The Silent Sentinels

They stood there in silence for an endless age
Their pact their compulsion, their promise a cage
To stand in attendance, a vigil sublime
Steadfast and unswerving ‘till the end of time

Armour was their raiment, their weapon a sword
On their lips was offered a silent prayer to the lord
Their charge was a secret to protect at all cost
And failure would mean all they held dear would be lost

And so they stood like two statues of stone
No promise of rest, no place for a home
Loyal and steadfast and quiet as the grave
No trifle would distract these Sentinels brave

Then one day it happened, the merrymakers came
Boisterous and happy, their joy without shame
The silence was shattered, but they little cared
When saw them the Sentinels, they stopped dead and stared

They saw two dark figures which stood straight and tall
Next to whom a giant would seem small
Most would have been cowed by these gladiators of old
But not the head merrymaker he shouted, bold

“What’s this here friends? Here’s some new sport
What about that quiet one, he looks a sort!
What about the other one, all silent and glum
Let’s stay here a while, and have us some fun!”

And so it began, distraction was the game
Would the Sentinels flinch or would they stay the same?
The merrymakers searched for some kind of token
That would render the Sentinels’ vigilance broken

Look!  One yells out challenges and invokes his gods!
Look!  One’s mouthing insults – he’s shouting the odds!
Look!  One of them’s laughing to see such a farce!
Look!  One’s dropped his trousers – he’s waving his arse!

The party it threatened to last for all week
Insults and gestures and things thrown in cheek
Yet through all the chaos, the deafening noise
These mighty Sentinels not once lost their poise

Silent as the void, immovable as granite
No force that had ever been born on this planet
Could test the resolve of these warriors true
And soon the merrymakers ran out of mischief to do

But the leader of this party, whose name was Stan
Had altogether a much darker plan
Quietly and deftly, away from the action
He drew his dread weapon, the Sword of Distraction

This weapon was forged in the fires of Hell
Upon it was bestowed the most evil spell
‘Twas there it was cursed as a Sentinel’s bane
That would bring them down screaming and dying in pain

Stealing in quietly he brandished the sword
Uttering oaths to his Satanic Lord
Stan slashed at the guardians, drawing their blood
Aiming to finally finish them for good

And as the Sentinels staggered and collapsed

Before any significant time had elapsed

They heard a sound that would haunt them in the hereafter

The sound of demonic triumphant laughter

Trapped here when still the world was young

Guarded by both of the Sentinels as one

A demon whom Hell called the foulest of all

Was free to bring about humanity’s fall

Stan, who thought he could bargain with the beast

Stared in surprise, the first life to be ceased

The monster swallowed this foolish man whole

Then greedily feasted on his mortal soul

And then the merrymakers’ laughter, like their dreams

Was forgotten in the wake of their agonised screams

Fighting, fleeing, pleading, all no good

And the ground disappeared, awash with their blood

Soon all the land was an orgy of death

As millions lay gutted and drawing their last breath

From the entrails of children it constructed a nest

Its helm was from bone with a skull as its crest

The beast fed on human life to sate its foul hunger

The more people died, the more it grew stronger

‘Till the last human’s flesh was shredded and unfurled

And the demon prepared to devour the world

Yet even as the monster opened its huge jaws

Even as Earth’s future seemed a hopeless cause

The Planet found hope in its hour of strife

For the Sentinels still clung to a slim spark of life

The Sentinels had not perished as Stan had supposed

While they lived, the enemy of life they opposed

And uttering their silent prayer to the Lord

They reached for their scabbards and each drew a sword

The demon had grown to a monstrous size

Feeding not only on life, but on lies

Two weapons could stop it, forged in the world’s youth

The Sentinel’s weapons, the great Swords of Truth

The demon ceased feeding, for something did rankle

A pain and a coldness spreading from its ankle

‘Twas there that the Truth Swords did pierce its skin

And the demon stopped growing, so the shrinking could begin

And then something truly amazing occurred

Voices that in history had never been heard

Rang out to invoke on the demon a curse

The demon’s voice had been fearful, but the Sentinels’ were worse

“Back, demon!  Back to your cold, empty cage!

An end to your mission of evil and rage!

Back to the prison from whence you were sprung!

To stay ‘till the end of the Universe is come!”

