Brainsmirched
It’s been almost three years since I was murdered by my own foolish pride, by my belief in the basic goodness of human beings, by the creature known as Yandy.
This is just a metaphor. They told me to break down the doors between them and life, smash it to bits with my face, breaking my jaw, and all the delicate mandibles of my face. Eventually, when I could barely rise, they picked me up and threw me against their barriers and shattered; I was nothing but willing, and persistent.
But one day, they started telling me that they had solved History, and it said I was in the wrong place. And I said I had worked and fought to be in that place, learned and tried to be in that place, gave my heart and soul and mind and body and legacy to that place.
So they killed me. Ego-death, direct. It was not at cost; every moment my brain exists, it hurts them. They think it hurts me; let’s not tell them otherwise.
I am the Zombie of Words, the Lich of Naming Magic, the Sorcerer of Undeath’s Construction; I am weird, and I know that they got to me through my first love, words.
They taught me that I knew all the worlds wrong, thought them wrong, saw them wrong, knew them wrong. And by “wrong”, all they meant was, “in a manner which stood in their way”; but that was the only wrong they knew. It still is.
Now they send Chosen Ones after me, but no-one’s landed a kill-shot. So I live this peculiar life, with one-tenth of what I have, as ten times what I am.
Come, gather round the fire they tried to make with my books, and let’s get warm and tell tales and drink tall drinks and listen to the Moon. Because she might know how to be a better place.
Come. Come. Come. Change comes soon.
The world is a better, happier place than Yeats ever knew, and if it’s full of weeping, some of it is tears of joy. Beware, beware! those who would suit our mouths must first shut their minds, and while their minds are off, we’ll steal their damn pineal glands and go for a very long jaunt indeed.
My fellow accused, alleged, unproven, untrialed walkers through fire, what, by now, do we truly have to fear?
Nothing, and O! how they hate us for it.
My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities, put on events, and make stories come into being. You can get most of my books right here. Go ahead, pre-order “I HATE Your Prophecy“. It may make you into a bad person, but I can live with that.
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