Southampton Solent University

School of Communications and Marketing

BA(Hons) English

2016

Jennifer Richards

"Immortal"

Word Count: 11,403

Presentation Date: April 2016

Supervisor: Dr Tom Masters

Contents

I. The Day of the Dead 3

II. The wake 3 - 4

III. Descent 5 – 6

IV. Unrest 6 – 7

V. Loki 7 - 8

VI. Pilgrimage 8

VII. A plague upon this house 8 – 9

VIII. Lord of all the beasts 9 – 10

IX. American Dream 10 – 11

X. Morbidity and Mortality 11

XI. Cut loose 12

XII. Empty womb 12 - 13

XIII. Undead 13 – 14

XIV. Fool's gold 14 – 15

XV. Backbone 15 - 16

XVI. Appendix 16

XVII. Bibliography 16

Day of the dead

And the gods took their earth back, a long-standing plague that had left an open wound, festering and choking all that was meant to

thrive. For the first time in millennia, life had begun to flourish, a world, tar black and broken, turning green once again. The birds

took back the sky, their smog ridden home now irradiated with their song. The remains of the longest day, stone steps and charred

streets still wet and crimson, for the world had to be left a reminder of how power, corruption, and disease would be dealt with, and

so, brimstone bodies paved the earth in a perpetual purgatory of decay. Perhaps, however, this was more than that, perhaps this was a

mirror to the divine, for they say that man was created in the image of gods.

To the south, a feeble pyramid, an artefact of the Aztec empire, stood valiantly under the feet of HueHuecoyotl, the immortal

trickster. His face lit up with amusement as he joked to himself about the blind arrogance of mankind, often mistaken for courage, a

fallacy, and all that man had built resembled that. He turned his gaze to the sky as a velvet thunder trickled over the smoking

mountains, a flurry of ravens that soared over the battlefield, and, as it landed, contorted into the illusion of a woman: a crone. Her

pallid skin shone through the dust and wreckage, and as she sauntered toward the platform her crooked feet crushed bone and body.

“Such flimsy flesh, so weak, so quick to rot, a perfect metaphor for the vanquished, wouldn't you agree?” She was the wisest of

women, chieftain of magick and mystery, forever endowed with chaos. Her robes left trails of ash and virulent sparks as she crossed

over the dead and up to greet her counterpart. “Humans were pathetic, a waste of our time, I would agree. Did you fly so far just to

discuss the past, Morrigan?” She continued, ignoring his question; “Even what mankind believed to be strong, resilient and great

crumbles beneath us, this was supposed to be a totem, a sacred piece intended to honour your brothers and sisters. I feel it would be

more accurate to say they built it to honour themselves.” “'T'is all any of them cared about, a legacy, vanity, to curse everything with

their mark. It's a little bit sad, and I can't help but laugh.” Huehue studied her expression “You always were impossible to read..” “I

believe we may have a problem” Morrigan persisted, “I stood by this decision, a necessary change, I still do. That path of war is the

path to peace, but where there should be peace there is none, so where there should have been a war, in its place came a massacre.

Can you not see what great in-balance this has caused? Never before had we allowed a vessel to absorb so much of our toxicity. Now

that our lightning rod has gone..” Her image shifted, as she looked about, a motherly grievance swept over her, her features became

soft, youthful, and her eyes, brilliant shards of white steel, now appeared with a deep kindness. “A part of me feared the change this

apocalypse would bring, I couldn't place why. Yet now the dust has settled, more of me fears what little has changed. Was their

survival truly not so crucial to our stability?” A look of exasperated mirth crossed his face, “we are Gods, Morrigan, mankind was

never intended as a projection of ourselves.” A moment of solemnity crept over them, entwined with the rising mist of souls before

them, now shifting into the astral plane, a chilling vibration fluttered about the air. HueHuecoyotl was the first to break the silence:

“This is the price of our creation, their creation. We are already beginning to doubt ourselves, this is their poison, be damned if you

are to let it plague you too.” He paused, surveying the damage, in an attempt to match her empathy “a vile deed this was, but one that

was necessary, we all bore witness to the chaos they ensued.” “Humanity was our puppet, the host of our parasitic troubles. We were

not so different from them, HueHue, you'd do best to remember that.” Her contempt for his dis-compassionate words carved lines

through Morrigan's face. Her eyes snapped back to their dry and icy state, and with her last words the goddess took flight,

disappearing into the universe as abruptly as she had arrived. HueHue sat on the blood-sodden steps, drawing shapes in the soil and

meditating upon what she had said, a trepid sickness trembled within. “To rise, and to fall, to build only to crumble, around and

around, this maddening cycle never ends. Progression is the greatest joke.”

The Wake

In the farthest depths of the stars, and on the cusp of ancestral planes, the borders of reality, an ethereal coliseum stood. Such a

temple lay hidden in the unfathomable reaches of the universe, too far for the human imagination to wonder. Since the dawn of man,

each pantheon had gone their separate ways, sectioning themselves to the various cultures of their creation. Rarely did they consort

with one another and did so only in the most desperate of times; for thousands of years the coliseum lay desolate, waiting for a war. A

divine discord could be heard from the mortal realm, never had such anarchy erupted that the tremors reached the fabric of earth, and

in lieu of an impending end, the greatest of the gods orchestrated a meeting. The halls broke their vow of silence.

“Call off this madness, won't you?! Can we not savour the sweet nectar of our victory for more than a moment? We made our

decision, unanimous, in the name of peace, and yet now you strike the chords of chaos once again! I have grown tired of your

meddling, let us be.” A voice tinged with gold but the furrowed brow of a weathered, old soul, Zeus agonised at the indecision. With

a sympathetic chord, the equally exhausted Apollo concurred: “''T'would seem wise to let the dust settle before we begin playing

politics again.” “It has been more than a year, brother, is that not time enough?” “A year is but a flutter in the eyes of the gods, you

have spent too much time involved with mortal affairs, you're even starting to think like one!” Heracles' immortalised name through

dealings with man had always left a bitter taste in the mouth of his kin, not least of all Zeus. “But a flutter and look at the in-balance

we are exhibiting, not just in the confines of reality but in our own haven! You ask us to allow the dust to settle and yet in less than a

year it is all of our creed that rattle the cage, we called this consort not to start a war, but to siphon out the discord that already exists,

so as to prevent one.” The orisha Orunmila, a Nigerian diplomat in all his godliness, interjected into the Grecian family feud. As

tempers rose, a miasma carpeted the discussion, beneath their heels and in their most gracious attempts at calm debate, the worldly

nationalities were at it again.

