The Sorcerer in the Tower (Fiction)

Lukas Allen

8. Vala

The trail in the forest started by circling around a faerie ring, mushroom caps in a circle. The trail just looped around the thing, like it was some sort of sacred site. I had an urge to jump into the middle of the mushrooms, but I withheld that urge in favor of caution. Stories, even the most fantastical, always have a chance to have some truth in them somewhere.

I asked Benjamin about some of these stories of these fabled woods, and he told me tales he grew up on, about the witch that eats children, ever moving in an enchanted house, about the brownies who came out of the forest disguised at cats, to bring misfortune to those who take them in, about the faeries and their Fae Court, judicially governing the many fantastical creatures of their hidden world. “It’s only stories, though.” Benjamin said, “The last cat I knew wasn’t such a bearer of bad luck. Actually kept the mice out of the barn usually.”

When he told me about the dopplers who confuse travelers by being other travelers in their party either before or behind them, I told him to stay beside me always, lest we fall to some dopplerish trick. He consented, even though I could tell he only thought it a silly superstition.

The dark held little tricks of the mind to it, especially in such a… stifling place. The dense woods felt musty, like it had been a long time since fresh air traveled through it. I heard a scream in the woods, but Benjamin said it was only a nocturnal warbler, native to the area. I had never heard this bird before, but I had heard screaming before, so it alerted my senses to danger in the night.

After I heard a few more of these screaming nocturnal warblers, I could recognize the sound in its complexity. It was low at first, then loud and high, then low again. A normal scream wouldn’t usually have that specific, repeating pitch range.

I saw one of these warblers with my well attuned sight in the night. Its eyes shone back at me, like my own. Then it flew off, to hunt or scream or whatever it was used to.

Benjamin found a hollowed out log by the path, and asked me if this was adequate shelter for the day. I inspected it, found it dark and cozy, and said yes it would do-

Then all of a sudden it was day.

I instinctively flinched and raised my arm to shield myself from the sun that was suddenly in the noon sky, but I blinked, blinked some more, and then stared up at the sun.

It was not burning me. It wasn’t even blinding me, and I could stare into its radiance forever more if I wished it. I distinctly knew something was not right here, and I looked around for Benjamin, but found myself alone.

I peeked around the giant hollowed out log. I called out, becoming increasingly worried for my charge. “Benjamin! BENJAMIN!!”

Somehow, I knew I had to be more worried for myself at the current moment.

The path seemed hazy in my mind. I tried following it for a while, but it looped and turned and changed ever so slightly, so that I was back at the hollowed out log once more. I stared at this hollowed out log, and thought maybe it wanted me to travel the less well traversed road.

I looked at the sun, and saw it was trying to set in the west. I gave up searching, and followed that blasted thing, going off the path towards the sun’s rays.

It was strangely very peaceful, as I kept walking for an indeterminate amount of time. I couldn’t really tell if I had been walking this nature forever, or just for a brief minute. The sun, eternally, was setting for me.

I saw deer, some with three antlers and others with an extra eye, watching me from the side of my path, which was wherever my feet were moving currently. I smelled strange, nostalgic smelling smells, of cherry pies, of the bustle of a well traversed road, of a lover’s scent eternally locked in my mind, but freed for just a small minute. My tears watered up a bit instinctively, as the smell passed, and my memories flitted away from such times.

He was a good knight. A dutiful man. And he always had a joke in his throat, bad, horrible, the worst jokes ever heard, that always made me laugh somehow.

I heard the sound of a stream, and I followed that sound. The little trickling gave me a sense of direction, in a way. I knew just as the stream passes, so must I, through this infernal woods. This did not seem like a demon’s tricks, however, or maybe was the most well inclined demon’s to ever exist.

I saw a strange… vehicle? Some sort of… truck. A truck? What is a truck? How do I know what a truck is, and moreover, what is a truck?

Still. A truck was parked by the stream, old and rusty red, with some sort of music coming out of it from some orifice. There was an old woman sitting in one of the seats, bouncing her head to the music’s beats.

She waved at me, then ashed one of those new fangled cigarettes out the window. She bounced her head a few more times to the music, then it ended, and she got out of the truck to meet me.

I responded to the wave, and gave a little wave of my own.

She said, “That song is one of my favorites. What’s your favorite song, missie?”

“I don’t know. I suppose one of the ones by the bard Fangelico? His music was popular in a good time of my life.”

“Ah yes… Nostalgia. I could dote on the nostalgic feeling of nostalgia forever…” she said, “I used to feel it so much, now the feeling is just… nostalgic.”

“…Who are you?”

“You’ve never heard of the witch in the moving house? Well, it’s not really a house, more just my old truck.”

“…They… I mean, Benjamin, says you eat children lost in the woods?”

“HAHA! I used to love a good joke. I told that joke once to some snot nosed kid, and immediately he thinks he’s some sort of hero, outwitting the nasty old witch trying to eat him… HAHA! I should’ve eaten that one, that is for sure.”

“…Why am I here? Where am I?”

“You may yet be here. I don’t know. Maybe trucks, and planes, and radios with your favorite songs will be something you too will experience… But I don’t know.”

She smiled at me, took out another cigarette, and lit it with some sort of small lighting machine in her hand.

I sat down. I just sat down in the middle of this strange woman’s company, and tried to wrap my head around all of it. The truck started playing another new song, and she said, “Oh! I love that one, too! I’ll see you around, missie! Don’t get lost in the woods too often! There’s not so many nice people like me around, ya hear! Like that no good sorcerer… Stay far away from him, ya hear!”

