”

“I am not saying that, because of the purity of your soul, you are required to do me any service. Indeed, I did not beg – I questioned. I asked you, 'Do you have a dollar to spare'? I understand in your country that can be taken as a demand. But here, to me, it is the truth.”

“You still did not answer my question – what do you have that will make it worth my while to throw away my money to you? How do I know you aren't the town drunk, or a rambling madman?”

The man stopped, and looked at his chest. “Because I know that you can see the good in souls too. I know you are hesitant, but I also know that you know what I would do with the money.”

“And what would you do?”

“Give it away.”

“And what if the person you give away my money to isn't worthy?”

“Well, it isn't your money anymore, is it not? You have no reason to worry.”

I gave a chuckle. The old man was clever, but not wise.

“So, you believe everyone has a kind soul?”

“Yes.”

“And what of those with evil souls?”

“Anyone's soul can be persuaded to evil, just as any evil soul can be rehabilitated back to good.”

“But don't more souls turn evil than evil to good?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, stories of men turning evil are much more common than those of evil men turning good. If you are true, shouldn't men be able to convert back to good at the same rate that they turn evil?”

My question caused the old man to think for a moment. “Evil souls are turned evil by the atmosphere. If the atmosphere does not change, they stay evil. If the atmosphere does change, they turn back good.”

“So people do not change atmospheres often?”

“They can't change atmospheres often. Not many souls have that ability.”

I began to understand the point the man was trying to make. “So the money you want to give, isn't to the good souls...”

“...It's to the evil souls, to change their surroundings.”

“And you don't need the money, because your surroundings are clean?”

“Of course.”

I smiled. “Well, my friend, I'd say you won me over.” I pulled out a few silver coins and dropped them into the man's outreached hands. He eyed them carefully, and just as he made his revelation, I continued to speak: “They aren't currency. They are better than currency. There's a man who runs a restaurant not to far from here, by the bay. Give these to him, and he'll give you what you want.”

“And what is that?”

“A chance at changing the atmosphere of souls.”

The old man was reluctant at first, but eventually he clenched the coins within his fist and dropped them into his bag. “I know I can trust you. I can see your soul is pure. May we meet again, my friend.”

“May we meet again.”

Later that day, I went back to the restaurant at the bay. The owner, cleaning off one of the tables, turned and greeted me when he heard the entry bell ring.

I asked him, “Have you had any new customers?”

“Yes, indeed I did. One came in today.”

“And what did he look like?”

“Old, hunched back. Tattered clothes.”

I smiled again. As it turns out, the old man did come straight to the restaurant as he had said he would, and didn't give away the coins. I continued: “So, where is he now?”

The man I had partnered with continued to put his brush to the table. “On the path to Morocco. I still have a repayment to Fariq – when I saw the man it was the first thing I thought of.”

“What will he be used for? He's old, bony, frail, and has a bit of an attitude – he seems more of a liability for laboring work.”

The man stopped cleaning tables, and partially turned his head toward me. “I never told you, did I?”

“What?”

“The truth.”

“What truth?”

“Fariq doesn't use his slaves as laborers. He has his own hired force for that. Instead, the man has a bit of a special interest.”

“What interest is that?”

“The consumption of human flesh.”

The image of it gave me a chuckle – Fariq, an old, fat, stout king nibbling on the legs of a hunchback while the frail wiseman rattled off some line from Confucius, Fariq barely listening. I suppose that is the fate of those who get their philosophies wrong.

Later that day, I went to explore another temple.


