Vitandi án þess að vita.
(Knowing Without Knowing)
By Morgan Eagleton
The Moon had taken on a new and terrible tone. Locked up with a dead world. Big bad summer came and
called most the madness back to the source. Sand scribblers they tried and true survivors , blanketed the
fields. Monster folk with weird glandular understanding. Habits of the crunching idiots. Peer down into the
void of whirling plasma tundra’s. Blink and crush the sleeping place.
The crisped and hard boiled on vacation, slept into the safe zone. New fury with green glazed eye.
Before the beyond became, in blood and oily retreat.
The weather turned against them, the swell came swift and strong.
The group assembled along the Northern ridge. The Griever was a hunchback , it had the tempers and
sobbed and slobbered along the fuller end of a long necked cask of fermented soups. Kid clunko chimed in
with a split lip whistle, as another shelled varmint stripped of its gummy red meats slapped into the
growing pile at the base of the sad hollering stack. A stream of oozing spittle washed away traces of the
soft silting embankment. Exposing knuckles of rounded sinew and stretched hides. Howl sounds chatter
and drone out the electric and glass-like fields of scream time.
She had become the wind and would grab you if she could.
Where you would sail into the upper dusts and learn the exquisite fear of falling face first.
The eye I had traded, for a small thin length of condor fur. The big thing in the wheel cart twisted it
playfully trough the intricate carvings on an old switching staff . The deal was made and I wanted no part
of their happy collecting. I was a man of serious intent. I was a down right do-gooder, a proper passer
through and a man with a tooth ache.
Then it happened. The storming spindles pierced and spun into the blanket of ashy grease. Jettisoned from
some high up place to be exacted with lazer gleam, splice and the dusters did choke. Laid to waste in the
gloom of smoke and muscle seize, we clambered back to the source and spit into the nothingness.
We with red burned faces, we traveled back in time.
I am the great here after. To where the honey was the suckling swine.
Then in beeswax formed blossoms all grand and some echoing chimed .
Blessed by doomed and passerby the hive laid gaping with exposed nerve.
All grim slid the weight. An overture of yelping jesters sprung along the waters edge on spindled limbs.
Static was the speak and stutters the clutch. By what new release was the stream spilling from. What
chamber had ruptured and allowed such slow decay. The only one who knew had left for the upper spheres
years before. Leaving behind only folk tales of the upheavals and the day of the rope.
We were headed for a new romantic nightmare.
Contact Morgan for more art and stories.