The stars swelled and bled, contracting and releasing in their nocturnal labour. Flashes of virulent energy swept through the halls of

the gods, as their tempers shook the universe. “We must go back.” They heard themselves say. “We must return to the earth.” For

they realised, in the deafening silence of their discord, that balance cannot exist with the knowledge they needed, missing. “How can

we judge so easily without knowing what it means to be human? How can we cast the stones of their fate if we have never learned

what it meant to live.” There was an imperfect beauty in the lives of their progeny; a destructive and productive chaos that reflected

echoes of their very own cosmos. As the stars began to burst, and the swirling plateau of their worlds quaked, they were reminded

that all life, from the celestial to the flesh, needed to die, and to be reborn. Was it them who brought about their own end, or the

impatient flaws of the gods themselves, who grew tired of the mirror they looked upon.

Yameya, who watched the eruption in silence, cast her mind back to the raging seas. “Like the tides, bound to the moon and bound to

the earth, we need not forget the intrinsic connection that all life holds to one another.” She spoke; in the moment of realisation, the

pantheon thought about how their domains relied on the function of another. The immortal widow, the god who balanced the earth

and the heavens with a spear, Izanagi, contemplated: “Humans may have poisoned our earth, but humans are a part of our earth. They

create as much as they sully.” “Like little, flimsy gods. Our arguments here and now are fuelled by the same anger and arrogance that

we put them on trial for” Huitzilopochtli suggested. In the beginning, perhaps, it was as simple as art. All that had been intended was

to create; a picture, a palace, refuge, and feeling. For love and hatred, the entire spectrum of emotion reverberated in every breath and

touch of humanity. Other creatures were capable of feeling, but none quite like them. They were the shepherds, gardeners, caretakers,

undertakers and warmongers that worked in one heaving motion to retain some sense of balance. “We have ended and we have begun

again, before, but to end without any sight of a beginning is to spit on everything that we have built.”

but how to right their wrongs? Humans only existed in the balance through millennia of evolution. To create a new species in their

place would create a rift in the painfully delicate ecosystem. Morrigan looked to herself; “From young to old, I am born and I die

with every harvest, every planting, with each phase of the moon. From the universe, I erupt, and to the universe, I return. In the

poetry of the divine, human creation has been described in every form, but one factor remains consistent. We all know that humans

are our very own children, built in our image. The only creatures to reflect almost every aspect of us. The reason for that stems

further than narcissism.” Before she could finish, she looked to HueHue, who already knew her plan; “We must take their place on

the earth. We have weaved tales of how mankind came about, from the moulding of clay, to the astral tears of the goddess, even to

miraculous existence in the perfect garden.” He looked about at their exhausted faces “We must play the part. I decree, we all must

descend unto the earth, gather their tools, take up residence in their halls, and live for one hundred years in mortal form.” “We cannot

judge what we have not lived...” They all chimed in, as a moment of epiphany struck them.

Descent

The heavens broke, an eclipse that lay like a deathly grip upon the land had been lifted. For what seemed like the first time in

centuries, the brass sunlight bled across the hills, spearing through the trees. A soft murmur rippled about the island, the first whispers

of new life. As nights turned into day, months passing, blotches of colour began to arise. From a deep and treacherous slumber, jade

leaves and cornflower crisp skies painted the world. The first few steps upon the frozen sea brought about a new dawn, the settlers

surveyed their new home; absorbing the untouched life that lay before them. Amaterasu held her breath, basking in the soft warmth

of what was once her light, as she approached the feathered lake, the dancing herons left her hypnotised.

“in all the flurry of chaos, the burden of humanity, I had long since forgotten the beauty we birthed.” Izanagi looked at her glistening

expression, studying the beauty in her flaws. “We often need to be reminded that, just like the haunting guise of these dancing herons,

or the deep scourge of winter, humans were a part of the natural world, they were animals of grace and wonder before their greed laid

waste to the earth.” Now that it had begun again, they'll never forgo the duty they had to all life. “Now that I can feel the brisk and

changing winds, relish in the soft, dew-dropped grass underneath my feet, I wonder to myself, were we ever alive?”

Gods existed beyond the confines of mortality, in an existential endless sea, with their great power they could feel the course of

cosmic divinity, immortal lubrication, the duty to give and take, creation and destruction, but they could never feel the bittersweet

breath of life. Up until now they had believed that they had existed as more than alive like their existence was a higher concentration

of life, they never knew contrast. “It comes as no surprise to me that humanity was so depraved, how could we create a life form with

the highest level of consciousness without first knowing what it meant to be alive, how could we create something that understood

what it meant to be live if we never did?” Perhaps it was that first breath of spring, those early days that sufficed in providing context

for their mistake, but they were earthbound now, and like the footsteps of a child, perhaps a lifetime was needed to fully comprehend

mortality.

The seasons passed by in a flurry, wildlife around them flourished and died in one continuous cycle. Idly minding their business in

what seemed like a dance along a knife's edge of survival. Yet still they persevered; fThe ecosystem in which they had grown was

nothing strange or unnatural. But the god turned mortals felt their demise may come sooner than expected. Humans were granted

hundreds of thousands of years to evolve and grow, adapt and learn and assimilate themselves into the ever changing world. The new

age beings were not so lucky; hunting, gathering, shelter and community were too simple a task for minds built to create worlds,

instead of homes. Yameya spent her strength working tirelessly with the sea; conflicted by killing the creatures she once endowed the

world with. Her comprehension of the tides and the moon proved insightful but on a much grander scale.

Thor and Odin's artistry of war, thunder and might gave them effervescent strength in the harshest of climates but left them ill-

prepared for laying traps and gathering kindling. They had to relearn everything; no longer did their seats preside over judgement and

weather control, and in the darkest of winters, Loki cowered beneath towering shadows cast by the forest. He found himself haunted

by the ghosts of his victims. What had once seemed to be fair judgement, or possibly harmless trickery could now be perceived as

cruel fate and unjust blood lust. “My domain, my entire world has turned against me; cackling from the darkest reaches of this

damned, cursed land!” He crawled through the snow and the ice, feeling its grating burn across his naked flesh “I could never pray

enough for my end; and yet I did this. I wrung the life out of my own people, me, myself, I!” He cried out, an agonising rattle that

echoed and, just as quickly, fell silent to the howling gales. “Slow, and sluggish, I writhe through this Hel; I tricked and cursed and

so, have set my path.” Grasping at the boughs of pinewood giants, and wrenching his clawed and bony talons across the bark. But he

left no gaping gash, no mark, set for a cracked and frostbitten fingernail or two. “I look upon myself, at last, this writhing, pitiful

slug. No God, not anymore, not ever was I. Nothing but a poor and limp devil of a man!” As his desperation slowed almost to a halt,

his limbs stiffening and crumbling all at once; for the perils of the earth took him. Turned his bone into ice; his flesh flaking and

falling into the snow. Specks of hardened, black blood stained his body, and he could cry nor weep no more. His anguish was now his

peace, and his tomb was to be the forest he once reigned supreme.