---

Twitter: @CodexofAegis
Facebook: facebook.com/CodexofAegis 

LEVIATHAN 008

Leviathan Tape 004

Date Unknown

Location Unknown

Bovine spongiform encephalopathy (BSE), commonly known as mad cow disease, is a fatal neurodegenerative disease (encephalopathy) in cattle that causes a spongy degeneration of the brain and spinal cord. BSE has a long incubation period, about 2.5 to 8 years, usually affecting adult cattle at a peak age onset of four to five years, all breeds being equally susceptible. BSE is caused by a misfolded protein—a prion.[1] In the United Kingdom, the country worst affected by an epidemic in 1986-98, more than 180,000 cattle were infected and 4.4 million slaughtered during the eradication program.[2]
The disease may be most easily transmitted to human beings by eating food contaminated with the brain, spinal cord or digestive tract of infected carcasses.[3] However, the infectious agent, although most highly concentrated in nervous tissue, can be found in virtually all tissues throughout the body, including blood.[4] In humans, it is known as new variant Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease (vCJD or nvCJD), and by June 2014 it had killed 177 people in the United Kingdom, and 52 elsewhere.[5] Between 460,000 and 482,000 BSE-infected animals had entered the human food chain before controls on high-risk offal were introduced in 1989.[6][7]
A British and Irish inquiry into BSE concluded the epizootic was caused by cattle, which are normally herbivores, being fed the remains of other cattle in the form of meat and bone meal (MBM), which caused the infectious agent to spread.[8][9] The cause of BSE may be from the contamination of MBM from sheep with scrapie that were processed in the same slaughterhouse. The epidemic was probably accelerated by the recycling of infected bovine tissues prior to the recognition of BSE.[10] The origin of the disease itself remains unknown. The infectious agent is distinctive for the high temperatures at which it remains viable, over 600 °C (about 1100 °F).[11] This contributed to the spread of the disease in the United Kingdom, which had reduced the temperatures used during its rendering process.[8] Another contributory factor was the feeding of infected protein supplements to very young calves.[8][12]

Source: Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. “Bovine spongiform encephalopathy”. URL: http://darkblackdesires.proboards.com/

LEVIATHAN 007

Leviathan Tape 003

Date: Unknown, 1995

Location: Concord, Connecticut

TRANSCRIPT START

I remember … we were in the library, Donna and I... we were doing some project for our history class or something. Anyway, there's a loud pop... and, well, the chem lab is right next to the lab so we just figured that... maYYBe it was chem, right? But t hen this kid... bobbie... he comes in a ND STARTS SCREAMING BL OOODY MURder. So we realize something is really wrong. Me and DONa...

…

…

…

“Are you okay?” and I said yeah. It was... a close call. I've never experienced FEAR or anything like that in my life. It was scary. But I'm glad both me and _____ made it out alive.

LEVIATHAN 006

Brendan twittled his thumbs on a boardwalk in Matley. He had grown to love the city, though he had only been there for a short time. Slowly something crept into Brendans mind. Like a virus. What was it? Memories of the old place. Why did Brendan remember? He really shouldn't have. His pace sped up. What about the cows? He stopped. Turned away. On the beach was two kids. It was 1 am. They were brothers. He went up to the kids and asked for their parents. The kids didn't respond. The ocean looked like it was turning orange. The kids still didn't look, so Brendan left. Outside it was raining cats and dogs. And I was feeling mighty blue. But I carried on.

LEVIATHAN 005

Leviathan Tape 002

Date: Unknown

Location: Unknown

Did you hear?>

What?

Casey lost her dog yesterday.

Oh really?

Tragic.

Huh?

The dog.

Oh yeah?

It got lost.

Where?

The park?

How'd she lose her dog in the park?

It got lost.

Where?

The Park.

Ah.

She's having nosebleeds again.

Did you tell her?

Where?

The park.

Did you tell her?

Yeah I did.

What did she say.

She's having nosebleeds again.

What did she say?

She couldn't reply. Nothing she said made any sense.

Huh.

Where is the dog?

The park.

Well you better go catch it.

I will.

Bye.

Bye.

LEVIATHAN 000

Authors Prefface

November 3rd, 1954

ARTHUR HALEY, UNIVERSITY OF NW MECIXOC

What defines an author best work? Is it the labor put into it? Is it something else?

What defines best work? What defines cleaniless in writing, in the like? These aure the questions we will anser in this workshop.

Leviathan is primarily a horror piece. It does not resemble any act of truthfulness or reality. In fact, Leviathan is very well the opposite. Leviathan is a vessel – a vessel in which a strict non fact is carried out and pushed into a sea of very real items. Leviathan don't make sense – you make sense of Leviathan. Leviathan smells fear. Don't feel fear. Leviathan is not a horror piece. All is well. 9 22

LEVIATHAN 004

Taaaaaape

UNKOWN

TRANSCEIPT STAERRRRT

BDVFESYGDZAEYRYGHREG

FYCJ

DFUCFK

FUCK

true leviathan end of times

dot kknow why I keep

stop

frantic

not good

okay

yeah,

I remember

was it donna?

