Angel without Wings and the Avenging Angel Part II

For those who haven’t read part one, just click this link!

Observatories have spotted a massive asteroid parsecs out from the orbit of Neptune. Amateurs and professionals calculated the course of the doomsday rock, hurtling at 350,000 km/min, while scientists and astronomers of a dozen nationalities broke into nervous sweat. This was no near Earth object (NEO), 600,000 tons caroming toward Earth. At precisely within 35 mnutes, the Western Hemisphere would be pulverized to cataclysmic proportions phenomenally greater to what extinguished the dinosaurs.

To the astronomers, they only saw the asteroid. But for the Anjaryan waystation hiding behind Jupiter’s bulk, two patrol craft registered a cloaked merchant vessel dropping out of hyperspace with a gravity net pulling behind a moonshaker at the fraction of speed of light. The captains of both fighters exchanged communications via the etherwave.
“Klevlor Captain 1, are we going to fire on the rogue ship? We have Anjaryan citizens at the collision coordinates. This would surely constitute a violation of the Orion Treaty of Non-Aggression towards Non-Spacefaring Races,” Klandax blandly stated.
“Klandax Captain 2, I have received an order from High Command. We are ordered to maintain our position and not to engage the ship.
“Very well”, Klandax replied, “this is a sight to behold.”
Either the Higher Powers have decreed that the Earthlings are now a potential threat to the rest of the galaxy, a danger upsetting the already precarious equilibrium of energies and ecosystems therein, or both I and the High Planetary Council know Aisha all too well, Klevlor mused.

Earth was now a blue-green marble in Elexor’s forward viewscreen, although visuals became blurry and shaky as the Pride of Zalmair’s hull shuddered at the load the ship was tethered to, blazing all the way from the constellation of Canis Major. Alone sat Elexor in the pilot’s console, his mind filled with thoughts of conflagration. Now he was contemplating whether to crash with the asteroid or to veer and let the rock strike Earth at the last possible moment. Elexor Zalmair Rodalzer-Vendetma had thought nothing since Aisha’s funeral but a pyre burning with Earthlings who repaid Aisha’s humanitarianism with bestiality.
“Now, all of you die!” growled Elexor through gritted teeth.
“There is enough death”, soothed a familiar voice behind him. He spun around and beheld her ethereal being in seeming solidity.
“But they killed you!” Elexor stood facing Aisha, looking more vital every second.
“He killed me. One human, Elexor, my love. I beseech you now, pull this ship away from Earth.” Her eyes entreated and bored into his heart.
“There must be justice. For you!” Elexor’s hands clenched.
“Yes, and we can still be together.”
“But you are dead, beloved.”
“Do you love me?” She spoke the words that they seemed to kiss his forehead yet sound coming from far away. Aisha moved closer now. Earth now became a slightly bigger marble.
“Yes.”
“Do you have faith in me?”
“Yes.”
“Then do as I say. All will be forgiven.”

The asteroid missed Earth by a few hundred thousand kilometers. Scientists were relieved. Many were wondering whether their computer models fell victim to a glitch in Chaos theory or they had just witnessed the asteroid sidestep the planet by a deliberate redirection in its former angle of intersection with Earth’s orbit. Some say it was due to the wobble in the asteroids rotation that caused the shift. Others asserted it was the rock’s composition that might’ve reacted to the Earth’s magnetic field.

A thin bearded drug dealer was before a plain dark apartment door. He called out in a raspy, hoarse voice to the occupant inside. No one answered he knocked, and the door suddenly gave way a crack. He went in and found the room that doubled as a dining and receiving room empty, and his eyes found the entrance to the bedroom. He went in and was dismayed at the empty bed, bathed in gloom, although a slivers of light entered through tears and holes in the thick, color faded floral curtains. Thinking he’d find the cash the user owed him thereabouts, he went to the bed. He felt drops falling on his head. He touched, and saw red spots on his palm. Some more fell on his arms and hands. Irked and intrigued, he looked up. Rusty, the junkie, was nailed to the ceiling, body bruised from blows in a form of a cross, partly illuminated by the window above the curtains. . The hardened pusher and ex-con let out a long wail heard three stories down.

Rustico drove into a deserted warehouse, easing the battered brown Chevy behind the construction of metal and wood. He turned his attention to the young girl, quivering at their being suddenly alone. The friendly, smiling stranger now placed his hand on her leg uncovered by her pastel cream skirt, chemise, and hazel jacket ensemble.
“Uh-uh I thought you was going to bring me to the arcade games?” she quavered.
“Actualay, sugah, ah got some uthah game an mind”, he drawled. His hand inched under the skirt now.
“N—!” she was slammed back on the upholstery as Rustico slapped a hand to cover her mouth. A switchblade snicked on his other hand.
“You little slut, you thought I bought you Coke floats and cotton candy for nuthin? Wait till ah am finished with your—wuuuhhh?!!!” The glass on the car door behind him crashed. His face and arms were slashed with thickening red lines as he was grabbed with inexorable force out of the car. The girl shut her ears and eyes at Rustico’s screams and shrieks like he was slowly disemboweled. She mercifully fainted at the sight of his head thudding the car hood, eyes showing a puzzled look. She never recalled a thing afterward.