Scarcely a year into their mission, and already had a comrade tasted the bittersweet release of death. His brothers felt a great heave of

grief, although for the first time they had no idea why. They cherished the meek glow of their fire; for the acuity of Freja and her

sisters, combined with the stern strength of father Odin and his kin, had mustered up some relief from the frost. Mother Freja

shuddered, her chest ached, and in unison, they shared the weight of loss among them. “We have sparse food, no shelter and a trickle

of warmth; my body howls in pain and hunger, yet I do not believe this can explain the burden I feel on my shoulders.” “I feel it too;

a part of my being feels as though it has been cleaved. Is this guilt?” Yet as Hel spoke, she looked deep into the eyes of her sisters,

and across at her brothers, the comfort of family was felt. “I want to cry out and I do not know why; but I sense that we all share this,

and while we may be sad, a part of me is warmed by your presence, our communion.” The pain did not alleviate that night, nor the

next. The band of northkin trudged through their seemingly impossible conditions, with a roaring pain so great most felt like giving

up. Yet through effort so arduous, and courage thick and steadfast, their communion truly became a community.

Spring crept through the ebony stretch of pine trees. Sprinklings of mossy green and faded baby blue that entwined with the

woodland statuettes. Melding itself with the still gripping winter, not entirely gone. One could feel trimmings of frost clinging to the

earth, and while the piercing, white motifs of snow littered the forest floor and over the fjords; there was no light to be found here. A

midnight sepulchre, gently, it gave way to flocks of bluebells and heather, 't was a cold, yet comforting womb, nurturing, and

breathing life back into the world.

While they had slept the last month in a bed under a whistling roof, Hel found herself pining for the singe of ice upon skin, and the

flood of winter that washes over you in a demented howl whenever the northern winds would soar about the woods. Sleeping felt

unnatural during this season; waking as often as possible to map her surroundings, or to merely enjoy the oppressive silence. She saw

little other than black and white, becoming enamoured with the finite simplicity that stood, unchanged, in the dark. To Hel, two

aspects could be seen in winter: the first had a corrosive nature, whittling and burning everything down until only the strongest

remains standing, untouched. The second was a soft, guiding hand. One that would close the lids of the departed, sending you to

sleep, holding you after every light has left your body. A mother that won't let go of her child. While, as she witnessed, her brothers

and sisters fled into hibernation, she found herself filled with affection for its beauty. Even under the ferocious will of winter, a

duality can be found.

Unrest

Throughout the history of human conquest, few civilisations faced the level of devastation that was waged upon Meso-America. Said

to be a pinnacle of human evolution at that point, with an intricate web of an ecological coalition. While many of the new age mortals

basked in the beauty of life, and became enthralled with their own dominion, there were those that could do little more than weep

upon their arrival. Part of the bias toward humanity had been cultivated through their transgressions to the earth and its creatures;

transgressions that could now be understood in the fleeting few breaths of Loki, anger that could now be felt through the shaking

fingertips and seething words from the Virgin of Guadalupe, greed that enraptured Athena and drove Ares to madness. It was through

the spectrum of perception that the curse of life and humanity, could now be understood.

A numb wake fell over the community that landed in central America; what to them was the aftermath of the apocalypse, lay beneath

them like a skeleton, and while life had begun to flourish once again, the rainforests and lowlands weren't so desperate anymore, a

year of recovery was little solace to the centuries of pain enacted upon their land. In that long, aching gasp of silence, the death rattle

of their collective hope, a new thought occurred; “this is not our land”, they looked to the ground “this is not our land”, the wind

seemed to chime in, carrying this thought as it hummed about them and through the valleys, atop cliff points, rushing with the

currents of streams, “we don't belong here.” The golden boy, inciter of war, Huitzilopochtli turned to face them, and what they had all

come to realise, “as we have seen, albeit through eyes clouded, mankind is capable of restoration, of healing” he took a moment to

gather his words, figuring out how exactly to pose such a daunting prospect: “but we do not belong here, and even mankind's best

ability with the intention of good is not welcome, not here.” A few glances of affront flitted between them, and a few nods of solemn

understanding silently conflicted “If we came down here to discover right from wrong, to understand humanity and to maybe,

potentially, heal Earth's wounds, then we need to remember those wrongs.” He exhaled sharply “we cannot put ourselves first, even

for survival. Not always at least, maybe, potentially..” Articulation evaded him, and at last, the tiresome suspense of ill news broke,

as his comrades took the lead “we must go north, I believe that's where the remnants of civilised lands still remain, if we are to

belong anywhere it's there, and if we can make any difference at all, it's there.”

The ashen moon swam through lagoons blue and black, deep amid opal galaxies, as if with a mortal whimsy of its own, treading the

sea of tranquility: their present guide. Lost in thought amidst the cosmic ocean, he fingered the dust that lay beneath, it was their first

pause on an arduous journey and it marked a moment in their history in which they knew what it meant to tire. The encampment slept

in the chorus of insects that clicked and whirred about them, and where they lay, delighted in their first dreams, the rhythmic sting of

the world kept HueHue awake. His thoughts went to their descent, of his transatlantic neighbours, of death. Rolling over, and at times

discretely masked beneath moss and lichen, shining under starlight one could see the bones of the vanquished. Bones that now

connected them limb from limb, bones that would one day be dust, or stripped of the flesh that he could feel prickling in the midnight

chill. What would be waiting for them at the end? Never had the prospect of an end occurred to them, and never had they felt afraid.

Now, gripped by a snarling dread that whittled away at his conscious mind, he met fear. A gnawing, aching, virulent fear that clawed

at him, beat him, eviscerated everything he knew, is this what it meant to be human? No wonder they were driven by violence, and

then at its climax, nothing, a grasping sigh escaped him as he released a terrified grip from his head, and let his hands float with a

jitter to the ground beside him. Am I dreaming? Is this what we know as a nightmare? Like an infant, their concept of reality,

mortality, and the subconscious was little more than chaotic, an incomprehensible medley that could not be defined, as they had no

means by which to measure it. Survival's game revealed its twist, and reared its deformed head; how can we live without knowing

what it is to be awake, or what it feels like to dream.

A night of existential agony passed in years, and the dawn's first light brought with it the mercy of his company. Bemused and in

some cases, traumatised by their first gamble with the subconscious, the notion of objectives escaped them, and for a while they

blinked, wept or sat in dull silence, trying to coax their brains into bridging the gap between one reality and another. HueHue joined

the circle, and amongst the unveiling of their mutual entropy, they laughed. A reassurance that came with the consistency in their

doubt, some realised it to be pointless trying to define reality, others settled their minds into accepting the one they currently

perceived. It was officially decided that their greatest comfort could be found in creating a divide between one reality and another,

and the one that habilitated the discussion would be primary.