Yea.

Okay.

Talk to you later.

Bye.

LEVIATHAN 003

Leviathan Tape 045
Date: Unknown
Location: Unknown

TRANSCRIPT START

Hello, is anyone there?

No, wait! Please don't go.

It's really lonely here.

I don't have anyone to talk to anymore.

Just stay with me for at least a little bit. Please?

What's your name?

My names Ryan.

I'm 8.

How old are you?

…

…

…

Hello?

Are you still there?

Please don't go.

Please.

[inaudible]

LEVIATHAN 002

I was in Michigan for a Bio study trip in 1999. I can't really recall what the study was, something with the gestation of certain breeds of sheep on a farm? Anyway, the owner of the farm that we were studying at came to meet with us – he was a very kind man. He decided to bring us on a tour around the farm, to get our bearings... and I remember there was one thing he said that I kept with me beyond even the study we were conducting.

We were out in the fields where the cows roamed, and he told us that, long ago, farmers found a certain pattern among these animals. They found that each one of them had a partner... but it wasn't a sexual partner, it was separate from them. An entirely different cow. The two partners would eat together, sleep together, mimic each others quirks, et cetera... the farmers found that the cows made friends. Not multiple friends though, just one. A partner that they would spend the rest of their time on this Earth with.

And that was interesting to me, because it's not really a normal thing among animals to make friends. And when they do, you'd expect some, I don't know – some smart animal to do it, like a monkey or a dolphin. Not a cow. You see, friendship is a fairly abstract thought – a desire to copulate is natural among all living things, because it continues the species. It strengthens the big picture. But friendship – there's no big picture to that. It's really a singular event, tied to the lifetimes of only two members of a species. There's no biological, evolutionary reason to keep friends – we just do.

However, those same farmers also discovered another thing. They found that when they slaughtered one of the cows, its partner would completely break down. It would stop eating, spin in circles for hours, try to sleep for exorbitant amounts of time – some cows even attempted to eat their own fecal matter, or drive their heads into a wall over and over and over again...

At first, the farmers thought that the cows had been suffering from some sort of parasitic infection, but found no traces of any such thing. Soon, however, they found it was something else – the cows were trying to kill themselves. And now, this was really interesting. Because unlike friendship, which is completely benign to evolutionary process, suicide actually impedes it. Suicide is a completely emotional construct – and it was crazy, because at the time everyone thought that only humans could consider such an abstract idea. And yet cows – cows, of all things – could feel this way. And that's when psychologists started thinking, well, maybe its not that suicide is an abstract concept, per say, but rather the connection between the feeling of either having someone to relate to, or being completely alone.

Every since that discovery, nearly all farms have universally adopted killing both partners at the same time, so neither cow has these symptoms. Whether this was out of sympathy or that a mad cow makes bad beef, no one really knows.

LEVIATHAN 001

Leviathan Tape 001
Date: Unknown
Location: New York, United States

Transcript:

I think the first episode was about... mid to late October of that year. It was early in the morning, and I was bringing Chloe out on a walk – we always go out on walks around that time, we go to the park. We'll stay for about an hour – Chloe would play with the other dogs and I would sit reading a book. But by the time I got there things... just felt weird. I was really lightheaded, so I let Chloe run off while I made my way to the bench. My eyelids got heavier and heavier, and... really the last thing I heard was Chloe barking.

...About two hours had passed, I think, until I was woken up by a concerned policeman. He woke me up saying, something like, “Ma'am, I noticed you've been sleeping on this bench for awhile and I thought something might be wrong. Is anything wrong?” And I told him the truth, told him I couldn't remember. So he drove me down to the hospital... the doctors did some tests, and they couldn't really figure out what was wrong with me. They decided to set an appointment with a specialist. And yet, as I walked out of the hospital, a question began to creep its way into my head... where was Chloe?
 

81st Avenue

The residents of 81^st avenue were, in lack of a better word, befuddled on the morning of August 24^th. It was only around 5 when the sirens first roared to life, and although most were already up, they had only just begun to prepare their morning routine.

One by one the skeptical folk opened their doors and windows to see what was going on, and upon learning the truth contorted their faces in horror.

For there, where some knew the Harrison's lived, was a line of 3 tactical SWAT vans. And slowly, those vans released people, men and women who wore the SWAT badge and covered themselves in ballistic armor.