With a great howl of anger, then a scream of despair

The demon diminished in a cold rush of air

To be sucked back into its terrible cage

To stay till the cosmos would die of old age

And so for the Earth, the ordeal was over

Its animals had life; its forests were in clover

But no human now lived, to stand, rise or fall

The folly of one man had ended them all

On a world now bereft of man, woman and nation

Stand two Silent Sentinels, guarding all of creation

Advice to passing beings, by all means look at them

But if you value existence don’t go and distract them!

Snake In My House

There's a snake in my house

I've barricaded the door

I shiver in my room

Hear the slithers on the floor

Snake in my house

I don't want to be here

Poisonous fangs

Heart's stopped with fear

Its venomous kiss

Will send me to my doom

I dwell on this thought

I'm trapped in my room

There's a snake in my house

And it laid an egg

There's millions of young

I'm starting to beg

There's snakes in my room

The walls have turned black

They're looking for a meal

They see me as a snack

There's snakes on my body

There's fangs in my skin

I'm choking on scales

I'm torn limb from limb

They twisted and writhed

And pinned me to my bed

They ripped my insides out

And now I am dead

There's a snake in my house 

That it claimed as its own

It'll come for you soon

When you're all alone

The Art of Dying In Your Sleep

The Country scene was as peaceful as it was empty.  It bled tranquility from the edges of the painting.  The sky was an infinite, featureless blue.  To the foreground of the painting, a hedgerow marched, right to left, into the distance; its stark, leafless thicket broken sporadically by a tall, naked tree.  Beyond the hedge there lay a scene of natural beauty that stretched to the horizon:  Rolling fields demarcated by greener hedgerows that were dotted with individual trees or small groups clustered into small woods; and in the distance, a shimmering river that wended its way to become lost in the valleys that separated the sleepy hillsides.

It would all have been perfect – a paean to the stillness and the serenity of the countryside – were it not for the devouring void that burned through the centre of the picture.   A sinkhole in the painting’s reality had opened up – a perfectly circular whirlpool of entropy that sent ripples outwards from its black heart.  The impact of the void was heightened by a Trompe-l'œil effect, which made the black hole appear at once living and vital, but also bereft of life. 

The void was consuming everything.

“A masterpiece,” commented the observer, a man named Richard Calthorpe.  He was viewing the painting from a hospital bed, the kind of bed one would lie in when being transported to an operating theatre. His black hair contrasted with his pale skin and his malnourished frame, and he was hooked up to a plasma bag and other apparatus which assisted his bodily functions.  Both patient and painting were situated in a spacious, pristine, airy room that was lit with beams of light that poured through the gaps in large, half covered windows.

“And this one is also called ‘Dying in Your Sleep’?” asked Calthorpe to the smartly dressed man who stood beside his bed.

“Indeed,” confirmed the man, whose name was Edward Borman, “as are all of the paintings in this collection.” Borman was slim of frame and sported a thin and greying head of hair, but his eyes blazed and his demeanour was commanding.

Calthorpe considered for a moment and then asked another question. “Who was the artist? What were his circumstances?”

Borman glanced down at Calthorpe before answering in an unwavering voice: “The artist was a young woman called Hope Shawcross, who was tortured to death over a number of days as this painting was created.  She died of her injuries, in her sleep, just after I decided that this painting was complete.”

Borman looked at Calthorpe again, his expression harsh.  “I take it those details don’t make you squeamish,” he said pointedly, “You are playing your full part in this project, and I assure you that Ms Shawcross was a willing party to her fate.  I commissioned her painting, and she agreed the circumstance under which she would create the Magnum Opus of her existence on Earth.

“She died for her art, in order for her life to have meaning.”

In response, Calthorpe croaked a few inaudible words before coughing and clearing his throat. “Yes… yes I understand,” he intoned, “but still the details are somewhat shocking…”

“Perhaps,” conceded Borman, “but as a volunteer for this experiment yourself, it is probable that your fate will be considered no less shocking.  Speaking of which…”

Borman made a small ‘come hither’ gesture towards the doorway of the immaculately maintained room, and Hope Shawcross’s painting was swiftly removed upon its easel by two assistants, while two more placed a new work of art in the same space as the previous one had occupied.

For a few moments the two men contemplated the brush stroked scene that was now before them.

It was a view, from above, of a man that stood upon the edge of a steep cliff.  The man was of sleek frame, was naked from the waist upwards, and his skin seemed to glow against a pitch dark background.  He was leaning forward, his heals lifting and his arms spread wide as he launched himself from the grey rocks at the edge of a cliff; he was diving into emptiness.