“…But wait! Can you help me? Can you help me bring order to my country, if not the world? Please!”

“Naw, naw, I don’t think so!” she said, getting back into the truck, “That one’s on you! I don’t have time to help every lost little lady in the woods, and moreover I shouldn’t lest I want to get a reputation!” She started up her truck, and started driving past me. She shouted out the window, “Tell that sorcerer, if you see him, to go stuff himself one more time! Things are meant to change, and good on them for doing so! See ya!”

She drove away, down the side of the stream, and I saw a flitting image past me, that of a little warbler landing on the tree in front of me, staring me in the eyes, and then screaming.

9. Benjamin

This sorcerer actually seemed like an alright bloke. He led me out of the forest in the night to his tower, and seemed very well mannered. He sniffled a bit before he spoke.

I then saw Vala come out of the woods to the tower, looking very… mystified? She seemed unsure of even where her own feet were at the moment. I called out to her, and she gave me a half hearted wave back. I was worried when she vanished on the path. They don’t tell you in that doppler story that you’ve gotta have peripheral vision like a hawk to make sure they don’t get snatched away from you.

I was almost more worried for myself than for Vala, but the sorcerer found me with some sort of enchanted lamp, that seemed to be comprised of lightning bugs in a big jar wrapped in string and dangled on the edge of a big stick. He told me it was very dangerous in the night, and that all sorts of nasty things in the woods will prey on the unsuspecting traveler. Even a vampire was no match for their wiles, he said, and that I was very lucky he found me so soon.

He told me he knew of every traveler in the woods, thanks to his magic, and that the only ones unrevealed to him were the natural denizens of the woods, who evaded magic for all time and then some. He was getting into the story of a wicked witch who hunted anyone foolish enough to stray from the path, but Vala just said, “Go stuff yourself?”

“Hm? What’s that now, missie?” the sorcerer asked.

“Go stuff yourself. That’s what she wanted me to say to you.”

He became red faced, and scowled, saying, “She can stuff herself too!! Go tell her that! That’s right, Margaret, stuff yourself, since you’re so good at it!!”

He seemed to be shouting out to the woods at the end there. I was confused, but Vala shook her head, like shaking off disorientation, and said, “You are Menishine Marlo, right? I came to ask for aid.”

The wizard slowly regained his composure, sniffled, and said, “That I am. But it is nearly dawn, and you should come inside before the sun’s rays catch you.”

“Yeah… the sun…” Vala said, looking up at the sky for something.

The sorcerer knocked three and a half times on his giant, oak doors of his impenetrable stone tower, and the doors opened up. He walked through the large opening, and waved us in behind him.

“The family crypt is down the hall to your left. I have a bed, too, but I figure you vampires like something nice and completely dark, and not prone to the sound of explosions and my other work.” the sorcerer said to Vala.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mister Marlo.” Vala said, “I will be sleeping until the evening… Do as you like, Benjamin.” She then walked down the hall, and then walked down the stairs to the crypt.

I looked to where Vala had gone down the steps, the sound of her footsteps getting further, further, and further away from me. I looked to the sorcerer, he sniffled, and said, “Well, want a beer?”

“…You have beer?” I asked.

“Well, it’s not really ‘the good stuff,’ but it’s good enough stuff for present company. I suspect, based on your shabby clothes and peasant looking demeanor, that you haven’t had a beer in a long, long time.” the sorcerer said.

“…I haven’t. I was the only one left from my village, and didn’t travel far from necessities.”

“Necessities? What’s more necessary than beer? Agh, I suspect you mean water, or your garden or something. Here, here, follow me.”

We walked up the long steps upward, circling around the tower. I had always dreamed of having a tower or something like this, as a kid and such fantasies seemed plausible. I could go up my safe tower, and look out and see it all…

We got to the balcony of his tower, and I gasped as I looked out… and saw it all.

The sun was peeking over the horizon, and everything was so beautiful. The dense forest canopy was all that could be seen mostly, but far, far away I saw the forest part, leading to lands I didn’t know, as that sun shone down on it all.

The sorcerer opened up a chilled box, magically cold by the look of it, and took out two bottles. He uncorked the bottles, and gave one to me. I sniffed at it for a second, and then slowly sipped at the beer.

Wow. Now that was a good taste. It tasted very hearty, a golden ale in my hand, that was probably more alcoholic than any beer I had ever had, based on the taste. It tasted wonderful, and the sorcerer sat on a low chair on the balcony, and bid me to sit on the chair beside him.

I sat, sipping at the cool beer some more, and the sorcerer said, “So. Tell me it all. You came for my help, and I am usually one to give it. Reasonable requests only, please. I do not have the power to blot out the sun or raise the dead… At least I can’t raise the dead and have them still be the same person they once were.”

“…You can raise the dead?”

“Reasonable requests, please! If I raised your dead grandmother once more she’d probably bite my face off, and not be one to sit you on her knee and tell you fairy tales like she once did.”

“…Well, Vala wanted to ask you for help to reunite the country. Said you might have some sort of insight for her.”

“But what do you want, man? Is it truly to be a vampire’s thrall? I came out here to the family tower to get away from all of that stuff. Nothing I dislike more than someone telling me what to do, and those vampires were pushy enough more than often. And the condescension! Just because they have immortal life and pray once in a while they think they’re better than me, or even the common man who grovels at their feet.”

