Posts
{“Mark Twain again.
Tesla taught me how to use this bejiggered contraption to write these posts as they are called.
With the strangest look to his eyes, he told me, “Life is all memory,
except for this present moment that flits by you so quickly, you hardly notice it going.”
Have you ever searched for a lost item? Torn up the house doing it, like a dog digging up the yard for the bone he’s already chewed to nothing?
Then, there it is in front of you, shining as if lit with fires unseen to the normal eye.
Where did it come from? The Shadowlands.
The Shadowlands have their strange ways. Roland’s battered note pad turned up last night by his black magic box folks call a laptop of all things.
Though Roland had no time to write an account of what happened, here on these pages, in his own hand, is paragraph after paragraph of the details.
So I will post them as they happened to the three of us, Roland, the ghost of Marlene Dietrich, and my own spectral self.
In this post, Roland finds himself in a Victorian London alley on the run through time for the murder of the ghost of Ernest Hemingway …
none of us knew the scoundrel had only been poisoned and was still alive … if such can be said of a ghost.
The being calling herself Death has just forced the three of us to witness the gruesome killing of a two year old girl by a swarming, biting pack of hungry rats.
Death is leading us to a brothel from which we can return to Meilori’s, the supernatural jazz club and sanctuary of sorts.
Unfortunately, the band of killers who are slaughtering poor prostitutes, using the group name “Jack the Ripper,” stand between us and the doorway to safety.
Here is the account in Roland’s own words} :
Death turned to us, and her form was of the many-armed, bloody Kali. “I am not your enemy.”
Mark Twain grunted, “Try being on this side of your eyes and still saying that.”
Marlene said softly, “Why did you have to show us that baby’s death?”
“It was her fate drawing me. Remember, Magdalene, I am everywhere, allwheres simultaneously.”
Mark Twain arched an eyebrow. “Something like that could put off your digestion.”
Death turned slowly to him. “Some find your humor quaint. I am not one of them.”
She turned back to me. “I have taken you with me in this way to confound your enemies that have the limited sense to try to use me for their own ends.”
I forced my throat to work. “That child’s death was the price of our admittance back into Meilori’s?”
“Yes, Lakota. And no.”
“No?,” frowned Mark.
“There is one more death yet to come before I can take you to the Door of Nasah.”
Marlene’s fingers went to her mouth. “That is the door of the damned.”
Death was now in armor and a horned helmet as she nodded. “And it will take you three to Meilori’s. A most detestable part of that club. But it is the best that I can do.”
She gestured to Mark Twain, and her form now was that of Blind Justice. “Behold your ‘low-rent district,’ Clemens. London of this age is undoubtedly the largest and richest city the world has yet known. “
She spat and her spittle sank smoking into the cobblestones. “Here in its underbelly, there are 90,000 full-time prostitutes, 7,000 brothels, and the highest rate of syphilis in Europe.
Here, in Whitechapel, little girls of ten or less can be bought like slaves for thirty guineas a head.
And elite bordellos owned by DayStar send 'respectable' gentlemen fancy brochures advertising 'pretty young lads with pink bottoms ripe for a birching.'"
Marlene’s eyes became haunted. “How like my Heimat Berlin in the ‘20’s. There doesn’t need to be a Hell later on. It’s already here.”
Death mussed her hair gently, but frost layered it just the same. "In such a place as this, murder might be viewed as a kindness."
Death laid a soft hand on my shoulder which went numb at the coldness of her touch. "We are there."
***
Tesla taught me how to use this bejiggered contraption to write these posts as they are called.
With the strangest look to his eyes, he told me, “Life is all memory,
except for this present moment that flits by you so quickly, you hardly notice it going.”
Have you ever searched for a lost item? Torn up the house doing it, like a dog digging up the yard for the bone he’s already chewed to nothing?
Then, there it is in front of you, shining as if lit with fires unseen to the normal eye.
Where did it come from? The Shadowlands.
The Shadowlands have their strange ways. Roland’s battered note pad turned up last night by his black magic box folks call a laptop of all things.
Though Roland had no time to write an account of what happened, here on these pages, in his own hand, is paragraph after paragraph of the details.
So I will post them as they happened to the three of us, Roland, the ghost of Marlene Dietrich, and my own spectral self.