Dreadlocked Rastaman heard the footsteps behind him, as he was about to hand over ecstacy pills to a raver in yellow and black striped stockings, red sando, and pink bob hair, bent on OD’ing herself. That’s the nth time he heard those haunting sounds. He bolted, dropping a icepick along with a bottle of ecstacy pills already dipping into the street’s greasy puddles reflecting the stars. A petite woman with chestnut hair approached and led the disturbed youth away. Rastaman was hit by a speeding Lamborghini Countach which lost no time running away. His skull crushed on the street, .

Two angels observed coolly what happened, on the roof of one the heaven piercing skyscrapers. Both were wearing shiny dark blue Armani suits and dark Ray-Ban shades, lest their iridiscent eyes startle people.
“Brother and friend, these two have managed to cross over parallel planes with technology of their species. It seems this Elexor would never tire of vengeance on Aisha’s killer, and his other selves. Is it not vengeance is the domain of our Master?”
“Nay”, replied the other, “it is His Will, otherwise He would have sent an Angel of Death to smite them both. Praise be His Holy Name!” Both prostrated themselves, their transparent wings spreading over their backs for a moment until they stood.
“But he had drove Father Ross Tipedo raving mad before this!”
“He was about to molest a choirboy, so I’m told. It is now Aisha’s vocation to prevent tragedy in whatever form. So much the better to thwart the plans of our Adversary and his minions, our fallen brothers.”
“So be it!” They flew into the night sky.

In a hut by the sea, two meta-humans made love under a bright full moon. Very much in love with each other, and with their adopted people. Pleasure sounds echoed in rhythm with the lapping waves caressing the beach. Aisha loved with a regenerated clone of her former body, inhabited by her powerful essence. Elexor expertly moved within her, a muscular hybrid coming from DNA taken from the fallen strands of hair from Brad Pitt and George Clooney. In this plane, they were president and vice president, respectively.

Filed under: Behavior, Horror Thriller, Metaphysics, Psychology, Sci-Fi, Short Story, Writing, death, lovers

Angel without Wings and the Avenging Angel

Aisha, whose full name was Ai-Sharvinex Magnami-Solaris, was a wonder worker, literally. Her petite, pixie-like, chestnut haired beauty was made startling at the same time disarming by her bright brown eyes and an easy smile that quite won’t shine her teeth when she smiled and raised her arched, somewhat plucked eyebrows. Still, she effortless slipped among the throngs of humanity like she always did in the past, doing her best to alleviate human suffering and avert tragedy anyway she could. Deep in her thoughts on how to dissuade a male friend from committing suicide, she had not divined the bipedal wolf spotting her and marking her as a victim, amid a spring evening where couples walked past, holding hands, and children ran ahead of their parents after having been regaled by a stage play, coming from a nearby theater.

In other times she had not been so careless, or should we say, carefree. She was instrumental in acquiring intelligence on Hitler’s plans to possess and detonated the first nuclear bomb, and subsequently, foiled the Fuhrer’s agents tightly guarding Oppenheimer and the other physicists, and successfully absconding them to the United States. The Final Solution horrified and appalled her and the others, at such wanton man’s cruelty to man. Countless Jews, Eastern Europeans, gypsies, and political dissidents only have a vague recall of her waving goodbye, as they were literally snatched from reeking crowded transport trains heading for the concentration camps and death. Set on their way to boats en route to Palestine or to Resistance movements outside Nazi Europe, they whispered their gratitude to her in myriad of tongues, calling her an angel. How they were rescued and why, their memories and world views could not comprehend, but to the sci-fi enthusiasts, would surely surmise and understand.

Aisha never aged in her human form, as a priestess of Brigid, dispensing herbal cures to the Keltoi, from colds to leprosy. She was the superb sword-wielder, decapitating a band of Visigoths about to gang-rape a Roman peasant girl. In the here and now, she was the biophysicist on the verge of bringing to the world the first laser emitter that could precisely excise any cancer cell from the body, with the first genetically altered anti-bodies that could cure AIDS also in line for release, to be cheaply administered to patients around the globe.

