How Messiahs Are Born

The Dreamcatchers come around everyday.

They're there, at my door, every morning, in their pink and blue suits and large, yellow-rimmed sunglasses. I never understood the sunglasses; it's only about 7:30 in the morning. I think they have microcamera screens on the lenses to help them see the fragments of dreams hanging in the air around us. Did you know pink and blue are relaxing colours in the morning? The State told us. They saw it in our dreams.

Ever since Executive Decision 47065B, our dreams are property of The State. They're collected so that The State knows what the people hope and dream for and can give it to us. That's what all the campaign commercials said. So yeah, they give the people what they really, truly want. And they'd know, right? They have the only copies of our dreams.

They come in your door, bright and early; right after you wake up. I guess they have advanced sensors that tell them when we've gotten out of bed. The Dreamcatcher Wands don't hurt. They wave them through the air around our heads, and the blinking blue lights help us relax while they suck the few remaining shards of dreams out of our peripheral memory. The State tells us that The Wands are like vaccuum cleaners for our brains. Just as safe, too.

Don't tell anyone this, but I don't trust The State. That's why I have this plan, see? I've figured a way to get around The Dreamcatchers. And they'll never find out.



You see, I have a dream diary.


Sshhh!

Storymaker

He was the first – perhaps the only one – of his kind. Your own personalised storyteller. I know what you’re thinking; anyone can read you a story. Few can even make one up as they go along.

But he was different. He’d spend time with you. Days, weeks, months. Whatever it took to get to know you. To become your best friend. Until then, he’d be a fount of information, effortlessly holding his own in any conversation. Drawing out your likes, your dislikes, your preferences. And then one day, when he was ready, the stories would begin.

Fantastic stories. Stories you could never have imagined, stories you’d never hear, others you’d encounter later in life. Stories about life and love and dragons and oceans, serpents and fairies. Everything your heart desired, everything you needed to hear. New stories, made-up stories, stories as old as the world. Every day, he’d take you through stories, mixing them up so they’d be just right for you. Leaving out the bits you’d hate, adding in things you’d love. Things that drove you wild and set your mind on fire. Some days, he’d tell you only half a story, leaving you aching, begging to know how it ended. And then just when you’re losing your mind, wondering what happens next, he’d finish it for you.

And sometimes, just sometimes, when he felt it really necessary, when he was sure it was something you couldn’t deal with, he’d change the endings to suit you.

 I’ve had this post in my head for the longest time. This one’s for you, anna. Someday, I hope you will know how much I looked up to you then, and how much I think of you now.

The Book of Life has chosen to flip its pages for me. The Pages of Dawn tell me something will happen to me nine and four thousand days from today. They choose not to reveal any more.

Untitled (Part 2)

It all began simply enough. All the old man had apparently done wrong was be in the wrong place at the right time. He’d been minding his own business, seated at the same spot on the low wall he always did. He’d been scraping off the hair on his cheeks. The tiny black and white dots on his face when he gazed upon his replica in the water or on his blade irked him. The only thing he disliked more about it was having to get rid of it. To this day he’d never passed the blade over his face without cutting himself at least twice. Of course that wouldn’t be what he’d tell others. Oh, no. He’d probably been held at swordpoint by a band of blood-thirsty pillagers; no less than twenty of them, too…

And then he’d battled them valiantly and single-handedly, brandishing no more than his little knife. Arax, he called her. How he’d got her was another story. Here, he’d used her to fend them all off without so much as a scratch. All but the last two, who, the cowardly mice of men, lacking in honour, attacked him together, one with broadsword and one battleaxe, and yet they’d only managed to nick him.

He’d regaled many with these tales, and the women held their breaths as he recounted his memories in vivid detail, missing not a line describing the mortal danger he was in. And it had helped more than a few dames find their way to his bower. And they’d all believed him, too, until the day some boys heard the sound of muttered curses from a secluded grove and decided to snoop. And found him kneeling over a bowl of water, mouth and blood both running freely.

What hurt the most was that those stories used to be true. But the memory of that day sprang every time he raked his face. After all, blood makes an excellent reminder. Except this day. He ran his fingers along his cheek, examining its fineness. ‘How’d I get her so sharp this time?’ he thought aloud. ‘You didn’t, old man,’ said a voice next to his ear. He jumped, nearly shouting out in shock. He whirled around, knife at the ready and pointed it straight into the face of… no one. He was alone. He whipped around, looking through the trees. It wasn’t possible. Who could get to the green so quickly from the middle of a clearing? A tree-nymph? No. If it were, back in the day, he would’ve been quicker than it. Mostly, he’d have caught it. Now he was the first to admit he wasn’t that fast anymore, but he would’ve seen it at the very least. He hadn’t slowed down all that much yet.

‘Over here!’ said a voice behind him. He spun, the knife swinging from his fingers before he’d even turned completely to the direction of the voice. The knife cut the air so quickly you could hear the blade whistling. If, of course, you could focus on it in the split second it took to lodge itself firmly near the treeline, five feet above the ground. Embedded in empty air.

Untitled

‘We need you not. Our mage will lead us.’

‘There is no mage. No shaman. No magical protector. This man would sooner save you than a warrior mage.’

‘But that is him! Our warrior. Undoer of wrong. Defender of good, vanquisher of evil. Brave protector of the true.’

‘Surely you jest. Call him by any name you wish, but this oaf will not be your saviour. He cannot be one of your prophesized heroes. He lives but the meanest existence.’

‘Our prophesized heroes. Not yours anymore, eh? But do you not see? He has suffered the wrath of him who he has never met. He has walked three times around the earth. He carries the world on his shoulders.’

‘He has done nothing of the sort. You are blinded by your faith in the Seer. You think him the wisest man on the earth. Your ‘saviour’ is a slave. Born to a slave. Owned, once and for his lifetime, by my master, your lord. And he has never set foot beyond those walls. The only thing he is worth is the churning of the water mill. He keeps the stream running. And the tattoo you speak of, that was given him by me. With this. Perhaps if you fear the cold metal at the end of the leather ripping out the skin on your back, you would cease this blasphemy and return to your own business.’

‘You have the upper hand today; perhaps the same will not be true tomorrow. Perhaps the day you will challenge the Hooded One to a game for your soul and lose will be the day you will remember me. After all, a beard and rags are all it takes to hide the Seer.

‘Try and catch me; I am no longer here. Your fingers slip through me as if I were a cloud. And there will be the Rain of the Shroud in your soul tonight. And when the blood will not wash of your hands after you raise your first-born in the honour of death, you will know all my words to be true. The clatter of your spear, the sound of your breath as you run in your futility to save him, I have seen them all. Do not think it possible. He is doomed. The blackness is over him already. It amuses me that while he dies, you have been talking to a wall. Or so it will appear to the messenger. Hark! He comes.’

*clatter*

*running footsteps*

The Prophecy

And so it began

The serpent slithered up his arm

And it rained as tears

The rivers were salt

The faithful have begun their wanderings

In the lands of their fathers

The faithless unite in silence

Driving the herd back

Into the safety of inaction.

Always

Death will support life.

Always.

The madmen will prance in circles.

Always.

The wise will be persecuted.

Always.

Hell will rain down upon the righteous.

Always.

The fools will prosper.

Always.