“I’m not sure, then. I really wanted some purpose, any that I could for the remainder of my life, so vowed myself to Vala in servitude. I think, if anyone has the power to make things good again like they once were, it could be her.”

“Oh yes… The good old days. I too wish for things just to stay put every once in a while, and not change into something unseemly. Change… Things always change! It’s very irksome.”

He gulped down a large portion of beer. I wouldn’t even think of doing something like that, gulping down this delectable alcoholic nectar. I simply sipped, and enjoyed each taste.

“But yeah… Things change. I liked when I wasn’t so old and frail, and could beat those witches like Margaret at their own game. But, I do always like to study some more… I have many books, in a lower room of the tower, and I think if I could just read for a while in peace I will be happy enough. But look at me! I picked up a book once, and now a hundred or so books later, I’m old! Reading isn’t a worthwhile hobby for those who want to stay young.”

“I think I have a request, if it’s reasonable. I… I daren’t say it, in case the truth is too horrible to fathom. But… I would like to know where my family went.”

“You sure you wouldn’t like something like a cure for lycanthropy? Very valuable, a cure for lycanthropy. I was a werewolf too, once, but I muscled up, found a cure, and now don’t need to shave as much as when I would grow hair in all sorts of gruesome places.”

He twiddled his long beard in his fingers, and sniffled.

“No,” I said, “I think I would like to know if they are alive at least, if you can’t actually find them for me.”

He reached for something in his pocket, and took out a small charm necklace made of bones. He said, “Was my old da’s necklace. He was always one to keep checks on relatives, for some ungodly reason, and was able to find me and bequeath me his tower, even though at the time I wanted nothing to do with him or this place. Just listen to it. It will help you find a relative, no matter how far removed. Take it. I always have more from my other relatives… Like my aunt. Can’t get her to shut up, sometimes, and she likes to howl from her resting place in the crypt at my inability to father a son…”

“…Thank you, very much.” I said, and pocketed the necklace he gave me. “I just… listen to it?”

“Just listen to it! It’ll speak in your dreams, or your imaginations sometime. Just listen to it, and if you’ve got a relative somewhere, it’ll find them for you. I… er, I mean to say is… I too have something I would like to request, since you’re taking my da’s necklace and all…”

“Anything. This is a saintly gift, and any request I can grant is yours to command.”

“I… er… I have a daughter… And I’d just like… if someone told her that the tower is still here for her. She’s somewhere, doing something I suppose. I think she wanted to compose music, last I saw her. If you could find her as well, with the aid of that necklace, I would be most grateful. Just let her know she has a father who wants to give up this tower to a worthy descendant, is all.”

I smiled, and said, “It will be done.”

The Fall of the Vampire Aristocracy (Fiction)

Lukas Allen

Benjamin

In the days of the old vampire aristocracy, the country wasn’t lawless. The vampires were our saviors and masters. They liberated us from a life of anarchy, wolves at the door eager to break in. We gave them our blood too, as they required only a partial sum of taxes.

Now, at the end of an era, we have no rule or order. We yearn for the creatures of the dark we do know, rather than the ones we don’t.

The vampires met with angels and gods, they were our bridge to the world above, us deep in the dingy darkness of a back alley, of a hovel on the edge of poverty, of a farmer’s fields with no yields. They were holy to us, and they bargained agreeable afterlife terms for our support. We would give them our life, for life eternal. Some got this quite literally, others as a surefire ticket to Heaven.

Now the aristocracy is shattered. Some vampires are fiends to us, yet some still hold onto their humanity amidst immortality. In my one room abode one sits still, drinking a last bit of luxury I could afford, tea, a rare treat saved for a special occasion or good company. I had nought thoughts for special occasions these days, and she seemed like well enough company.

She sipped slowly on the lukewarm tea, with a facetious smile and eyes that have seen it all, a sort of mirth in them despite this dark, moonless night. She only bared her fangs in laughter, as we told stories of our lives. I told her about a wife who wanted to change it all, about a shy daughter who turned up missing, about a son who I had buried. They were all gone, like my parents, and all that remained were wormy thoughts of paranoia and concern for the few who I believed were alive, but had no proof of it. The stories I kept of them were my most prized possessions.

The vampire, known as Vala, once Lady Vala the Valorous, thanked me for allowing her rest in the previous day. She could’ve taken this rest by force if she felt the whim to, but I kept hospitality as a rule in my household. The stranger in need was a friend indeed.

She dressed in black alike to her long, black hair, a black dress concealed by a long, black cloak. Her skin was ever deathly pale, with bright red lips that looked like she had just been sipping on ambrosial sangria, or perhaps a glass of warm blood.

I told her about the days of the war, back in the times of the aristocracy. I was a younger man then. I told her about the endless days of fighting the opposing Wuftlaffe, a militaristic division of a country of barbarians, each day Hell on Earth, each night strangely peaceful, being protected by our vampiric masters.

We had technology, back in the days of the vampire aristocracy. Steam inventions roamed the streets, light scattered the alleys from lamps, and a type of weapon, known as “firearms,” were being issued to the military. Now it is all gone, the technology looted and scrapped, the knowledge of so forsaken. My only weapon now was an old, dull sword, one I used in the war and which has served me well. It is more useful as a bludgeoning weapon these days, and I can’t remember when I last sharpened it. Must’ve been back in the rule of the military.