She saved others, however, she could not save herself. Deep within a densely wooded park, anemic round glass lamps stood mute witnesses. The perp went round to intercept her path, and pretended to walk in the opposite direction, passed her. He hit Aisha on the nape with a very hard chop, a vulnerable part on any anthropomorphic species. She collapsed on the soft soil of the footpath. The wolf, Rusty, hungrily appraised the supple unconscious prone form as his member became engorged with metamphetamine-poisoned blood. Grunting, he took her by the armpits. A kitchen knife fell from his jacket pocket. He picked it up and went on to drag her into a darker grove.

An early morning jogger almost had a seizure at the sight of her violated body. Moments later, CSI, police, and paramedics attracted a crowd of onlookers. Little did they know that Aisha was never brought to any crime lab for autopsy, or the true identities of the people who took her away from the prying eyes of the media.

~~~

Elexor awoke from a nightmare. His pointed ears flexed rigidly and he was bathed with beads of orange sweat from his pale purple face to his bluish chest, jerking from his bed. His vision of Aisha was so strong and vivid it was as if she was above him, entreating him not to do what, he did not know. His green eyes saw a silhouette of pale blue Aisha, in a translucent shift standing on the balcony overlooking the city, hundreds of feet below, all enclosed within a hexagonally faceted, immense dome. Elexor stood, naked, a purple elf-form in all masculine splendor. The vision did not fade.

“Aisha? You’re back from your Earthlings?”
“It’s nice to see you again, with only my essence free from material bounds.”
“What do you mean?” Elexor gasped. Aisha turned and held the railing. She looked like she would jump. He ran to the open sliding doors in two easy bounds, as Anjaryan bodies have ions that biologically slightly repelled gravity. He was confident Aisha would never die of a freefall, no Anjaryan did. When he reached her, she vanished.

Days later, the terrible news reached Aisha’s and Elexor’s families. A simple service was held to honor her departed spirit and great soul. The next day. Elexor was nowhere to be found.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Filed under: Behavior, Metaphysics, Psychology, Sci-Fi, Short Story, Writing, death, love, lovers, relationships

Vampires, Werewolves, Witches and the Human Desire to Supersede Fate

Ever since ancient times, the finiteness of human existence have caused people to think of ways to overcome human frailty and limitations that often led to tragedies and frustration, especially with those that entertained great attachments, evoked powerful emotions over things and/or people, or nursed obsessions. Take for example the desire to triumph over death. Ancient Egyptians have thought that perfect mummification and leaving provisions in the burial chamber would assure a blissful after-life. Having read Anne Rice’s Queen of the Damned I got apprised of a fictional history of vampires in the time of the pharaohs, which is not surprising for a culture steeped in depictions of the next life in their mural hieroglyphics. Thus, it can be said that mythical or paranormal entities are extensions of people’s imagination segueing to endowing ordinary people with extraordinary capabilities as a subconscious yearning to have more than what life in reality has meted on one.

Vampires would represent the seduction of immortality, and cupidity for beauty, and the hunger for enduring sensuality, appreciating in the eternal night the artisty of human artifice and forms.

Werewolves would constitute the violent, primal, and vicious nature wanted by those who would want to break free from decorum, propriety, and just let loose that animal streak and shed a fellow person’s blood. That lycanthropes rip livers from their victims may just as well symbolize the concept of usurping another’s strength through the consumption of that person’s internal organs in a direct transfer of energies, not so different that of a vampire’s source of eternal youth, another unvoiced desire of some who resent being wrinkled and hunched.

Witches are the archetype of women empowerment, ancient feminism in its potent fantastical form if one sees it that way. The avidity for the eloquence, of having the power to enunciate words that bring about changes in nature and move objects could be a stammerer’s wet dream. Controlling spirits, demons, or elementals would certainly appeal to a true to life control freak. Or to a die hard nonconformist, having no patience with bureaucratic red tape or asking permission to borrow things. However, there might be true to life witches out there who have nothing in the form of bad intentions but to help the helpless when material and legal means impede such charity and sympathy.

However legend paints or describes paranormal creatures, and no matter how many unmentioned here that represent one human bent or another are there in existence, there is no escaping the fact that power of human thinking may have created them and their reality may be too real for comfort. So, on one moonless night and you spy one whom you think might be stalking you as prey or a possible meal, there is only one thing you can do: run.

Filed under: Behavior, Essay, Psychology, Social Commentary, Writing, death, thoughts , cultural anthropology, history, paranormal, symbolism, vampires, werewolves, witches