But something wasn't right, for Lars Mikelsen, who lived directly across from the Harrison's, knew that the Harrison household consisted of an elderly couple and occasionally a 6 year old grandson. So, he questioned to himself, why were they there?

The answer came to him in the form of three body bags.

To the others, the bags came to a more simple yet all the same horrifying conclusion. Once the bags were safely carried out from the house by a group of men in hazmat suits, the brute force entered. Then, silence.

By this point the entire street had at least one member of each household out, surveying the house from however far away and keeping quiet. A few had tried to get close to ask what was happening, only to be turned around.

Finally, the door opened.

The subsequent rush was too great for anyone to actually get a good glimpse of what happened, but immediately people were ordered to be evacuated. As people left with what little they could carry, a series of various government vehicles rolled by, consisting of Homeland Security, DEA, CDC, and many more.

Those who remember the disintegration of 81^st avenue, in which many do not, have no idea exactly what passed through that door. There was one who did claim to see it, however; a man named Lars Mikelsen. In a local newspaper interview on the incident some 5 years after it happened, Lars claims he saw only one man come out of the home, covered in a shiny, black sludge.

Mikelsen passed away 7 days later.


---

Twitter: @CodexofAegis
Facebook: facebook.com/CodexofAegis 

Oops! Or why the Compilation isn't coming out today but on the 28th

I have a theory -- a theory that every time you make the next step in something, it's always harder than you expect it to be. To be fair, I made a lot of mistakes in trying to publish the CoA Compilation -- I looked over a lot of things. And yet, I learned a lot.

 Before I get too far into this, I want to assure you that the dream is not dead. On Sunday (2/28/15 for those reading at a later time) the CoA Compilation I will be up on the store page for the fine price of free. Yes, I know, it's still like 4 days after the 24th date that all the banners say -- but in 4 days people just coming in won't be able to tell either way which is good enough for me. Besides, I changed my banner on so many sites I don't even know if I could find all of them to fix it.

Anyway, now that the actual future of the Compilation is safe (it's still technically published, right?) let's go on to explain what I fucked up on in publishing the comp (which it will be called from here on out since I'm copying this from writing and I don't want to type a lot). The major reason I messed up was by not scouting out CreateSpace (the "publisher") beforehand. I had honestly thought the system was just put through the pdf, put through the cover, type up a title and description, and set a price and publish it on Amazon as a Kindle exclusive (no manufacturing costs!) but boy was I wrong. First of all, I should have known that I'd need to fill out a tax form -- I was close to doing it for monetizing for "The Tower" on Kongregate -- but for some reason the thought hadn't crossed my mind. In case you didn't already know, I'm a highschooler with no money, and so I'm not yet at the level of freedom to sit down and do this instantly. Could I have done it? Of course. That's why this wasn't that big of an issue.

The big issue was with licensing. The free license for CreateSpace declares that you can not distribute the contents of the book anywhere but the Amazon and CreateSpace markets. This is an obvious problem since the stories themselves are already on the blog, so legally I can't choose this option. On the other hand, there is a choice to create a universal ISBN in which you own the contents and are free to distribute them. This, however, costs $99 -- fairly reasonable and affordable for what it offers, but not necessarily accessible to a student like me. I could easily get the money to do this, but it would take some time -- and that time would be long after the intended release date. And so, that is why I've decided to release it for free until I either get the money or find some other way to set up a payment system for it.

And then there's the last few errors, which were actually among the ones I had predicted -- the formatting fucking up after the odt to pdf conversion. Now, I swear to the holy man  that I had a genuine ass pdf lined up for the release date and its formatting was golden, but come the day I couldn't find it so in a rush I put it through another converter which destroyed the formatting (though admittedly did give it a nice font). Not much of an issue here, since I can just convert it back to pdf using a working converter (assuming that actually happened and wasn't just a fever dream). Also CreateSpace mentioned something about trimming, but maybe that's just for physical copies? (as you can tell I put a lot of research into this).

And so, the compilation book is delayed. Again. But only by like 4 days instead of 4 months. Also its free and shorts come out again in early March. Everybody wins?