I use the sword mainly for big rats, which haunt the country’s decay like specters. Otherwise, there was a band of hellhounds scouting my hut once, and after a quick bludgeon with the sword, the rest of the pack thought me too troublesome to pursue as prey.

Vala sat by the moonless window tonight, the day before in the dark corner where my bed occupied. She offered me a position under her, as a servant and protector.

I was at least moderately surprised to hear of such an offer. The fields were barren, the family gone, and I had been waiting to die on my own terms one of these days.

We sealed the deal with blood from my hand. It seemed my sword could still cut if it wished it. She licked off the blood from my gushing hand, and said she would always be able to recognize me now from my taste.

The night was young, moonless and dark, and the tea had been drunk. I left the hut after her, thinking there was nothing I needed from it besides my sword and a few meager provisions. I had biscuits that never seemed to go old, basically like some sort of edible rocks. Vala said she would provide for me where she could, and in turn I would keep her protected from the day and those who hunted during so. We went out into the forest, and I told her about the cave system where she could shelter from the morning.

This first night she surprised me with a full deer, a young doe. She slurped up the blood from the mortal wound she gave to its neck. She ripped off a leg from it like it was a broken plaything and gave it to me, and I feasted on meat that night for the first time in what seemed like years.

The fire was bright, and I cooked the leg of the doe on it, all the while Vala draining the rest of the carcass of blood.

I slept slightly, as Vala kept ever watch. It would be my turn to do the same for her near enough. Before the dawn poked its head over the horizon, I showed her to the cave system. She settled down in the darkness as still as the dead, and I kept watch from the shadows of the cave.

The Heroic Adventures of Frank

The Heroic Adventure of Frank is out now. I use the old cliche of going “into” the story to tell a tale of adventure and heroism, with the satire as thick as honey on oats. Follow the newly named Krod on his adventures through the video game world, to experience comedy, danger, and even love. The villain of the story, The Evil Dictator King, tries to bring it all to ruin, to command the entire world under his dark grasp. Only a hero has the power to stop him.

The Back Cover Blurb:

“The newest, coolest video game is out now! The Evil Kingdom threatens to conquer the world at the hands of its master, the Evil Dictator King, and only a brave hero can stop the forces of evil. Who will you be in this choice driven game of high stakes in the battle of good and evil?

Your character is completely yours to customize! Will you be a righteous cleric? A rascally rogue? A knowledgeable wizard? A swift ranger? Or perhaps a powerful berserker?

Throughout the game there are many diverse characters who all have their own motives. Cavort with town drunks, barter with goblins, befriend enemies or slay them mercilessly!

Travel glorious vistas, spelunk through dangerous tunnels, or even fly in the sky. The map is yours to discover as you explore the world!

Who will you be? How will you play? In this game of endless possibilities, the choice is yours!”

Frank looked at the poster of the video game, and his interest was piqued.

He admired the elven woman on the poster, and she seemed to be inviting him into this strange world.

Frank smiled, and decided a good video game would be fun to delve into.

He had no idea how deep he would delve.

Music of the Eyes

Lukas Allen

Writing is about enticing a mind into a certain structure, a free range mind into a comfortable abode, or a horrifying cage, or even somewhere the mind has never, ever seen before. Writing is about leading this mind down a path, whether or not the mind rambles down the path at their own pace or follows the directions completely and loyally. This pathway is sometimes followed by other minds as well, or even contains shades and wraiths of past, present, or future. Sometimes we, writers, have a certain agenda to propose to this mind, but sometimes we just want to walk down the road with them, and see the sights that we transcribe.

I personally write for myself above all others. Even if I dedicate a work to someone, or name a certain character after a friend or relative, I wouldn’t be writing if I did not enjoy the writing myself. In this nature I may never find a job for writing other than as an independent writer, but for me it’s purposeful and pursuable like this. I can’t even begin to describe how writing has changed my mental health for the better. It’s been a very long journey for me with writing, and the journey isn’t even close to being over, if I at least survive long enough to put just one more book out.

As a reader, stories take on different shapes and sounds that may or may not be something the reader has seen before. Sometimes when describing a room of a friend the room is instantly and vividly opened up to the reader. This location changes with the reader’s own experiences. It could look like Grandma’s house, or somewhere the reader has lived before, or perhaps it is a combination of places that only slightly represent what the reader has seen before, or perhaps wished to see before.

The voices of characters are silent, but we can hear them so clearly. These words I am writing right now have their own voice in your mind. Words are directly linked to voice, a transcription of sound. At least it is that way for people who can hear. I will never, ever know what someone who’s never heard a sound before hears when they read this, and I wonder if it is a truly magical experience of reading not of sound, but of form, shape, color and feeling. I will never know this, because my mind already attaches sounds to words.

Becoming a writer is easy. All one has to do is pick up the pen, type on the keyboard, and never stop. Same as reading, one just has to exercise that literary muscle in one’s head and keep on strengthening it, never stopping. Do not tie yourself down with words written, pages read, or some other limit, for I’ve learned as a writer these are all imaginary borders in one’s writing. I can reformat a page, change the book length and style, and the length will be changed as well. Usually when one only writes for length, they do not produce very good writing. The limits should be set only by one’s own endurance, whether they’ve written what they want to say or not, and not to fill time or space. There is a key purpose to every writing, and it is up to us, writers, readers, to produce that purpose and live in it. One can write a masterpiece novel if they only even write a sentence a day.

