A Knight's Sorrow

August 31, 2012


Filed under: Blog — Harlequinn @ 2:48 pm
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This is a little detour from my normal poetry and short stories. Instead, here’s a little musing on how I see friends:

Being a friend is more than just hanging out with a person every other day. It’s more than shared interests. It’s about holding their hand when they need strength, but don’t ask for it. It’s about offering our shoulder and a box of tissues when they are crying on the inside. It’s about making them smile and laugh, when they are depressed.

Though ironically, with friendship, the closer we let them get, the more we want to protect them from our pain. We think that by pushing them away when we are at our darkest, we will keep them safe. All it does though, is to make them feel ignored and unwanted at best… unappreciated and unloved at worst. The even more painful truth, is that the friends we tried to keep safe from harm, are the ones we hurt the most. That when we finally do reach out for those we truely care about, they’re no longer there and we’re left all alone.

If you truely do care about friends that you hold dear, let them know that you do care and appreciate them. Even when you’re too afraid and too proud to say you’re hurting, chances are they know you are. All a friend truely wants, is a hug and the simple words “thank you for being there”.

While a person that cannot love you at your worst, doesn’t deserve you at your best. A friend that wants to be there at our worst, but we don’t let them, may not be there at our best or worst ever again.

August 30, 2012


Filed under: Poetry — Harlequinn @ 8:54 am
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What bitter doves that do take flight,
Across the silent raven night.
As devils rise and monsters cry,
Heaven’s angels fall and die.
Soldiers march across the land,
As knightly heroes take command.
Nightmare gods rise from slumber,
As weapons forge from fallen lumber.
Morning sun with arrows rain,
That cascade down on village slain.
Daughters weep as fathers burn,
Sons do rot as mothers spurn.

August 25, 2012

Thy Lord Comeths

Filed under: Story — Harlequinn @ 1:43 am
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They say it is the fear of the unknown that is the greatest fear. That it can cripple grown men, and yet inspire greatest. It in itself, is fear of fear itself. That is what I told myself, and others. It is what I believe. Or at least I did. I now know what true fear is. Fear is knowing something exists. Fear is knowing It exists.

I know that sounds strange. I know that sounds contradictory. But the events of the last week are far from ordinary. Even now as I write this entry in my journal, I can hardly believe myself. The things I see when I close my eyes make no sense. I am even unsure if I should write anything done at all.

But I need to get it done. I need to get it out.

It all began with a box that arrived in my office. Or more precisely, what was inside the box. A clay tablet, from a forgotten civilisation with an indecipherable script. There was no sender. No message. Just a simple piece of clay. On a bed of straw. Inside a box.

I’m not sure if it was my arrogance or curiousity that got the best of me, but I didn’t care where it came from or from who. I only wanted to know what it was. My colleges were too used to my eccentricity and when I dismissed my lectures for this project, they understood. They called me foolish, but they understood.

The entire day I poured through every book. I cross referenced every obscure language. But not one thing matched. I wanted to dismiss the tablet as a hoax. But something in the back of my mind whispered to me. Telling me that it was real. Urging to me find the truth.

But as much as I wanted to continue, I was too exhausted. I needed food. I needed rest. More importantly, I needed my darling wife. I needed to see her, to hold her in my arms, and marvel in delight at our unborn child that grew within her. At the same time, I couldn’t abandon the tablet, and so I took it home with me.

So lost with my obsession with the tablet, I had lost all sense of time. My dinner was left in the fridge, as my wife lay asleep in our bed. As with any other time that I had come back far later than I expected, she had left me a letter saying how much she loved me and understood that my work was my first love. Though the letters were never written in jealousy or remorse, but with loving understanding, they always made me feel guilty. Guilty because she was right.

After my quick meal, I left the tablet with what few notes I had in my study while I retired next to my wife. I am amazed that I fell asleep that night with my mind abuzz with what the tablet could mean, but somehow I did fall asleep. I only know this because of the laughter I woke up to. The maddening laughter of my wife, coming from the study.

As I approached the door, I could hear my wife ramble incoherently in a tongue I did not understand, between bouts of laughter. And there was something else too. To say it was a whisper, is liking a fog horn as being a bike whistle. Yet as loud as it was, it was soft and barely audible. As though something wanted me to hear it, but not.

But that wasn’t what gripped me in terror. The sight I beheld in the study still haunts me whenever I close my eyes. Strewn across the floor where my books. All of my books. Open to random pages, with a red scrawl covering the texts beneath. In the very centre of the room, was my wife. She seemed catatonic, rocking back and forth as her hair draped over her downward cast face. Her only feature I could see was a wide smile that wasn’t hers. In her arms, was a small package, swaddled in a blanket and craddled in her arms, as though it was a baby.