In this post, Roland finds himself in a Victorian London alley on the run through time for the murder of the ghost of Ernest Hemingway …
none of us knew the scoundrel had only been poisoned and was still alive … if such can be said of a ghost.
The being calling herself Death has just forced the three of us to witness the gruesome killing of a two year old girl by a swarming, biting pack of hungry rats.
Death is leading us to a brothel from which we can return to Meilori’s, the supernatural jazz club and sanctuary of sorts.
Unfortunately, the band of killers who are slaughtering poor prostitutes, using the group name “Jack the Ripper,” stand between us and the doorway to safety.
Here is the account in Roland’s own words} :
Death turned to us, and her form was of the many-armed, bloody Kali. “I am not your enemy.”
Mark Twain grunted, “Try being on this side of your eyes and still saying that.”
Marlene said softly, “Why did you have to show us that baby’s death?”
“It was her fate drawing me. Remember, Magdalene, I am everywhere, allwheres simultaneously.”
Mark Twain arched an eyebrow. “Something like that could put off your digestion.”
Death turned slowly to him. “Some find your humor quaint. I am not one of them.”
She turned back to me. “I have taken you with me in this way to confound your enemies that have the limited sense to try to use me for their own ends.”
I forced my throat to work. “That child’s death was the price of our admittance back into Meilori’s?”
“Yes, Lakota. And no.”
“No?,” frowned Mark.
“There is one more death yet to come before I can take you to the Door of Nasah.”
Marlene’s fingers went to her mouth. “That is the door of the damned.”
Death was now in armor and a horned helmet as she nodded. “And it will take you three to Meilori’s. A most detestable part of that club. But it is the best that I can do.”
She gestured to Mark Twain, and her form now was that of Blind Justice. “Behold your ‘low-rent district,’ Clemens. London of this age is undoubtedly the largest and richest city the world has yet known. “
She spat and her spittle sank smoking into the cobblestones. “Here in its underbelly, there are 90,000 full-time prostitutes, 7,000 brothels, and the highest rate of syphilis in Europe.
Here, in Whitechapel, little girls of ten or less can be bought like slaves for thirty guineas a head.
And elite bordellos owned by DayStar send 'respectable' gentlemen fancy brochures advertising 'pretty young lads with pink bottoms ripe for a birching.'"
Marlene’s eyes became haunted. “How like my Heimat Berlin in the ‘20’s. There doesn’t need to be a Hell later on. It’s already here.”
Death mussed her hair gently, but frost layered it just the same. "In such a place as this, murder might be viewed as a kindness."
Death laid a soft hand on my shoulder which went numb at the coldness of her touch. "We are there."
***
I knew it had been really bad, but I've seen those stats. How horrible. And what a cheap, disposable way of viewing life. Yes, in those places, Death would be a kindness.
ReplyDeleteOkay, I'm still shivering from that trailer.
ReplyDeleteI am delighted. Another chapter and Roland is back! As much as I love you, Sam, and though I adore Raymond, Roland's voice is best of all.
Death still makes me weep. Your portrayal of her is so loving. And gentle. She is "horrible", yet she is beautiful. Kind and compassionate. Almost. She is, after all, Death. But you, as a writer, treat her with love and respect and she becomes that.
I love Kali as death, btw, magnificent choice.
Learning about the world and history is a huge hook for me. I didn't know this of London and Berlin. I've read of Rome. I forget that our collective past is as ugly in some places as our present.
Beautiful chapter.
Welcome back. Wish it weren't so temporary.:)
~Olivia
hey, lake charles! I'm late to the party, but I like what you're doing here! I'll be interested to read more~ :o)
ReplyDeleteRoland - I'm giddy. NOT because it was a happy scene - NO - but because reading this reminded me of why I love being a writer. Each voice was distinct. Thanks for the inspiration Roland!!!
ReplyDeleteI like how Death wove in the statistics without being preachy about them. They seemed relevant, and furthered the plot. And Death's reasoning behind death of the child worked well. Made her character sympathetic.
ReplyDeleteThis scene really made me enjoy her character. And I'm glad you're going back to Meilori's - and the price of entry sound intriguing.
.......dhole
The stats combined with your writing painted a picture here. A accurate one. *shudders*
ReplyDeletecrossing fingers for the travelers.
One more death before they are taken to the door of nasah?
ReplyDeleteCreepy!
Take care
x