Now, every writing is seen differently, and that is why I find it important to find the meaning, as a writer, for myself first. What could be boring could be exhilarating for the next. What could be over the top could be exciting for others. What is mundane may not be for a different experiencer. Find the purpose to the work, even if it is only up to one’s own measure.

I will continue this work, at least as a vow to myself. Writing can help one cope with reality, horrible or great experiences, and allows one to mull over a thought, create villains that must be defeated, or even make friends that one wishes they had. I will continue, as I obsess about THE BOOK, no matter if I may never finish. It is a way I can substantiate my own dreams and desires, and finally… walk on the path of written words and feel the music of the eyes.

Muses and Monsters

Lukas Allen

Belief can clarify or obscure, as demons haunt the mind and muses dance across the page.

My own fictional demon has haunted me for a long time. I say “fictional” because of course it’s not real, even though I can think of it, hallucinate it, and write about it. It changes every time I do. This being, my own monster that possesses my footsteps is a being known as the Lich.

There are many “liches” in fiction. Adventure Time has a Lich of their own, there is the Lich King from World of Warcraft, and other slighter liches interspersed through fiction. My Lich was a drawing based around a Magic the Gathering card, “Phylactery Lich.” I was inspired from the art, and drew my own unholy visage during a study hall in high school. After I showed it to a friend beside me, he said that it looks like something a schizophrenic might draw.

And whaddaya know, I became an actual schizophrenic years later, with this ghostly Lich coming back for seconds. At first it started as an obsession. I kept on drawing it, and drawing it, and drawing it, trying to make it perfect. There was no reason to this, and could be seen as simple artistic inspiration. I started thinking of it, thinking what it actually could be. I stole a necklace from a mall, I have no idea why I was there, and when I ripped off the packaging, I accidentally cut myself. It was a necklace of a skull. This necklace exploded in my mind during a hallucinogenic experience, after I took a few Hawaiian baby woodrose seeds in a hallucinogen testing.

After that crazy trip of mine where I learned the truth and broke the window, the Lich continued, being drawings of mine and in my thoughts and mind. Far later, when I started hearing voices, one of the first few voices I heard was the Lich, usually paired with the Devil. The Lich was constantly changing its origin, being a dead serial killer in the basement, being EVIL incarnate, and always, always antagonistic towards me. He sometimes spoke in rhymes, sometimes was the monster entering the room in the dark, and was the symbol of my darkest experiences.

This Lich I wrote about in The Nameless Knight saga, my first books written. The Lich was a symbolic being of the voices I hear, and my characters and I fought against him in my fiction stories. In the end of the series I prevailed against the Lich, leaving him locked up and imprisoned, in a fairly nice place actually. I have since forgiven this demon of my mind, and he is a welcome companion now. He used to always be devouring my soul and taking over my mental imagery. I eventually released him from imprisonment, and he pops up again in some other stories, a very enigmatic figure with multiple agendas.

When I hallucinated the Lich and the Devil, they were very unpleasant together. That’s at least the minimum I can say about such experiences. I waged my own fictitious war against the Devil as well, and I can only say that now he is put far and away from me, where he can’t harm me or anyone. Of course, this being as a religious demon means that he is never gone for good. For every ten souls Christianity gains, there is at least one who falls to the Devil, no matter how they believe in him. He is obscured in lies and truth, and while some believe him harmless, others take very real fear of the Devil. I’d say it was a shame that he takes such reality in such a roundabout method, if I did not also fight my own battles with this Prince of Darkness. Coincidences make too much sense, the silence holds too much whispers, and the darkness is ever all consuming.

I’d classify it as a haunting, dealing with these creatures, if I was not now so wholly a skeptic. In spiritual terms it ranges from fascination, which is an unnatural interest in the spirit, to obsession, which is unwanted spiritual presences. As one who hallucinates I could fully rely on these terms and understand what they mean, but I also understand that I hallucinate because of an illness, and not specifically because of spirits.

I could even say I’ve been possessed, and been lucid of the experience. This event of possession happened as I hallucinated two other people in me, although strictly speaking they were telepathic connections and not spiritual. It’s all a roundabout of spiritism, which I prefer to label instead as artistic obsession, and an urge to understand whatever the hell is happening to me as I hallucinate on all fronts.

There are people who believe every word of the Bible be true, but do not believe in mental illness. They attach their own meanings with the help of religion, and blindly ignore psychiatric medicines and study. This is a tragedy as far as I’m concerned, where the beliefs of a dusty old book with many dusty old stories blinds progress. There are the flat Earthers, the people who believe the world is 6000 years old, and others who make up their own interpretations despite research explaining otherwise. It’s a shame, is what I’ll say.

I do know that belief is powerful. I’ve believed in evil incarnate, and evil incarnate appeared. When looking for something, something to hope for or something to fear, then eventually you will find it, no matter the interpretation. Belief is that powerful, and faith can be your best friend or your worst enemy, depending on what you believe.

Every one of my characters have been inspirations of something or other. The Nameless Knight happened to be inspired from a deceased family member, Yule Tidings a Christmas creation expanded upon for the people I care for, Mary Jane, a devillady romance of what I truly desired. These creations are my muses, as well as people I can count on no matter what, even though they are all fictional.

Belief can help or hurt, from muses of creation, to obsessions of demons, to religion grand and divine or humble and meek.