Loki

Across the aquatic no-mans-land, the big blue, in the confines of conifer forests, or wrestling with the poetically empty metropolis,

or, perhaps, waiting at the edge of the eastern world, pondering the lost bridge between Russia and japan, the mortal saints confronted

existential affliction. Learning just how easy existence, or lack thereof, had been before existence mattered to them. The tribes and

nomads scuttled across a lush surface, battling between a desire for survival and a need for purpose. “I once laughed to myself in

great, unhindered bouts at mankind's attempt to.. understand.. the universe we had created.” Thor exhaled, piling kindling with his

sisters. Upon Hel's courageous dances with death in the unforgiving winter, she had found Loki's corpse.

Upon concluding a month-long a chorus of horror and intrigue, the shaken family decided to offer their fallen brother appropriate

rites, and as spring dissipated the icy onslaught, they began to build a pyre in his name. “The great philosophers, people would call

them, what wisdom and intellect! As if they were ants, trying to analyse the rock they live under.” Thor glanced over at Loki's

twisted, rotting flesh, wincing, he began to shake again. Freja took his calloused palms into her own, and without needing to look, she

shared the pain sprawled across his face. In loving solidarity, Freja encouraged him to continue; “But this corpse, this affirmation of

our mortality, the loss of a brother of whom I never realised I had loved, my inability to find strength and this sudden, crippling

emptiness...” with every breath his spirit shrunk, decaying in tandem with the corpse. “I feel as though I have so many avenues

ahead, so many choices and yet, simultaneously, I feel like I have none at all. Ultimately, I feel both lost and inspired, caught between

the decision to die, right here, or to pick up that kindling, and carry on.”

The tormenting contrast between meaning and mortality hung like a stifling and toxic humidity in the bitter April air, and as the

mountainous horizon turned to silhouette, an aching black flooded across the meadows, the last rattling gasp of sunset was absorbed

by the heroic bonfire that now devoured the desecrated body of Loki. The stagnated grief that raked at their minds, boring into their

proud survival, challenging any concept of life known to them, like the searing, amber confetti that ascended the night, their pain

transcended reality. While some were more reluctant to let go, Thor kneeling beside his father, a figure of stone, crumbling from

within, their wordless farewell proved symbolic of hope. Hel, in her own, obscure and twisted delights, even began to dance. A dark

and sublime merriment, as she fed Loki's fire with blossoms, her crackling voice sang out promises that they will assuredly meet

again in another life.

Pilgrimage

El Norte de peregrinación; traversing the Mesoamerican wastelands, the bleeding earth painted faces before them. With every mile, a

howling cry of sadistic history was carved out of mountains, drawn from mottled rivers, and the winding serpent of central America

plagued its patron saint. “They would parade my image on banners, they would light candles in my name throughout their homes.”

Coatlalohpeuh lamented over her fallen emissaries, her loyal, guided people. “I was their fierce patriotism, their demand for justice.

Why do their spirits torment me now, now that I walk their path?” She wondered if she had really spoken aloud, or if she could really

hear the tortured wailing, the mother's protest. “It is because, despite our divine position, our history among the mortal realms is no

less tainted and insidious than their stories of conquest.” Huitzilopochtli mirrored her anguish, as his mind slipped through epochs of

dominion, a vision of the northern landscape that lay ahead plagued him into silence. “Perhaps, we knew more about what it was to

be human, only now, powerless, we can understand.”

As the cycle of days passed, sweat-ridden and burned, the troop trundled on, cowering under star encrusted nights, and withering

through the beating, back-breaking heat of midday. The perplexing seasons that rotated through sun and moon created a number of

divides among them. There were those that adhered to their role; using the cyclical nature of the world around them to harmonise

survival. Those that honoured their spiritual place learned when to eat, how to sleep, in general, how to move together as a cosmic

organism. Communication with each other and the environment came easily. In others grew a frustrated fascination with the

mechanical whirring of the universe, implementing scientific curiosity to make sense of their splendidly callous purgatory. With

appropriate analysis, they were able to provide tips on safety, comforting knowledge and an astute directional orientation.

A plague upon this house

On the banks of Hokkaido's northernmost shore, eclipsed in an unwavering storm, she waited. Weaving baskets for tomorrow's fish

and boiling tea-leaves atop a whimpering flame, she waited. As the daring, anguished screams of battle rattled the cage in which she

perched, she thanked mankind for the invention of insulation. Although the wooden panels had begun to rot, and the glass threatened

to crack, and while the chilled storm filtered up through the brittle floorboards, her cosy hermit hole remained secure from the sea-

born titans.

Her year upon the ground lead her singing through the shapeshifting valleys, from the ash-laden borders of the Tsugaru strait,

trespassing upon patchwork fields and bathing macaques. Enamoured by the volcanic seasons, humid downpours and creaking winds

with a fist-full of ice spurred on her spiritual journey. Though visibly void of human life, Izanami felt a deafening presence about her.

In wake of the first steps, she tread the story of bruised souls, forlorn and forgotten; Fissures of energy and grief, transported from the

gulf of the underworld with her. Unique to her predicament and the predicament of all divinity, mortality had a familiar taste, having

died to give life to her son; Izanami's pain had left her fractured between the material earth and the lifeless abyss in which she slept,

her purpose had been outlined from the second she took breath. A twelve month scramble through the frostbitten foothills and sun

poured steppes, over lakes of animated design: their tidal feature coaxing orb-shaped stones into a rhythmic dance, and when she

could venture no farther, Izanami settled in the scraped out hollow of a time consumed cliff-face. Survivability in such a region had

been evidenced by half a village and hefty debris comprised almost entirely of angling equipment. What's more: the houses appeared

to have been renovated of almost ancient huts, some appeared more contemporary, others may as well have been thatched mole-hills.

Proving that mankind had been capable of surviving here for hundreds of years.

In the month of April and even the darkest reaches, Japan bequeathed its mossy carpets, welcoming the season of spring, and with it,

warmth. Izanami rode out the tempestuous finale before an intermission of comfortable weather; In her month of settlement upon the

unfurling coastline, she waited. In between each gasping splutter of rock hugging waves, and the choking, suffocated storms, daring

her to survive, she waited and wove. Upon her journey north, Izanami had spied movement among various species that spelled out:

migration.

In the footsteps of the ancestral Ainu, she followed, and with them, she learned how to reap the land. With the rising of the alabaster

sun, fishing season rolled onto the banks of snowy, sand-bitten Hokkaido, gurgling beneath thunder and the tumultuous, salty air.

Tawny bear cubs gathered about the crystal streamlets, bleating at their mothers with the prospect of reward for their trek, and as the

armada of hungry fur populated the beach that morning, Izanami too ventured from hibernation. On the cusp of living, and

sometimes almost dead, the waning sun etched months brought with them neatly parcelled moments of understanding. As a woman

with a foot on both planes, and a womb aching for her lost progeny, the woman lived in commune with the grizzly mothers and their

cubs. An energy that whipped high over cliff-tops and scattered clouds, crusading down through the hollowed beach brought with it

an ancestral warmth, and she knew they felt it too. When ears would prick to the wind and snouts tilted with her gaze, Izanami knew,

with every fibre of her being, that these gentle giants found the words of their deceased in the same torrent as she found hers.