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Twitter: @CodexofAegis
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Routine

Lieutenant Chris Sanders of Dalton, California had gotten used to his life at his new permanent home in Moonbase Alpha. After every expeditionary unit left, he would clean after them, shoot all of their trash and other bodily fluids out into space, and reset the computers for the next operation. After he does that, he checks in with his supervisor (the head of the NASA moon operation), checks the oxygen levels, gets in his suit and checks the outside area for any damage, checks inside for any internal damage, and checks the different long term experiments on the base. From a personal standpoint, every morning he gets up, makes some coffee and other breakfast essentials via the food given to him via shipments (Moonbase Alpha is in a simulated gravity environment, so some foods that would otherwise not be possible to eat in zero gravity environments now are), puts his stuff away, brushes his teeth, takes a shower, checks his laptop for the latest earth news, and exercises, before starting with his daily work schedule.

That being said, it's pretty easy to say Sanders routine is about the same as any of us on Earth.

The only difference being that Sander broke into a cold sweat when he heard a knock on the entry door.


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Twitter: @CodexofAegis
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Sally, or an adventure in Genetics

When the Genetics research and popularity was at its peak, many people tried to investigate how things would be if the genetics of a being were changed in order to form something better than it would've been previously. While many theories and debates on this subject were put into play, no actual experiments were recorded.

That is, except one by a private researching company in Steubenville.

The story of Sally is one not for the faint of heart, so I'd like to set up this warning before I go any farther in – the following content is real, and meant to be learned from. Now, let's begin.

The project was lead by two geneticists by the names of Dr. Rosendenberg and Dr. Gleiner. The hypothesis was that, if specific DNA strands were spliced and reshaped to hold certain characteristics, it would create a being with these characteristics.

The project was originally set on being done on a baby sheep until an unknown donor gave the scientists a baby no more than 2 months old. Normally they would have to reject this, but seeing as it was already considered a black experiment, they decided to go along ahead.

The operation was complex, to say the least. First they needed a sample of the original DNA, which they received via a blood sample. Next, the scientists went hard at work changing its DNA. I'm not going to go too far into this segment, but the operation took around 6 months to complete even with the massive amounts of scientists working on it.

After the DNA was finally finished it was treated to the baby via a gas in an enclosed space. The scientists watched steadily from monitors, trying to find out any change they could see. Anyone who went in went with a gas mask to prevent them from consuming it, and overall all of the scientists were hassled by their colleagues for partaking in what many called a sickening experiment. In result of this many of the scientists left, but the few that believed they were genuinely doing something right continued. Over time the changes became apparent, which made the scientists baffled.

The changes weren't supposed to be apparent, especially this early on. The DNA changes mainly consisted of a different, more agile and gifted brain, rather than any physical changes. But regardless Sally (as the subject was now known) began growing what seemed to be tumors throughout her body.

To test to see if these were really tumors, the scientists quickly removed her from the room and gave an MRI. The readings solidified their fears.

They weren't tumors, but bones and muscles.

They weren't creating a perfect human; they were creating something different entirely.

Dr.Rosendenberg, much to Gleiner's dismay, decided to end the project by putting away Sally's misery with a lethal injection. The two fought about this for some time until finally Gleiner decided it was the best idea.

Rosendenberg, with a syringe in hand and gas mask on his face, entered the room. By this point Sally had grown an extra limb entirely, and it was clear she was in pain.

As Rosendenberg readied the injection, he heard sound coming from the baby's lips.

“Laarka... kjgoo... nee”

It was gibberish, but still he listened in.

“Ga... gahu... klhork”

The baby was trying to say something, he was assured of it in his mind. He loomed over it with the injection ready, waiting for it to say its final words.

“Jhka... da... da....”

The last one, an actual word, laid heavy on Rosendenberg's chest. Carefully he injected Sally with the serum, and after a few convulsions, fell to the ground dead.

Rosendenberg killed himself only a few days later by jumping off the balcony of his Steubenville house. His colleague, Gleiner, who was not aware of Sally's last moments, was shunned for the remainder of his life by the science community. Needless to say, there was one dire lesson taught in the Sally experiment.

Don't play god. It isn't worth it.


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Twitter: @CodexofAegis
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The Kerland House

For years atop that hill sat the Kerland House.