Dogma Review

Lukas Allen

My past homeroom teacher just loaned me a whole bunch of DVDs to watch. I just got my DVD player in the mail, since I needed one that hooked up to HDMI instead of the old red, white, and yellow cords. DVDs seem so old now, in a world where streaming is available at your fingers from handheld devices called phones. The age old practice of popping in a DVD (or VHS tape) and relaxing on the couch for cinematic entertainment has become obsolete. I grew up on DVDs and VHS tapes, even if physical media is slightly a hassle at times, where the disc or tape can get damaged and break easier. Whole segments of the movie became unwatchable as the damaged media produced static over the picture. VHS tapes always got eaten up, but did have the power to record shows on antennae TV, something we don’t seem to do anymore, record things for later viewing. Some of my favorite movies were DVDs or VHS tapes my family owned. We probably watched them hundreds of times, and my absolute favorite movies from those days from those old devices would be The Castle of Cagliostro, Shrek, Harry Potter 1 and 2, and The Thief and the Cobbler.

The DVD I just watched from my old homeroom teacher’s stash was Dogma (1999). I actually couldn’t find an actual spot on the internet to watch this movie, so DVD was the only chance to see it. I was impressed by all the old actors that were gathered up for this movie, some who definitely have garnered much more success and fame since those days. Names I definitely knew were Chris Rock, Matt Damon, Alan Rickman, and Alanis Morissette, where I’m sure I’ve seen the other actors before but couldn’t quite place. Kevin Smith was the creator and director, and I liked his Clerks movies. A couple of characters from those movies even popped up in Dogma, Silent Bob (Kevin Smith) and Jay (Jason Mewes).

Dogma is a religious comedy, a mix of irreverent humor as well as genuine reasoning and rationalizing of religion as a whole. Questions like could God be female, could Jesus be black, and could reality be erased if God is wrong pop up throughout the movie. The whole conflict of the movie is that two fallen angels want to go back to Heaven, but by doing so would prove God wrong and unmake existence. Just by showing that they could get back to Heaven would show God as fallible, when religious dogma states that God is always infallible. A few characters team up to stop these angels before they destroy existence.

I enjoyed the in depth theological explanations in the movie, even if a lot of it was personal adaptations. Religion is mostly personal adaptations anyway, no matter where you look, so it is fitting in this way. However, some of the religious adaptations were leaps of faith, and did complicate the plot in some ways. All and all it was entertaining though.

I think I most enjoyed just the questions put forth by the movie. Why are angels the servants, where humanity gets free reign to do whatever they want? How come Jesus doesn’t have any recorded siblings? Is God female? Is Jesus black? These are wonderfully skeptical questions, that would surely mess with the classic Bible thumper’s white Christ beliefs. Of all the nationalities, Jesus being black, or middle eastern, are far more likely than a blue eyed white Jesus. Religion should be questioned; we should ask questions of such commonly to allow belief to grow.

My favorite subject in the movie are all the different classes of angels. There are seraphim, Grigori, angels of death, muses, and other such beings. I like to write religious fiction, and also do enjoy putting my own take on religion is well. Thus Dogma is a fitting movie for me, and inspires me to write the next round of religious fiction, and expand my repertoire. The one seraph, Metatron, played by Alan Rickman, points out that God’s voice is too powerful for any mortal being, and I never had the idea that God would need a speaker for himself/herself, and it makes some sense. Angels have no reproductive organs in the movie, which also is a strange thing, but makes sense since they do not need to reproduce.

I personally believe that God is omnipotent despite not acting on omnipotence. In fiction like Dogma, it is easier to have God become more tangible by actively seeing religious forces and characters, where some in real life aren’t as visible. In the end, is religion no less fictitious than movies like Dogma? What can humanity put their faith in? Is there a point to any of it, and does that point make any lick of sense?

It is up to ourselves to find the faith and belief. Maybe, just maybe, Dogma too is part of God’s plan, and by tuning in, God is working through the viewer to produce the next bit of His plan. Maybe even just this long winded review has meaning under God’s light.

I will not give any ranking or classification for Dogma, however I will now list my own likes and dislikes of the movie.

The characters are bizarre and fun. Just seeing Matt Damon whip out a pistol and kill sinners is crazy enough, seeing Alan Rickman produce his wings was cool, and the two “prophets,” Jay and Silent Bob, were crudely funny enough to keep interest. The religious discussion that is the whole movie in essence is good for a long thought or two, and it’s interesting seeing what other beliefs there could be. The plot was slightly overcomplicated, and could probably use less characters actually. There were a lot of characters from all across the board, and not every one of them was entirely necessary. I was not insulted by the movie, even being Christian myself, and I suggest if someone is insulted by this movie, they reevaluate their faith to figure out why they can’t accept or tolerate even just a joke about faith, faith that is not only theirs but others’ as well.

My favorite joke is that the angels had to experience eternity in the worst place of all… Wisconsin. I recommend Dogma to the faithful and nonfaithful alike. It’s good for a long thought or short laugh, and if you can find the movie anywhere, on any device, call it a good omen and enjoy.

The Luck of Life

Lukas Allen

In that random chance, in that special number or perhaps finding a four leaf clover, we find good fortune. Chance is really not good or bad, and is completely relative, for if someone who didn’t believe seeing a four leaf clover is lucky, they would attach no meaning to it at all, and it would neither be fortune or misfortune. If someone finds a lot of four leaf clovers, in perchance some hidden, lucky grove, then four leaf clovers are less lucky than someone who’s only ever encountered one of them. Perhaps somewhere else three leaf clovers are lucky. But this is all a metaphor, for luck is only given its polarity by the experiencer.