She felt barely human, not that she really knew what that was, but in the confines of camaraderie that separated beast from man, she

found herself bathing in a pool of immaterial being. It gave her house a new cynicism; for all the worth of warmth and shelter, there

was detachment and defence. On days venturing through forlorn townships that fortified the shoreline, gathering supplies and

information, Izanami educated herself on the painful constructs of living that mankind had depended upon. She felt a dizzying poison

that blanketed the calloused streets, as though a choking smog had descended from hillside factories. It was a stain of anger and grief

that stung her eyes and clawed down her throat, leaving the godless dead, and the goddess heaving. Life had been entirely evacuated,

and all that was left of the purge remained numb, daring even, and every day since Izanami swore to herself that the ghosts were

laughing at her.

Lord of all the beasts

In the corner of the brittle, barren desert, upon its crystal brink with a horizon of bloodthirsty waves, Yamaya unfurled her laboured

limbs. Arms purple and peaky from a year's hard work, and a proud Shangri-La to show for it. She smiled. Her patron sea had all but

defeated her, and the virulent, cataclysmic planes of the Namib tempted her demise, yet, as if dreaming and delirious, she prevailed.

Refining shipwrecks into shelter, skeletons of industry paving out yet another human conquest. Upon its birth, the creator took to

soothing her bones in the African lagoon, marvelling at the miraculous achievement, born by her own two hands.

The glorious, driftwood temple glistened like coral beneath the wavering afternoon sun, ivory curvatures, twisted and obscure, daring

to crack. There was a flimsy and glorified presence to her work; the smooth, white branches appeared carved, tempered and skilfully

designed to move in such a way. Yet in the humidity that brings down the storm, it would crumble and become, once again, nothing.

Yemaya's daydreams converged into the strangely built relic, a marriage of natural components and man-made failures; and like

flames dancing on a breeze, they swam before her. Bending so that beam would meet beam, and melting into one, like a siamese tree.

As night cycled past, a blink of constellations and jet coloured clouds, and dawn seared the earth below, whispers erupted from the

grotesque, driftwood temple. She placed herself among it, like a point of concentrated energy, Yemaya bathed in its echoes.

Though the equatorial heat exhausted her, sizzling ants into crisp, charcoal husks, under the boughs of her flaming creation she felt

cool. Months crusaded past, wringing her spirit dry, and the brilliant bursts of starlight, soothed in a lake of silvery ink, fed her. In a

nightmare of sand and sea, riding the waves of survival, there grew a ghost, in the grand, driftwood temple. As seasons seemed to

skip this placid spot of land, the only indication of time existed in the confines of night and day. Yemaya counted each sunrise and

sunset, only to feel lost in a clockwork routine, no more significant to her existence than a lightswitch being flicked on and off, and

the inevitability of corruption wormed its way into her world. The ghoulish, driftwood temple had been compromised. A diet of

shrivelled insects and perished reptiles kept the flesh reluctantly clinging to her body, but her body had become a separate entity, a

fumbling carcass of bone and muscle, a blunt tool that served only to maintain the stature of her home. Yemaya began to feel

empowered by resentment, she dared herself still, refusing hunger in favour of poisoned meditation, and, in time, became fused with

her burning creation.

It was a remarkably cold and iridescent afternoon when her mind lost the battle of willpower, and her stomach lead her, victorious, to

the bludgeoning of an unsuspecting carp in the shallows of the lagoon. No distinction from beast to man, Yemaya sunk her rotting

teeth into its crippled, shimmering body, shredding the scales that flew like snowflakes with spurts and splutters of ravaged red

decorating skin. As though in the watchful eye of the world she had done a great misdeed, as though such a sin had called forth some

cosmic justice, trembling from the sunken floor, there began a hum. A sickening buzz that creaked at her soul, as if from the edge of

the world, or right beneath her toes. Yemaya froze, resting her knuckles against the sand, carcass still in her grip. The pulsating

thunder grew closer with the intensity of a biting whisper, her eyes felt dry and burnt in their sockets, but frozen still to the spot, she

listened. As the vibration grew louder, she began to contort, pressing her ear to the ground, then craning her neck to look behind.

Clammer, thud, clammer, louder, louder, louder. Ripping at the tides and tearing at her flesh, clammer, clammer, clammer. In the

flurry of haunted mystery, the evening winds picked up and whistled across dunes or crevices far back. A piercing, agonised shriek

that mocked her day after day, and in a moments distraction she lost the hum, and when the earth became still again, silence fell with

it. Gasping down at the broken, bleeding corpse of the carp, and with it, every fibre of being that had once existed. Finally, she had

eaten herself alive.

American dream

As the colonial footprints were swept away in murmuring gusts, collapsing over the corrugated valley with a heavy heart, blackened

scraps of hope could be found caught upon box-shaped slums throughout Mexico. The remnants of imperialism burned white,

hanging, unwelcome, in the steely air, like an effigy of war and an attempt of closure to those already dead. The troops perched in

what appeared to have once been a street, dismembered vehicles could almost be seen camouflaged in the suburban brush, as though

they were part of the flora. Titanic totems of engineering, crumbling beneath copper lacerations and fungal chokeholds.

A soft, tulip sky swam deep, yet still, swooping over iron clad mountains: a lackadaisical gesture of time, imposing the cold honesty

of “what's the point?”. Upon inhabiting the rusted shells, placid husks of poverty, strung across the dusky border like a bleeding

knuckle, they felt the bittersweet relief of a clean slate. Clinging to campfire, there was a collective feeling of deja vu; memories of

the beaten, wayward figures, still sipping at the dried up reservoir, still desperate for a taste of life. Soon they were to arrive at their

second anniversary of descent, and while many spent their time enacting rites, placing offerings or simply wallowing, sunken beneath

the foray of chaotic memory, there were those who filled their caskets with libation, and celebrated.

“How came you by this intoxicating swill?” “How, how came you by? Have you been hit on the head, or has my concoction rendered

you incapable of dialogue?” “Your pardon, I must beg..” “maybe take a seat..” “Northward, our journey has taken us, and in that

time, time I passed, I passed the time, some days, by toying with dialect.” The scientifically oriented of the bunch let out an

exhausted giggle, “Why? Just talk normally..” “now, hold on; various forms of communication in the early stages of civilisation could

end up shaping its cultural language.” “Exactly” “but don't we all have responsibilities to tackle the far less... trivial?” “In what

universe is communication trivial?” “Maybe, in this one.” His sigh of exasperation seemed to fuel the fire before them. A crisp hush

fell upon their discourse: ringing silently through the hot, lightning snap of burning wood. “What good did communication ever do,

in this world? It could be said that, during our short time here, we've learned more in moments of silence, than in any attempt to

speak.” The calamity of vacant words fell upon them, harrowed and empty, sights sought for the heavens, with the only answer being

the dry breath of wintry, American nights.