The whispering was gone. Her laughter had ceased. The only sound in the air was my wife whispering under her breath, and the occassional cooing, as though she was trying to calm a baby down. I hesitantly approached her, rather confused at the scene.

“Isn’t out child beautiful, dear? Aren’t his tentacles glorious?” is what I am sure she said, as she held the bundle towards me. Her face was still obscured by her hair, but I could clearly see what lay in the blankets. It was no child. It was the tablet.

“Don’t I make a beautiful mother?” she smiled up at me, with a smile that wasn’t hers. But that wasn’t what made me gasp in fright. As she stared up at me, I was lost for words. The realisation of the red scrawl suddenly hit me. It wasn’t red paint. It was blood. Blood that she had obtained from the bleeding sockets where her eyes had been torn.

Before I could even react, the tablet fell from her hands, landing gently on a pile of books. Her body began to convulse uncontrollably. And then she suddenly stopped. Rushing to her side, I checked her pusle. She was alive. But barely.

My mind raced and panicked, waiting for the doctor to arrive. What was only minutes, seemed like hours. The ticking of the clock echoed through my head like some omnious toll of a ferryman in a fog. The echo of my shoes upon the marble floor, as I awaited for the doctor, made it seem as though I was not the only one pacing. That in the gloom of the night, with only the minimal of light, that my own shadow stalked me, it’s inky laughter a mere whisper in my ear.

I am not sure when the doctor arrived. I can’t even remember if it was still night or if morning had come. All I remember that my mind was ablaze with madness and paranoia, as I led him to the bedroom where I had brought my beloved. I remember him examining her closely and slowly as though nothing was amiss. I shouted and exclaimed about the condition of her eyes, but all he did was nod calmly as though he could not see the blood.

Angered as his seeming ignorance for the oblivious, I returned to the study where I know I could do something. There was nothing I could do about the blood smeared pages. As tarnished as the books were, they themselves were rare and priceless. Far too rare to just merely throw away for just a stained page or two. Once I had every book on the shelf, I examined the tablet. I had avoided it since returning to the room. It was so covered in the blankets, I could barely see it. I think my paranoia was afraid, that if I did spy upon it, it wouldn’t be a mere tablet anymore but some hideous babe from a mightmare.

But even my paranoia couldn’t contain what I beheld as I unwrapped it from its linen confines. It’s surface was no longer smooth and slick like clay, but it was now rough and dry, like skin. And it moved. No. It pulsated, like alive. As though it had a beating heart. What was once etching of unknown words upon its surface, were now weeping wounds that slowly trickled down with blood with evening sickening thud of its pulse. Even when I dropped it to the ground in fear and nausea, I heard it hit the ground with a sickening thud of flesh on stone, and not the crackle of clay.

I was too afraid to look at the tablet once again as I slowly wiped the spittle and bile from my lips with my sleeve. I could even barely lift myself to my feet when I heard my wife’s screams. I ran as hard and fast as I could to the room that echoed with my wife’s laboured screams. Beside the bed, the doctor examined her with his beady eyes, as he slowly removed his coat.

“She is going into labour, sir, and it needs to be done now. I do warn you, it will get messy.” he crackling voice echoed, that gave me a shiver for reasons I didn’t understand.

As his long brown coat fell to the floor, his body uncoiled from the depths. Long spindly spider like limbs extracted themselves out, a pair placing their three fingered talons on either side of the headboard of the bed, as his more “human” shed all meaning of the word humanm, save for their length, as his insectoid talons waited eagerly for the child that approached. His legs began to unfurl and stretch, revealing chitinous digigrade legs that planted themselves firmly against either side of the bed. A third pair of arms seem to grow from his torso, their hands seem to rub together in delight, as I could hear the “doctor” coo in delight with every push my wife made.

“Thy lord comeths…” the arachnoid gurgled with only a mere echo of the former voice. It turned to face me with a head that was only human in the vaguest of sense. Where eyes should be were smooth taught skin. His hair was gone, his ears and nose were sharp and upturned like a bat. But the most striking change was his mouth. A large mouthy grin that stretched from ear to ear, filled with row upon row of dagger like fangs.

“Come come, you see… you see… thy lord comeths…” he echoed, as he ushered me forth with a talon as his grin seemed to only stretched further.