If someone wants to find four leaf clovers, I suggest looking for them. The clover isn’t going to randomly pop up, usually for most people, and figuratively rolling the dice and looking for them in the grass is the usual way to find four leaf clovers. Seek and yeh shall find, and all that.

The world is filled with strange coincidences and odd chances. Rather than subdue ourselves and believe it luck, or out of the ordinary, or maybe just plain old impossible, we should accept that chance is a fundamental part of the world, and embrace the luck in life.

We as Homo sapiens alone are living embodiment of this chance. Out of any of the planets and systems we have taken a glimpse at, only we remain as intelligent and structured life. Life! What a grand sentiment. We are lucky to have lived.

Our own conception is fair chance as well. What are the odds that our parents would meet up, that one sperm would meet that one egg, and we would be the result? Even our mix of genetics are completely new and unique, a completely new roll of the draw.

If we were all the same, no deviance, no chance or luck, it would scarcely be an enjoyable life. Uniform clones would be our existence, with nothing changing in any way. Without chance, without that wild, imperceptible volcano of randomness, we, besides being flat out boring, would not survive either.

We, as samples of evolution, are the embodiment of chance. Life needs to change, it needs to adapt, mutate, and evolve, or perish amidst the same and same, in a frozen stasis. Chaos is the way of the world, ever since the Big Bang, and with chaos there is life.

The entire everything is drawn to stasis. As the world becomes balanced and unchanging, we inevitably drift around the sun, until the sun eventually dies and we return to the cold and dark. We are beings of eternal chaos, and as we fight to live, chaos must reign, lest we become that cold, dark, death.

Lucky us, no matter how hard we try to fight it, stasis will prevail. At least for us in our current lifetime, as we are delivered to death’s door. The next generation takes up the fight again, and the next and the next until no more can contend. Even if by some bizarre chance humanity lives past the sun’s life, the fight against stasis will be eternal, as living agents of entropy and chaos.

We probably won’t even last past the Earth’s lifetime in itself.

We could also look at our lives as order. There is a strange rigidity in life, a same way of doing things in uniform in an out of uniform way. Physics will not change. Our heart beats in rhythm, or we will die. In these ways our existence follows a certain code and tune, and chance is given its chance to shine. It is ordered chaos, a structured way of destroying and creation, a wild dance to a strange yet familiar tune, that can only ever end.

Forget about It

Lukas Allen

Memories stick with us for some reason. Some of the stupidest, useless memories that ever were become attached to us. I wonder why that is.

I still remember when I was in kindergarten and a girl accused me of cheating on something. There were objects in a bag and we had to name the objects from feeling the shape. It’s nothing difficult, to anyone at all, but the girl still said I was peeking with eyes slightly open. She told a teacher, and the teacher simply told me to stop cheating, and I wasn’t able to defend myself.

What’s the point of that memory? It doesn’t teach me anything worth remembering, but it’s there all the same. Then some memories are stuck to other memories, and it becomes a long chain of remembrance.

I remember the boys all hanging out in the tiny cafeteria bathroom. I remember a girl I had a crush on called me mellow. I don’t like grade school memories, no matter what they are. It simply wasn’t a very pleasant place in my life.

There’s an avenue of thought, waiting just out of reach. It is my memories. In a way I don’t want to remember the good or the bad, because I’d rather forget the bad altogether.

Who am I without my memories? Am I me without them? I wish I took more lessons in how memories form, and perhaps I can do some solo research on it myself, but I’d rather forget the whole thing altogether.

I try to sleep, and am awoken by a bad memory. I never spend time trying to recollect every memory. It’s not like the memories are super terrible, nor super great. The past takes away the power of both aspects, and what I’m left with are random shorts of memories that pop up here and there.

When I describe myself, I won’t be banking on my memories. I wouldn’t say I’m the guy in kindergarten who was accused of cheating, I would describe myself as who I am day to day.

I don’t like to give myself compliments or anything. I’m a skeptic by nature, and I absolutely despise my disability. My disability, schizophrenia, gives other people a chance to describe me based on other descriptions that aren’t akin to me at all. They judge before they even know me, if they somehow learn I have schizophrenia, and it doesn’t feel very fair at all.

I suppose I should write something good about myself. I can handle crises fairly well. I know when to ask for help, although will try my damndest to figure it out on my own first. I have a sense of humor, and I’m prone to use it when things get bad to keep my or others’ hopes up. I love too much sometimes, but I’m just another skeptic when it comes to love as well. I am very tenacious, which is evident from all the shit I’ve had to live through.

I just want to forget the whole thing.

What is Evil?

Lukas Allen

(An excerpt from the Press of Evil, a newspaper in the Evil Kingdom)

What is truly evil? And more, is it harmful?

We at the Press of Evil often wonder at this distinction, what is Evil, what is not. It’s part of being in the Evil Kingdom. But one must express either concern or at least gradient unease at being labeled as such, no? Here at the Press of Evil, we will finally put an end to such variable conceiving of the word Evil.

Evil, in many cases, is taking what one wants and keeping it. This can be taking of valuable resources, military strategic points, or even something as simple as love. Evil takes, while the so called Good gives. There is a distinction where the Good are praised for such acts, while the Evil are condemned.

But, if one saw food being given away to some who do not need it, is it not right to take it as one who does need it? Good is oftentimes accidentally mistaken for compassion, where more often it is greedily and gluttonously giving to its own supporters, and ignoring the rest. Applaud the individual who takes what they need, what their family may need, rather than the good who hoard for only their own and their supporters.

