There are things occurring in the moment of a blink, a fraction of a second, or in a brief span of existing. These are my moments in time, my events of fantasy and horror.

It's a moment in time… of i

eyesight… the findings of dawn

In the depths of your stare I am shackled by confusion, I am
exposed bare. I taste the scent of your momentary wonder, a delicate smile.
Constrained I feel a subtle excitement’s reward, oh… so peaceful at war.
Imagine… such in thy eyesight’s joy. Yet, waking to the silence always I am
terrified. I can never remember how to find the sounds of my heart in its
beating or hear the motions of its death. The shifts in the dream are always
the same. I remember that night, that instance of dismay, as images of
death ever enveloping like invaders of a distant existence steal my joy. It
was a horrid moment that has twisted itself deep into my soul. The rains
fell in continuous angers of weighted drops showing no sympathy in their
gathering upon the broken body. I found it in the garden, my tiny toll, all
her child-like images in shattered distortions of pain. He had skillfully
worked his craft, leaving her in an artistic glory of a lifeless death.
"Sody, Sody, my voice would crackle long into the night, my head
is captured softly by my fingers, they linger, their touch upon my unshaven
face, "Sody, Oh, my Sody"
"Yes, Poppy, here Poppy, her voice seemed to float into me then
fade leaving a sweet smell ending in a taste of sourly decay, then still
again she teased, "Yes Poppy, here Poppy, Why? Poppy."
I looked down at the tools, these hideous creations of connected
parts, these mindless individuals who in their movement do so gracefully
with tenderness. Empty souls they carry in their tips, such hunger they
crave as they gently ever so lightly trace my unshaven face. As they comfort
my sadden smile. I would if I could suffer truly for this that It has done.
Such shallow whisper’s it,
"I shall wait in the shadows, rejoicing my dreams would it not be
for my passing. I shall stand in the mist of light-fall, celebrating in love
and laughter my deeds in passing. Would it that I enter DARKNESS, with a
joyful glow, song and merriment dwell even in passing. I shall sit upon a
stone of gentleness listening to the howlers in passing… low, yet the bones
that keep us parted this deed do suffer I… Sody, Oh my Sody, long into the
night I’ll cry
* * *

The Soul of my Beast...

These are the cold times of my heart, fallen pains to be awaken...
if only the dreams, my fantasies release me from the feast I crave. I am the
soul of my beast.

The year of Weep’s Ending, 1298

I am keeping this journal because I believe myself to be in some
danger and because I have no other way of recording my fears... Inasmuch as
I see the ruins, still I feast on the surviving monologue whispering it
enchantment, quickening the sight of death. I stand looking out across the
remains of my tangled lands, from the huge white willow tree, to the muddy
banks of the Siora River with her thick crimson waters shivering as the
night air dances overhead. The scattered ruins of what once was my home lay
waste to the cold embrace of the night and the forgotten gentleness of the
Siora now cries in her dark silence, as spasmic ripples converge by the
weightless dripping rain, such torment upon her bloody liquids.
In their distorted elegance the stone walls that surround the main
Keep, this moment suffers in a grasping death. The stones no longer hold,
strangled by the raw destruction of some horrified rampage. My lands now
deeply disfigured and torn of its joyful green... and unseen creatures of
the night in their singing disarrange the silence, starving and slowly slip
into the hollows of their existence. It, the soul of my beast I have
released from its confinement, setting free its shadows hungering as they
twist their lifeless fingers into the heart of my birth grounds. The decayed
waste that survives is my only witness of this terror, it has come and gone
in the quickening of the night, stealing that essence of a satisfied reverie
from the land. It is this time that has marked its glory with such a hideous
view, angered that I have escaped, yet amused at my return to a null
embrace... in company of a stilled smile. I am the salience of mixed
emotions, succumbed to the evil that bleed from the wounds of my terrifying
This place, my quiet nightmare, the elements of our existence is not in
our knowing, but in our imagination. We survive, we encounter things that
dwell in the tar-pits of mind, things not always confined to the ugly, but
somehow dipped in beauty and the illusions of life. Such dreams walking hand
and hand, leaving only dark and stilled silhouettes, nightling roaming
mindless with black hollow eyes, gazing at the dimming light of a lonesome
moon, reflecting on the dead moment of being alive. Oh, how I wonder will
the signs follow the right course of the wind or am I just in the heart of
this play? I wonder at this moment if others can find the reality of mind to
see what is the true of real evil... so black in texture that it flows in a
dead still, that it drips the mucous of its fungal breath along its wake,
this evil of such grotesque intent. Alone now I sit riding through the still
of the night, traveling in a carrier guided by a faceless coachman’s hand
whip with six snake heads laughing in the wind. Never will I escape the soul
of my beast with such wicketness reflecting in the eyes of my mirror.

* * *

The year of renewal of Weep’s Ending, 1948

As the remains of this journal still lingers, as am I covered by
the foulness of my fears and this tale has yet become twisted as the wind
bleeds... so it be, the beginning.