As I slowly approached, what little sanity I had left at the time left me. Pulling itself free of my wife was nothing I could ever imagine. A mass of tentacles, reaching out and gripping whatever they could as they pull themselves and the mass of what lay inside my wife’s womb into the cold dark room. The screaming wails it made as it tried to pull itself were, simply put, blood curdling, and yet this delighted the “doctor” only more.

I was gripped with fear and panic. I had no idea what to do, but to do only one thing. I pulled my pistol out from my jacket, closing my eyes, and fired into the darkness. Slowly openning my eyes, I sighed a little in relief when I saw nothing moved. Then I heard the tentacles squirm as they continued to tear themselves out of my dead wife. My shaky hands pointed my pistol only to hear the click click. The fear of what it was drew me to do one thing. To beat it with my empty pistol till it moved no more. And once nothing stirred in the room, once the only thing that made a noise was my slow shallow fear stricken breath, I closed my eyes.

When I openned my eyes, I was lost. Confused. Disorientated. Everything I knew was replaced with whiteness. A stark whiteness of padded walls and padded floors and a small window into an equally white hall.

I was told by the orderlies, that I was in an asylum for the brutal murder of my wife, child and attending doctor. That I had burnt my entire house to its very foundations. That I was found, catatonic smeared in blood, rambling to myself. That I had been in here for days. No one knew of the tablet, or even recalled seeing it. And not one of my colleagues even came to see me.

I almost believed that I had become insane. That everything I saw was merely a result of a schism in my sanity. Then I saw my doctor through the glass. I saw the eyeless face with the dagger filled maw.

“Thy lord has cometh, and he hungers for this world.” he whispered through the glass, before he walked away cackling to himself.

I am not sure what is going to happen to me. But I know what is going to happen to the world. I have seen what it is, and I fear it. I have heard the screams of pain as I have heard the sickening pop as limb is torn from limb as bone and flesh are chewed upon in the dark. I have heard the cries of the patients of this facility slowly die out. I am all that is left in here. I know the lord has come, and he wants me to be his witness.

August 24, 2012

Kitty Cat

Filed under: Poetry — Harlequinn @ 6:30 am
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Kitty cat, happy cat,
Where should we play?
The attic, kitchen,
Or the dungeon room?

Kitty cat, naughty cat,
What should we do?
A feeding, a grooming,
And a spanking too?

Kitty cat, sleepy cat,
Do you want to rest?
Snuggled in my lap,
How I love you so.

Subject 7

Filed under: Story — Harlequinn @ 6:26 am
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Here I am, betweent the shadows and long forgotten alleys that criss cross the older sections of the city. Yet, despite the state of urban decay, and the dregs of society that lived within the derelict buildings and cardboard boxes, it was beautiful. Or maybe, it was beautiful because of the stark contrast of the gleeming lights and velvet lounges that existed within the glass and steel skyscrapers that were only a few blocks down.

Or maybe it was beautiful, because like me, it was once proud and majestic, now lost, forgetten and a mockery of what it once was.

I sighed to myself, as I examined my still companions on this lonely edifice. Silent stone sentinels that watched over the the lost and the damned. Their leering faces, peering into the dark, while rain bounced off of their chiselled wings. Though while these gargoyles were nothing but mere sculpted stone, that was as cold and dead as the grave, I envied them. They will never have to deal with the memories of once being like those that ran across the streets below, nor will they ever have to deal with the fear of being a monster. I had to deal with both.

Stretching my arm out into the gloom, the frigid air and piercing rain cascading the scales of my arm. An arm that had once been flesh. Been human. That had once ended up in a human hand, and not this clawed talon. Closing my eyes, I could see it all. The life I had. The loving wife. The adoring kids. The company that was spiralling into debt. The failed suicide attempt. The hospitalisation. And then, Their offer. Financial security for my family, for the small cost of working for Them. They never mentioned the ongoing cost of my humanity. Then again, They never told us everything.

Waking me from my tormented dreams, I heard her cries. Her screams. Her pleading for a hero.

I am no hero.

Nor angel.

But I certainly am no demon. Despite the screams that children have when they glance at me from the shadows.

Effortlessly, my legs propel me, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. The cold air whistling past my ears, as I hear her cries for help get closer. My body reacts instinctively to every obstacle I see, ducking and weaving them without me having to think about their presence being in my way between me and the pleas.

Finally I see her. And her three assailants. Vile specimens of mankind. All three of them are worse than the dirt stuck to their boots. Worse than the filth and carrion that scuttled in the shadows of the alley. The three of them, leering at her, groping her. Her choking tears falling on deaf ears as people walked past the alley, barely paying a flicker of attention. But this is how the city is. This is how people think, “better off it be someone other than me”.