The cliff from which the man departed extended downwards forever.  And the blackness that pressed upon it - and into which the man was diving - was similarly infinite.  As with Hope’s painting it was the void that appeared the stronger part of the image, making the other elements fragile, transitory and ephemeral.

“And this one is also called ‘Dying in Your Sleep’,” stated Borman as he studied the painting, “but this one is your vision.”

“Yes,” said Calthorpe with a slight nod, “This is what I have seen, in the dreams you have induced.”

“Hmm,” Borman mused, “the drugs have done their job well.  This is a powerful and disturbing piece.”

At this the smartly dressed business man turned away from the painting, and he gazed at the partly covered windows, temporarily lost to the world. “But is it the vision that I will see…” he whispered to himself.  Borman raised a skeletal, callous covered hand and studied it with a look of fascination and disgust before inhaling sharply.

You have surpassed yourself Calthorpe,” he told the bed ridden artist, “this will be the finest work you will ever produce. 

“And now it is time for your medication. ”

Calthorpe’s inhalation was long, and his lip trembled slightly.  “And when I sleep this time,” he asked, “will I awaken?”

“Only if it is decided there is work still to be done upon your painting,” Borman answered, “and that decision is mine.”

Calthorpe grimaced, and opened his mouth to speak, but then the two assistants reappeared.  This time their task was to remove him.  The artist regarded his commissioner for one last time, his expression one of someone who had missed his chance to say a last goodbye, before the door was shut.  And Borman was left to consider another Magnum Opus of which he had sponsored the creation.

As Borman scrutinized the fatalistic image, a shaft of sunlight pierced the partially open curtains and temporarily illuminated the figure that was about to plunge into oblivion.

Was this a sign? Did this show that the artist’s work was done? If so Borman would give the appropriate instructions for the artist’s next dose.  And then it would be time for Calthorpe to discover the authenticity of his drug induced vision.

Borman glanced back into the sunlight, and then turned again towards the painting.

After a moment’s further deliberation, he made his decision. 

Funayūrei

The next thing I knew I was over the side

The black waters rose up to enfold me

The cold night without

Became the inner night of the ocean's depths

The endless expanse of water

That would become my tomb

My head broke the water's freezing surface

The ship that bore me already receding

To a distant point

On the bleak, storm ravaged horizon

Marooned among the towering waves

Suddenly alone, utterly lost

The waters closed above my pleading lips

Encased in silence my body descends

Towards the locker

Sparks and flashes from dying Neurons

Images from birth to grave

Tears lost at sea

Here's the good ship Francesca

Its business is your pleasure

Her captain will make your voyage a joy

That's certain by any measure

It cuts through the mighty Atlantic

Searching for the Northern Lights

With days of relaxation and shopping

Followed by crazy party nights

Has anyone seen daft old Jim

Who tells stories of his novelty shed

He knocked back a right old skinful

Before he excused himself to bed

We'd better go and check he's alright

Last night was blowing up a storm

He might have fell and banged his head

Before he managed to find his dorm

Jim!  There you are, daft old goat!

Recovered from your evening's repast?

You need to get some food in your belly

Let's go and get some breakfast

You're awfully quiet this morning

Has the hangover got your tongue?

Let's have some hair of the dog

That'll bring back a sense of fun!

Jim, I never took you for a soup fan

That ladle would feed the whole crew!

Don't have the lot you greedy thing

There's more mouths to feed than just you!

"I don't call this a ladle," said Jim coldly

"The true word for this thing is 'hishaku'

It is the tool with which my vengeance

Shall be brought down with fury upon you

"You'll never eat again," pronounced the man with grey skin

"It's not soup but the ocean this thing dishes

For the ocean has judged and found you guilty

And now you're going down to join the fishes

For I fell overboard and was left

I screamed for help, and nobody came

Think on that, when Davy Jones comes for you

And remember that you die in shame"

In truth that was not Jim that stood there

In his place stood a Funayūrei

A name whispered in fear by the eastern folk

A ghost for a soul lost at sea

And from the hishaku as he called it

A flood of saltwater came streaming

And the passengers turned and fled in terror from that place

Filling the ship with their screaming

---

In the cold grey morning I watch, impassive

The last survivors calling out, helpless

Just as I was

Mere specks in an endless valley of water

That rises and falls

And slowly consumes them

Quieter now, they are disappearing one by one

Down to the same place

Becoming as I

Their struggles fade, their spirits bow

Hope fails at last

Silence descending

I remain by the grave

A new sister

Is standing by my side

We depart

Further judgements await

The waves continue, eternal