On the day of the dead, these same heavens broke apart; satellites plunged, flaking into the atlantic. Shedding piece by piece like egg

shell, and trembling the already tempestuous earth. Yemaya's tears broke the banks and quenched the besieged inferno of mankind.

The thunder of hammer and anvil, Thor's law, contested the whimpering prayers and stole from them, every last lingering breath.

Brother upon brother, enacting the final seething poem of Loki, blood curdled and fled from its host, bathing the civil in carnal

savagery. Justified as being the swan song that summarised human history.

Huehue reflected, turning over his grazed, leather bound palms. Trials such as these seemed necessary. Their hands were clean. A

muffled voice called out to him from the fire: you are the invaders. But this was not his decision. They died and now you live in their

place? The demons, it was at the whim of the demon creatures, the wheel of fate. Oh and isn't fate so convenient? Now, you have a

home that you never needed. Enough, this was not what he wanted, enough. When is enough ever enough, when will you satiate your

greed? Huehue looked over to those paying their respects; such beings suddenly appeared so alien to him. He felt as though they

were no longer his kin, but resurrections of the people lost. A queer, uneasy spike wrenched at his stomach; the dreams that filtered

through in the nights ahead wove a tapestry of discord, and voiceless, they trundled on past the barbed gates of worlds ripped apart.

Cacti blossoms bloomed through the twisted metal, and the fried, terracotta states passed under foot, as the weeks passed over head.

Cities, erected through eons of war, gaudy flowers that grew from the bones of its vanquished, paraded the withered corpse of an

American dream. Neon signs and community plazas, buried beneath the California dust, strange monuments of luxury servicing

nothing more than memory and a statement of pointlessness. Humanity had spent centuries perfecting civilisation, city planning,

architecture, business, consumerism, all intricately refined practises culminating in a habitat designed for optimal comfort and

leisure. All for a species that no longer exists. Mankind etched into its collective bodies a now hideous scar, a wasted space, the new

standard for narcissism.

Morbidity and mortality

It was strange to think that the world seemed to stand still. Life and death outside of humanity were just benign, cyclical occurrences.

A flower blooms, and wilts, and sometimes it hibernates, to be born again next spring. Animals will grow, mate, and pass on, leaving

more offspring to grow, mate and again, pass on. Nothing ever progresses, not in a visible way, not in a way mankind recognised as

visible. Humans both harmonised and upset the balance that existed, yet that had virtually no meaning without them. It was such a

curiosity that curated the years of new survival. Studying the ways of people, following in their stead, and yet, horrifying still was the

notion that was lost to these fallen idols. Such destruction and death had brought them nothing. An intensifying gulf roared out

beneath the cusps of their existence. They held fast onto the vain belief that they were above mortality. Playing in the murky remains,

as though they were a separate species. The light had gone out, but it had not reached their consciousness.

In the suffering bloom of july, pastel trenches rattled against the sea air. Peeling wood statures swelled and sunk in salty breaths,

gushing in from the north. Carved out echoes in the land of the rising sun. Treading through foreboding Wakkanai with sickly unease,

Izanami sought out the historical archives, feeling naked on the other side of omniscience. “I felt powerless, trapped beneath the

realm of the divine and humanity, but now that I've reached the other side I sorely miss my stifling purgatory.” She could sense the

prickly watchfulness following along, judging, waiting, as for what she had no clue. It was the unknowing yet simultaneously

knowing that tugged at her sanity. “How people ever lived like this...” Swimming deep in the research of indigenous tribes, with the

gentle hymn of creaking, whispering gusts lulling her into hypnosis, Izanami ventured down the rabbit hole, and became lost to the

pursuit of knowledge.

Cut loose

Callousness, thy name is Scandinavia; the contoured green of fields meeting fjords, carved into by wide rivers of stoic slate. Bodies

of water that took root across the boreal north, like the earthbound tendrils of Yggdrasil. Upon the fifth hour of darkness, and

gestating in the fleshy hearth that nestled prettily above Freja's pelvis, squirmed the new son of winter.

A pang of grief chimed through Izanami's head.

With every tiny kick and defiance of death, pockets of guilt, misery and longing nursed from her sanity.

The image of a baby swam before her eyes; she reached out to grasp its clenched, wrinkled fists, to feel its embryonic warmth. Freja's

foreign falsetto cooed and sang in muffled strings, a voice endowed with honey that rocked the child so sweetly, suspended in the

pink, thumping goo.

In lieu of the budding life now growing beneath icy skin, Thor's mind cast itself back to his late brother's death. How his grey and

weathered corpse, dissected by pestilence, had seemed so soft, fragile, weak. What chance did this newcomer stand in the violent

freeze of winter? Where food was scarce and their chances in hunting were often snatched away by the more experienced predators.

Through mankind's ascent into fully civilised beings, the gods had often done dealings with them. Tests of spirit, character, strength

and faith, a deus ex machina of progression when it seemed all was at a loss. While attention had been spent on pure survival, Thor

felt the same strength that he had tested in others begin to wane, and in the blackened lull of twilight, his cool, flint eyes flicked lazily

across the stippled valley slopes, reflecting in them the call of the wild; a brilliant shimmer in grazing gusts, plunging forward into

dawn.

The plum cold of an October sunrise peeled shuddering skin from its bed. In an ill, yellow light that stung, shattering through a

shattered window, Thor arched himself over the kitchen table. During expeditions to gather supplies, Frigg had unearthed a

dilapidated and overgrown, two story house, encrusted with ivy, with nettle battalions and thick, copper brambles as its primary

defense; comfort and an irrational need for civilised progression pushed the family to uproot from the quaintly inadequate hut, and

make a home out of just another house. The raison d'etre of human existence: protect and survive, advance and upgrade, and then, as

he pressed his palm against his face in exhaustion, they would turn to find meaning elsewhere, then comes the flighty desire to be

tested, and revert back to whence they came. Hoisting a patchwork of khaki canvas bags over a bony shoulder dressed in flannel, The

height of 21st-century male fashion, Thor crept, almost weightlessly, out through the frosted front door. And so, the withered lord of

thunder and lightning began his Herculean trials by shuffling precariously amidst clumps of dew dusted thistles, with a lazy chirp of

the autumn forest as his adventurous overture.

Empty womb

Izanami, with a gaze, forlorn, had settled in the reality of a mother without her child. In the nights proceeding, she dreamt of the

slippery, peach pink alien that she longed for; the steady thumping of the strange woman's heartbeat sang her to sleep. In each tidal

pace that drew her further and further through the surrounding woodlands she felt a deep and youthful desperation; In meditation

upon the departed that plagued the townships, Izanami fostered images of children and the parents that watched them die, before their

own lives were taken. Sometimes prayers would float about the auburn forests in which she kneeled, bouncing from tree to rock,

across streams and right to her, their spirit guide. If she got lucky, she might hear the faint clock of axe against wood, a spectral

imitation of the lumberjacks that made their living from the land. It was an odd feeling; The one thing Izanami had learned from her

journey as a person: being a God had never seemed so simple.