Evil is cunning, and sometimes cruel. Evil is efficient, where some as Good would try to endure suffering, Evil does not take such conflict, and finds the best, quickest solution to suffering. That is, end it, at once. Evil does not tiptoe around mercy and justice.

Good is often blurred in strange moral justifications. Whole societies enact injustices as “Good,” forgetting what Good even means, if they ever knew. For example, a cult takes upon violence against non-supporters, believing in all its heart that what they, the cult, are doing is correct and Good. They beat around the bush, making false explanations like divine calling or chosen believers, while really, they should just cut to the chase and call themselves Evil, for that is what they are. By resisting Evil, they show the faultiness of Good.

It is the so called Good which are deluded. When one accepts that they are Evil, and that Evil is necessary, they can use it to their advantage. It is alike taming an awful beast, a horrid predator and ultimate foe. When one aligns with this beast, they realize it never was our enemy, our enemy was ourselves, and the labeling of self as Good.

We must accept our dark sides as ourselves, the hidden urges and intrusive thoughts. They are only us, and to deny and suppress them is wrong, and ultimately unpleasant. We have freedom to let these urges be known, and the power to act on them or not. One need not act on every urge, simply allow the urge to show itself. It is up to us to follow ideas with our action or inaction, and even if that may be called Evil, breaking society’s taboo on such thoughts, it is freeing in its finest act.

Let none take away your dark side! Let none shroud the Evil in us all. For by understanding the term Evil, one may also understand the term Good, and therefore be able to act freely for one or the other. Evil and Good have fought for millennia, in stories and songs of our entire history. Be both, if necessary, and find peace.

We have the power to make ourselves great, every one of us, as our leader, the Evil Dictator King, does as well.

We, at the Press of Evil, wish for the reader to find their own terms for such entities as Evil and Good, for only in our own search for meaning can the meaning become purposed and worthwhile.

Locales of a Dream

Lukas Allen

There are different recurring locations in my dreams. There’s the Museum, where anything is possible, where friends and foes congregate to see the wonders within. There’s the Bar, a hip, cool place to be, a place filled with people all drinking and having fun. There’s the School, a conglomerate of grade school and high school, at times even having college linked in, which I usually am not supposed to be in the dreams, as I dropped out of college. I dislike being trapped in such a place, and I am usually trying to escape it in some way. Sometimes I am in the City, a vast, mazy, impossible to navigate city filled with strange people. The Basement is always a source for monstrous characters, monsters from the far below. Sometimes I’m in Dream Europe, usually being somewhere in Holland.

There are different characters that populate my dreams. There’re the bullies in the School, who I am always beating up and trying to force away, but they tenaciously always hound me. I’ve been seeing them less lately, and that’s for the better. I’d say they are three certain individuals always, two short and one tall, all pesky obstacles for me in my dreams.

Jesus sometimes appears in my dreams, and he is as helpful as always. He reassures me, wherever he is, the Museum being the last place I have seen him.

When the voices make their appearance in my dreams, I am sure it will be hell. Sometimes they control my lucid dreams, and force me into a fright, laughing at me as I cry for help.

My cat, Hippie, is often in my dreams. My old cat, Donnie, and all other cats I have known, can talk in my dreams. Hippie, a small orange cat with white details, appears as many cats, all Hippie but a lot of them.

In the School, I am usually “trapped” and believing that I need to take an extra year of school, no matter what kind of school it is. The middle school teachers are usually monstrous, making strange scary faces and chasing me. My old homeroom teacher is always helpful in my dreams, being a slight refuge from the rest of the School. With her I can leave my trombone and my backpack, my possessions I always must defend to keep in the School.

Sometimes I am back in my mother’s house, in a dream. The Other Mother, like in the movie Coraline, is a monstrous dream character. I know she’s not my mom, and never could be my mom, and when I do point that out to her, to the Other Mother, she scares the shit out of me. She abuses my dream family, doing things my real mother never would. I don’t think she is a symbol of my real mother, and believe she is something else entirely awful.

I’m always lost in the City, but I never really have anywhere I’m supposed to be. It’s dangerous sometimes, and I avoid the thugs as I make my way through. Sometimes the City goes into suburban areas filled with impossible dream houses, sometimes the City goes into the slums of my dreams.

The Basement was a very scary place for a long time, going endlessly deep and with endless monsters bursting forth from below. There would be monsters in the house, coming from the Basement, an eternity of darkness below it. Sometimes other dream characters would be down there, trapped like I was.

I like to drive my car, my old 2000 Toyota Camry. She’s a good car, and it’s always nice taking a drive with her, as she is gone in my real life.

Sometimes, Jane, my devillady character, appears in my dreams, advocating sin, but loving me and supporting me.

Dream Europe is a wonderful place to be, where I can do almost anything in freedom. I go to shows, I smoke weed, and I wander the music festivals and giant churches. A lot of times I am there because I “teleported” from the U.S. to Holland, with my Dutch grandparents there to greet me.

One place, a Hobbit’s hole, which is actually a very nice place and not much of a hole at all, I was taught by Bilbo himself some magic words to help confidence and give luck. The words, Figaro, Fadaro, Pigaro, Padaro, was taught there, and are nice, silly, lucky words to help my self-esteem. It was awesome seeing Bilbo how I pictured him from books, in my dreams.

If I think of any other dream places, and am able to remember them, I will list them again.