 It was made longer ago than anyone can remember, but official town records dates the age of the Kerland House at somewhere between the 1840s-1870s, made by the architect John H. Kerland for which it takes its name. Back in its day it was a fairly good looking mansion – a lovely 3 story wooden house with a fireplace, marble counter-tops, and acres of fields. However at this time in writing the house has almost completely rotted down; marble destroyed, fields dead, and the only thing left of a fireplace is a few rocks that caved in the entrance of the chimney. Based on what I know about the Kerland House, this is its history.

Shortly after John H. Kerland had constructed the plans for the house he came to love a short-skirted damsel by the name of Madeline Mourtney. Now not much came out of this relationship and it ended only a few weeks before the Kerland House was finished in its construction, but I bring it up now because it will play an important part later in the story.

When the house was finally finished people looked up to it in awe, yet the fact that the house was so well made lead to it being highly expensive, and the fact that it was highly expensive lead to the fact that the only person in the town who could even afford living it in was Mr.Kerland himself. Kerland bought the house, and still in a depression because of his failed relationship with Madeline he fell into a state of suicidal thoughts until he met another girl by the name of Heather Chekenspiel. Heather was an aspiring architect herself and came to the town to see Kerland's work. After she found he was living in the house, she came by and they talked a great deal. Things lead to other things and eventually the two got married.

There was a time of great peace and prosperity in the Kerland house until Madeline came back to the town to see how things went with Mr. Kerland. Naturally, when she found Kerland married to Chekenspiel she was enraged, and only a few days after finding out broke into the mansion, stabbed both members of the house to death before jumping off the third floor balcony to her demise.

This dark tale made many draw away from the house up until 1906, when the Mitchell-Ryan Real Estate group saw great promise in the building. Through a set of lies and exaggerations they were finally able to sell the house to the McNamara family, consisting of husband and wife Jordan and Michelle McNamara and their children, Samantha and Harrison.

Many of the citizens in town attempted to warn the McNamara's of what the Mitchell-Ryan group refused to tell them, yet both Jordan and Michelle were firm they wished to stay in the house due to its still magnificent condition; which is why it was morbidly ironic when the 6 year old Harrison McNamara found a stash of matches and ended up causing the house to burn to its foundations. No one of the McNamara family survived.

The house fell back into obscurity during the first world war and the depression, with no one even giving it a second glance until WWII when the state considered tearing the house apart for the war effort. The local government made a stand, still seeing the house as an important part of an otherwise dull town history, and eventually the locals won and the house was converted into some sort of state monument.

That is, until it fell into obscurity yet again and reached its final owner in 1978. This is where things got interesting.

Gordon Mercer was a writer and poet who got most of his money through inheritance. He saw the house's dark history and instead of making it a reason not to buy it he saw it as a source of inspiration and showed his intentions on buying the house. The state gladly accepted, as the house was rarely cared for and all it seemed to do was cost money that could be saved. And so on March 12^th of the year previously mentioned Mercer acquired the Kerland House for a mere $3,000 (remember that the house still had significant burn damage, as well as plenty of vandalism from the era between the 1910s to the 1940s).

A short while after buying it, Mercer moved into the house, and at that point was when he spent most of his time either writing or working on the house itself. Not much is known past this point except the fact that the house was in one of its finest conditions since the McNamara fire. It was only 6 months after moving in however, that Mercer ended up hiring a therapist.

Mercer complained about hearing various things inside the house. At first it was small things, like the creaking and croaking of the house – yet as time grew on Mercer began to hear cries of children. The psychologist of course diagnosed him as hallucinating, possibly because of a placebo formed from knowing the houses history.

Despite the therapists attempt at helping though, Mercer continued to hear the noises until it got to the point where he simply couldn't stand it. He could no longer write because of the constant sounds he continued to hear. Eventually one session Mercer came in with cut up arms to which the psychologist found incredibly worrying and asked for a police team to come to the house later that night. Yet by the time they got there, it was simply too late; police dogs found Mercer's body hanging off the same balcony that Madeline had jumped off almost a century before.

After Mercer's death, no one bothered even coming close to the house. A few “ghost-hunt” teams had come to the house in hopes of filming something television worthy, but they found nothing and due to the houses decaying condition thought it not even worth faking anything.

So, are there ghosts in the Kerland House, or did Gordon Mercer just go mad? The people in this town don't really think about the house too much, but I can say for one thing that I don't believe in ghosts.


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Twitter: @CodexofAegis
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