Five years had sailed by, commandeered by her yearning to uncover the most cryptic of secrets; lessons hidden beneath millennia of

progressive destruction, invisible pockets of intuition, fossilised in layers of modernity. Through such a tumultuous voyage, Izanami

had fostered a deeper connection to those unseen and still present. The hair raising suspicion and fear that clouded sound judgement

had pressed her onto a path of determination; knowing herself what it was like to be suspended between one world and possible

nothingness, the half alive woman, she leveraged her position to give them a voice. Blazing trails through snow-dusted mountains,

and submerging beneath humidified, volcanic currents, the goddess soaked up energy left behind by the Ainu. An indigenous vapour

that mystified life even more so, and, in extension, opened her mind's eye to the immaterial.

Pungent unrest cycled through weary days and nights, and the clouded vision of Freja's child swam impatiently beneath swollen

eyelids; in the peaceful chokehold of verdant Japan, Izanami dreamt of her wandering son. The pain tugged so desperately at her

heart, a thick, hot rod of steel, leaving a wake that made the world only shades of grey. In placid walks that skirted the November

tides, lazily comforting the darkened beach, heavy under months of rime and verglas, her own progeny plagued her thoughts. A baby

boy that she had never met, the tragic tinge that labelled her empty, the vacant mother.

Through these sullen contemplations there surfaced a fable, as Izanami poured over the mould ridden books those years before in her

ventures to Wakkanai, she had found her name immortalised under the hand of mortal men. A life had been lived in her celestial

body, a marriage, children, a purpose, a strength all of which had been wiped from her slate. Or perhaps, it had never existed. One

chapter alone remained very real to her; the birth of Kagu-Tsuchi and the life that he took from her.

Undead

If one is to observe and be very careful, one can predict the future. No movement nor thought is insignificant, from every tiny

vibration of menial insect life to the great cosmic calamities that literally shake the earth. For life itself is a never ending

conversation, and if one is to pick up the patterns in its speech, then maybe one can rule the world. While survival dragged the neo-

human race through its fifth year alive, barely so, Yemaya ran, rampant, through the tenth. Like a great, hungering demon, she fled

from her temple, now aflame. Capricious in the wild desert heat, and cursed by her own flesh and bone, the sea goddess made her

home in the dunes. The sun baked the grains that shuffled step by step, burning coals that cracked and bled her feet dry. In delirium

induced dreams she saw a fire, a blue, mottled flame that spread throughout her spirit; and when she could stand she walked.

Here, in the heart of the Namib he came to her: the brittle, white body of a dead man, a crippled glare, crying out in howls that would

whip the sand from its bed. She met this stranger in the same circumstances that he met his own end, and with each beguiling visit,

she would sneer at his taunting corpse. This new found reality, a rampage through the stifling vacancy of a world demystified had

carved out the splintering shell of Yemaya. Queen of the ocean, mother of pearls, Yemaya; in her mortal madness she had caved, now

tormented by the decomposed Loki, the death of her ego. But of course, she could never understand, forsaken by rationality and

whatever it is that makes a human, human, the thirst for survival had betrayed her.

Over an ivory stretch of the desert, where the ground had dried and cracked beneath the weight of the African summer, Dead-Vlei

decorated her path, soil-black skeletons that clawed against the cornflower sky, as though they were manifestations of some

gruesome fate. “Maybe...” The snarling ghost uttered “..this is the part where a nomadic wise-man saves you.” His frostbitten breath

gnawing at her shoulder “sanctity in the obscure, irrational fables of miraculous salvation. Oh! And you'll learn a valuable lesson,

too, y'know, beyond stumbling into the dead zone like a moron.” Yemaya stared on, but stood still, with bloodshot and cool grey eyes

lapping up the reality. “Or maybe you're delirious, well, more delirious than we think, and what we're seeing is an unconscious

projection of your crippled self.”

At last, she fell to her knees; a glistening sheet of rain flooded over her skin, diamond droplets fed the soil before them, was this to be

her last stand? A poetic send off into valleys unknown, and blind fortune being the knife's edge that divided her life. Leaning forward

with fingers outspread, gripping at the magnitude of breathless blessings, she cried out “No”, shunning the twisted character that

hung off her back, she told her demons “No.” And that flame that burned without constraint, the wild fire, bursting at the seams,

roared across the continent. Fuelling memory, time, space and the constellations that mapped out human history. The same pockets of

light that glittered almost vacantly in the night sky. In that instance, the weight and disaster of man made transgressions appeared

before her in a hallucinatory dance; gunfire, bloodshed, valiant speeches of false promises, undercut with totalitarian violence. The

massacre behind politics. The massacre that was politics. “Inyenzi” a broken cry from the void, “cockroach..” The same torrent of

predatory instinct that burned its nations to the ground leapt from Yemaya's body, in a great and broken cry, hoarse and catatonic,

trembling the universe. “Never has there been a time for terror, in the hearts of men like this.” She crumbled, heaving, great shudders

of disbelief, a trembling figure in the quenching, African rain. After seven years wandering the desert in some animalistic pilgrimage

to god knows where, her primal power subsided and bled into the earth. Reborn, alive and finally awake.

Fool's gold

Gifted, in material wealth and lavish homes, the crusade of sullen deities fell prey to glaring treasures. Desolate doll-houses that

continued to play their eerie part in the smirking performance of the American dream. There was a toxic frivolity about the way in

which the self proclaimed “scientists” would study the others. And they would become fearful, feeling tested and inferior, but most

importantly, removed. A divide had supposedly conquered the community, and a lucid miasma coaxed hostility throughout, weeds

had begun to sprout and coil about conversations until they were afraid to speak. For locked behind adamantium walls and before the

garish glow of experimentation, their organic, fleshy selves had been traded in for mechanical parts. It began with mere observation,

during meals or meetings, or even casual liaisons, the test subjects felt a level of objectification, a disconnection from their

compadres. The subtle miscommunication grew into blatant disregard, and as levels were formed between the new age beings, a tinge

of elitist, nay, dehumanising implications arose.

A queer and dusky light floated in the evening salon, forming lines of sunburnt red through the rusted shutters. X poured his waning

focus over shedding papers, paving a parched mosaic across the floor. Alien and amateur gizmos sat half-built on the reclaimed IKEA

desk in the far corner, laughably obscure in their attempts to function and be anything more than an artless sculpture. She had pieced

together blueprint scribblings, her own method of understanding the empire that closed in around them. From engineering manuals to

architectural magazines and books, scouring each written document that crossed her path, enraptured by the ingenuity of the human

mind. Locked away inside her post apocalyptic barracks; an old world apartment decorated with the finesse of new millennial design,

and oddly appealing Swedish furniture. There was a bioluminescence to the weird genius that had been created there, watching, out

of place, from her seat in all godliness, only the pain and mishaps could be absorbed, but when walking about their tinkered towns,

experiencing the agony of survival, the focus shifted to mankind's engineered beauty.