Willie, sat in his backyard watching his mother hang their clothes on
the wire-line. He watched as she let her body sway back and forth to the
quiet rhythm of her singing, blending gently with the soft movements of her
pitch Indian braided hair, dangling in its single knot down her back.
Willie’s mother looked to be at peace as she turned and looked at him, then
"Willie, what you doing boy?" That’s all she said, just, "Willie what
you doing boy?" Then turning back to her hanging business and that smile of
hers’ traveling in its place. A thought gripped Willie’s mind, something his
Pa always said while he and Willie sat watching his mother doing her hanging
business day after day.
"Her face has been sculpted by the Lord’s own and her body molded by
the Father’s whispers."
"Willie, what you doing boy?" she held her smile as she waited
listening to the thoughts Willie played, then they came,
"Watch’en, that’s all Mama, watch’en."
The wind rolled carefully around from behinds Willie, never minding the
woman busy at her work. The empty motion filled the boy gently, touching and
coolly nipping at his clean yellow shirt. Though, Willie pain no mine to the
whispers, he heard the sounds many times while alone at his quiet place...
still for the wind to come this close to his home did sit on a wonder. He
watched his mother nearing the end of her hanging business and he watched
her move unaware of the wind in her presence. Willie sat in the same place
he and his Pa sat, his mind slowly weakening to the wind, only to live again
as his mother spoke,
"Willie, what you doing boy? Where’s your mind been, boy?"
These were the slow moment of the day, as Willie knew and he watched
the wind roll in the empty space, moving away for some quieter places to
play. Willie sat for a moment or two... then moved off from his place with
the wind at his back. The wind whispered by with nothing in particular in
mind of importance, still it moved along... then it stopped and lingered a
moment over a lone body curled in a ball of warmth. Gently the wind toyed
the lone figure with its cool fingers as if testing the motionlessness. It
always enjoyed this gentle play, moving this way and that about some form,
caressing softly, always aware that it must not touch in anger. As the wind
swirled and swayed deeper into the folds of the stilled form, the taste it
savored turned stale. Mindful the wind moved over the lifeless form with a
confusing mixture of emotions. It drew away from the stilled life as the
wind changed to a hue of twilight and deep in the shadow of an aging bone
white willow tree, the boy Willie stood. He watched the fibers of decay now
the only essence of the form being swept away by the wind. He watched filled
with the whispers in his mind,
"Willie, what you doing boy?
"Watch’en that’s all watch’en." Willie is moving through the eternal of
man’s existence and beyond... and his assurance is greeted with the
satisfaction of knowing the soul of his beast.

The misery of madam coolia

She… let the rain drift into her mind and through her body with
the presence of its own and as she moved back and forth in a gentle rocking
the whispers of the rain stilled her soul. The drops of water upon her face
flowed like smooth music, velvet soft liquid rhythms easing her into the
shadows of her dreams. Madam Coolia, reached forward into the windy fluids,
touching, and caressing… seeking her peace. Yet, when the rain no longer
falls, without its gentleness, only the sharp edges of her nightmares will
she embrace. Madam Coolia, last of the rain dancers living in the caves of
mist and fire. Alone she has lived without the company of others, long gone
into death of the surrounding wastelands. Hungry black liquid sands enjoying
the tears of her people. They have left her alone to sit watching as one by
one they return with the sadness of their live answering with deep hurting
eyes. Scared and tormented they look to her in their grief, wondering she
thinks if only the rain this day would dissolve the pain. It is the misery
of life she feels, to be alone in the rain, to dance in the watery spillage
of birth that flows in her soul. She sits waits, the rain whispers,
"Come, dance for me daughter of the rain" Movements tender and
subtle slipped around her in a cascade of rippling vapors, drops of gentle
dew gathered on the surface of her body. Madam Coolia, longed for the
ecstasy that accompanied the power of the rain. Slowly she moves in the
rhythm of her dance, her body gliding through the dampness of life, the rain
"Come dance for me Coooolia, dance for me my daughter, dance."
* * *


The winds cut their way through the cracks in the old shanty hut, yet
the man inside sat there between his nonexistent walls unaffected and
removed by his surroundings. He ignored the whipping sting of the cold air
that gathered within the winds. Alone he sat there on an old bent paint can,
his eyes out of focus, clogged by tears. The streaming flow fell into a soft
splatter onto the dead body that laid on sandy floor below.
"It’s quiet time my sweets. You just rest there in your quiet time."
The hollow whispers vibrated all around the man, but he never noticed them
or maybe just did not care about their presence.
"Quiet time honey, you just rest in your quiet time." Reaching down he
gently stroked the stilled body as if life would begin anew. He waited as if
expecting the tiny head to rise up and turn looking at him once again with
sparkled colored eyes.
"Quiet time, my dear, you just stay there and have your quiet time.
You rest a bit, Ha. . .Ha. . .Yea." An eerie shadow drifted with those words
each time he spoke them, still he stroked the tiny body. . .dead cold with
his even deader cold hands. . .yet with a tenderness that only he could
Only moment ago he had seen the small thing alone and cold, hidden in
the corner. He watched in silence as it made those sadden lonely sounds that
one makes when afraid. It was his moment of glory. . .his purpose for being
alive in his cold dead shell. . .in his quiet time.
"Shhhh. . .you just rest a spell, enjoy your quiet time. . .Ha, Ha. .

Its a moment in time… of i
Rudolph V. Accoo, Jr.