Mover Versus Moved

Which is greater of the two?
The mover or that which is being moved?
We often reason that our emotions
Get the better of us
They come from instincts I say
Instincts engraved in stone-glyphed dee en ay
Hence the survival mechanisms
Or the bony hand
Leading out of the tunnel door.

Which is inferior?
The being-force-mover-life
Us
Seemingly segregated in the spheres of the brain
Among genitalia, appendages, head and torso
Or is it a unity that has power over corruptible flesh?
Moving in perpetual motion
Being above body
The final arbiter of our instincts and actions?

Does the mover cease to be
As the moved falls to dust?
Tell me
Does that which cannot be weighed, measured, and catalogued
That loves, decides, and feels
Come solely from dust and unto dust shall return?
If the final analysis asserts
The mover would be free of dust and not dissipate with the wind
Then it stands to reason
The mover
Can rise above the body
The body seemingly obsessed
To hurry back to the sands.

Filed under: Behavior, Existentialist Poetry, Metaphysics, Philosophy, Poetry, Psychology, Sci-Fi Poetry, Writing, death, thoughts

Peoplepoemage on a Kiss-and-Gossip Girl and the Losers She Beds…

I Shot the Sheriff

Big protruding lips must have
Lollipopped alot
And sweetness was spread around
Lovers abound
And never found
When their names sound
In her stories ground
Her friends in shock
She won’t shut up
Sup up the popularity
Of a well-dressed porn star
So by the next tryst
I knew the gist
And I was out of there.

When someone just keeps on talking about who slept with who, it just saps the conversation of any intellectual value, when friendly gatherings should at least benefit us for a moment or two. Gossip is meant for two whisperers in my book, so when she is spewing trash to our circle, I thinking, she has got to go. We have plenty of decent girlfriends who are offended, but are too timid to point this out to her. We have told her of her tactlessness, but, after awhile, she remained oblivious to her impropriety.

She got too far when she hurled sarcastic comments our way without apparent provocation. We are waiting for her to apologize, as mature people should do when they offend someone, but she clung to her smug superiority, so, good riddance. By losing friends, may she learn that group tolerance can only go so far.

!!!~~~!!!~~~!!!

When a Friend Chooses You Over a Slut

Tall man of mythic proportion
Holding on to an impotent potion
Couldn’t meet a decent chick
Settled for the nearest ethical hick
After my mind shone rays of almost queer light
On his boring-pick-up lines-rite
He sided with the one with scarlet respect
Just for a prematurely ending peck
Well well it’s his loss not mine
I had my share of pasts so fine.

Can you guess who’s the girl my airhead acquaintance-office mate-friend has supported? Yes! You guessed right, who else but her above! He feels like he’s a knight in shining armor, but, tsk, tsk, the latest is, she confided to a friend who lost no time telling me, she’s just using him as a prop, and she doesn’t even have plans for him, as in nada! But in his mind, “Yeah, I’m a hound dog, I’ll get some, finally.”

Choices people make, in this case, is it friendship or freaking, just shows a person’s depth. I’m not saying they’re beyond redemption, golly, they might be the very best of friends to someone else I don’t know or maybe in the near future, but I won’t let them not spew their trash in my precious time.

Filed under: Behavior, Peoplepoemage, Poetry, Psychology, Social Commentary, Writing, thoughts

Gods in the Mind

Screens flashing images
Checker the cumulus sky
Bright and gay and ominous and gloomy
Avatars of the one who dreams them
A lightning bolt vaporizes a horror flick
A preacher eloquent, his audio enhanced
While an armored mercenary blitzes a jackass on primetime
Nothing is wasted, photons return to the source
While this High Council censors
Or allows a steady stream
Reporting counseling prohibiting recommending for the head
The sun and blue sky burst and bathes the fort
The Light anthromorphizes on the Throne in the Blazing Eye
The demigods bow low and pay homage
Vision fades and are back to godly business
Which shows to blast and which to add to favorites.

Filed under: Behavior, Metaphysics, Philosophy, Poetry, Psychology, Sci-Fi Poetry, Writing, thoughts

Monogamy vs. Polyamory

The House on Verdant Hill

When I looked into her eyes
I saw a house on a verdant hill
Crowned by apple and lemon trees
And within its windows
I saw you cooking
Smelled the flavor
A most beguiling casserole
Offered me a taste with a large wooden spoon
And reality blurred
Back to the here and now
Her smile greeted my return
“I lost you there for a sec, are you okay?”
I sob, not knowing what to say
I’d love to come back to your house
This time we’ll fill it with cherub cheer
Never to leave again.

~~~

Sexy Cynicism

Domicile is a prison
“I do” a fatal decision.

Colourful is a collection of underwear
Scented candles of heated pair (Oh!).

Beauty calls desire never wanes
Screams echo in kitschy halls as pleasure pains.

So many fish in the sea
So many wish one more naked plea.

Partake in the party of positioning two
Netherkiss in the nude with the notoriously new.

Filed under: Behavior, Deconstructionist, Love Poems, Philosophy, Poetry, Psychology, Rebutting Poetry, Writing, love, relationships, thoughts