But I am not like other people. For I am no longer human.

While these humans think they are monsters, preying on lambs.

Yet they have no idea what a real monster really is. A monster like me…

As I dive from above on the first “wolf”, a deep gluttural roar echoes through my fangs, as I inhale deeply the scent of all those below. Her fear is sweet, but theirs is more exquisite… more refined… more fueled by terror and confusion. And it made the taste of the first wolf’s blood that flowed into my mouth taste all the more delicious. The taste of the crimson liquid that poured out of his torn throat fueled my baser instincts. It awoke the monster I truely was. The warmth. The hunger. The energy. As his life slowly slipped away, it poured into mine.

I could hear the panic behind me. The fear. The confusion. The wolves running away, while the lamb stood frozen. Running forward, past the lamb, I tackled the two wolves. My claws riping into their bodies, tearing their flesh from their bones, as a shower of blood soon turned everything red. Their screams of pain is ecstasy to my ears.

And then I hear the lamb’s scream. Even though I was her savior from the wolves that would have preyed upon her, I was still a monster. If anything, I was worse than the wolves to her. I was a monster inside and out. Covered in gore. A fanged horror from a nightmare.

Yet before I could run, like I normally would, I heard a single gunshot. Then another, and another. Three sharp pains pierced my back as my world started to become hazy. Stumbling around, I saw my own wolf. Clad head to toe in a sleek black body armour, his face hidden behind a visored helmet that was as black as his heart. Another three shots echoed out from his gun, as three darts pierced my torso, pumping drugs into my system. My world was slipping. I wasn’t dead. I wasn’t dying. But I couldn’t move.

I could see him tower over me, as I lay on the ground. He raised a hand to the side of his helmet, activating communication back to the facility.

“Subject 7 has been retrieved. Please send a retreaval team to my location.” came his cold voice, as though he was smirking at me through the darkness.

“Th… thank you sir… that… that monster…” stuttered the voice of the lamb. Her voice was angellic, yet tinged with fear and gratitude as I heard her approach him.

I saw him holster his pistol that was loaded with the darts. I saw him pull out his second pistol, that was heavier and more vicious than the first.

I saw him turn around to face the lamb.

I saw him point his gun at the lamb.

I saw him pull the trigger as she screamed.




“All witnesses have been eliminated. Send a clean up team too.” he added to his communication.

I wanted to run. I wanted to fight. I wanted to just raise a single arm.

All I did was close my eyes as everything faded to black.

The City Grows

Filed under: Poetry — Harlequinn @ 6:24 am
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Silent, still, the woodland sleeps,
As birds and bugs not stir.
Then morning rise, as rabbit leaps,
Till the forest sings it song.

A gentle scene of river stream,
As autumn leaves do fall.
Silence heralds an eerie call,
That rumbles the bramble thorns.

With ashen veil, and grinding gears,
Axes chop with glinting steel.
Towers claw through choking fog,
While cars scuttle like steely bugs.

Silent, still, the city sleeps,
As birds and bugs not stir.
Then morning rise, as coffee brews,
Till traffic begins to swell.

Creeping Madness

Filed under: Poetry — Harlequinn @ 6:09 am
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I hear them scuttling in the walls,
Silent sliding under doors.
Dark and spindly, with their legs,
Creeping, crawling on their webs.
Closer, closer they approach,
To my madness, they encroach.
Every time I see one stop,
With my boots, I do stomp.
Even with every spider dead,
I hear the ones inside my head…

Over the Hedgie

Filed under: Poetry — Harlequinn @ 6:04 am
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A bundle of quills of endless joy.
That scurrows and burrows
Through sheets of cloth,
And linen folds
On nights of bliss,
And calming days.

With beady eyes and button nose.
With gentle sounds
Of huffs and puffs.
And loving chirps,
That win the hearts
Of steely men.

What delightful games with balled delight.
Through nooks and crannies,
To tubes and tunnels.
Only to snuggle,
And nuzzle,
A warmly chest.

Azure Rose

Filed under: Poetry — Harlequinn @ 6:02 am
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What silent thoughts and water drops,
That dance across the ocean spray,
Of foam and froth and bubble broth,
Do make the silky nereid fae.
But even with their elfen grace,
They naught compare to a single rose,
Whose petals bloom of ethereal tunes,
That makes the hardy devils weep.
And I who ache for feathered touch,
From my flower gilded blue,
That paints my heart a scarlet hue.

Protected: Happy Kittyday

Filed under: Story — Harlequinn @ 5:54 am
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