At first, he shared a home with his sister, in fact their entire chorus of bruised and broken beings resided in the same building, they

felt natural in their open commune. Yet, without a common goal their numbers dwindled, some were taken by wanderlust and simply

evaporated on the wind. Many began to distrust the opulence of knowledge belonging to the experimenters, the omniscient, the

perverse. Demon spawn. They fled the building, but afraid to go too far, or perhaps too curious themselves, they remained close

enough to watch. He had removed himself to the lowest reaches of the building, sometimes daring to venture so that he could listen.

Mostly, he knew she was harmless, but there was a gagging fearfulness about her, driving him from her side.

In the confines of this dusk, he hung his head backward across the railing, soothed by the jovial humming of his other half: she was

reading. Slumped upon the stairwell, and gently amused by the leering shadows and shards of sunset across the landing below. There

was scarcely any green here, or at least, not what he was used to, and his mind swam deep in echoes of central America, the forests,

clifftops, rivers and lakes, even the temples, even bathed in blood. It was home to him, and few things were closer to his home than

death and destruction. But up here it was like a vacuous mask full of distraction and misguided communication. The death was

aplenty in the north, assuredly it was, but the bloodstains had been painted over, the bones, buried beneath factories and high rises,

and the carcasses, segregation, all disguised with their politics and money. He didn't hate it here. There was plenty to hate, but he

didn't hate it. Supposedly, it was logical to be filled with hatred, but instead it left one feeling... nothing..

That was their trick, their magnum opus, the ability to make its people feel empty enough to forget, and empty enough to want more.

The streets bellowed out jingles and patriotic anthems, a stirring chime of the forsaken circus that is imperialism; A razzle-dazzle of

Orwellian magic that infiltrated the minds of the people who soon became its own. Bathing in the afterglow, his own sister, the smart

one, had become hypnotised just like the rest. The worst of it came in her own rationalisation, that she convinced herself to be

removed and “studying” its effects, that it gripped her in such a way she had been fooled into believing this was her idea, her

individual choice.

Backbone

On planes cascading under auburn light, the stone cold soldier hardened his hands at the timber stumps. Draughting anvils out of

spirit and calloused will, Thor's trial had cast himself in iron until even the shadow of death looming behind him posed no fear too

great. But in the relentless torture of the wilderness there grew a song, the bottomless chasm of a human soul, the treacherous deep,

so easily closed off, his played out a melody as it softened and bloomed. Now dancing upon his tongue in rhythmic insurgence to our

unfeeling ways, Thor parried this to the whittling of wooden pikes. There was a vermillion glow about the forest in which he sat; a

bleeding summer vapour that warmed his skin while he trod from river banks to hillsides and meadows, and in that brilliant read

shone the vertebrae necklace that hung about his sternum.

The third month away from home brought this lonely god through a burnt out village, wilting with the snow and sludge that

decorated its corpses like Pompeii. The bone necklace beat against him with a weary thud. The town lay still under marble grey,

clouds that were hewn out of granite and silver, shedding grief in their tears for the dead that drank from below. Under the dilapidated

roof that month Thor slept, his body heaving in great shudders, a chill that throttled so violently that nought but a whimper could leap

from his blueing lips, an incoherent, incomprehensible prayer for death. As though skin and clothing were no more than a concept,

and warmth had escaped his memory entirely, as though the boundaries between body and world had dissipated, and all that was left,

all that could be felt was the nauseating cold. The strangling, crushing, nauseating cold. In hours of agony that stretched on into

weeks, he entered a state of delirium, a spangled and lucid dizziness that, upon reflection, appeared in bursts from black shrouds. As

he thumbed the column of brittle white that hung down his chest, he recalled that same moment before death. He recalled the

impossible and purely insane events of the night, but more than anything, he had realised that life had given him a glimpse into his

own brother's final moments. He had realised that in some way they had both occupied the exact same space and time.

Trembling in great, clumsy staggers through a blackened snowstorm, Thor barrelled into the winds, gripping oak fixtures and

flinching at how they burned. His feet were in a gravelled cocktail of fire and ice, yet at the same time, his body emanated a soft,

warming light. Finally, as his knees gave out and he was flung mercilessly onto the floor, as panic set in and he began to claw at the

ghoulish flesh that kept in the light, he felt a hand. The clutch of a child, perhaps his own, held so tightly onto his flailing arms, and

for all the strength a man may possess, he could not move under its restraint. Motionless now, the world around him hushed; nothing

but stale white and flavourlessness for company, an anonymity of being cooled him and still, the tiny hands held him. A trickle of

copper soiled his mouth.

The coal coloured town outside flailed through the storm, yet in his world, Thor was safe. As long as he dreamt, Thor could be saved.

Eyes ajar and brimming with wonder, the dead man peered up at the boy. Unrecognisable, fading, the child spoke, “In flesh you are

bound, both to pleasure and pain, immaterial, you may be free, of life and of loss. But always death will have your name, always,

always, death will have you.” He felt his chest, a ripe and glowing thump reverberated from his chest. Slow, gasping, screaming back

to life, he sat up. “Don't follow on. Don't play this game, and for the sake of everything, don't lose.” There was that thump again,

blood gushing in rivers throughout. He stood, stammering, a crippled gait that carried him on. And the world was black and blue and

thunderous again, and before him in the frigid dirt, he saw it, thumping. Betwixt a ribcage that shone out: an imposing structure, there

was a heart. A human heart. Still beating. The boy's words rang from it, in sullen, harsh breaths, Thor closed his hands around it, the

sticky, thick veins contracting against his skin, and cradling this human core, he placed himself in a pool of life-giving energy, in the

place of his brother, the last seconds of this boy's life, the growing baby inside of Freja. Thereupon the fringe of mortality, the

realisation hammered down upon him; in order to live, in order to truly live, one must be greater than death. Choking and in a rasping

cry Thor opened his eyes. The banks of morning rose up over tree tops, gilding its landscape with a pale, selenite glow, and,

indifferently, the world around him stirred with it. Rolling onto all fours, with disbelief at his miraculous survival, and weeping he

smiled, the grateful shade, where he had held the little boy's heart, he now saw the ripples of spine protruding. The backbone to his

survival. His strength. Now leaning, gently, against his breathing chest, Thor carried the weight of life and death, the little boy's

vertebrae, a totem of magnificent mortal affairs.

Appendix

Throughout history, there have been three prominent themes among humanity; universal topics that plague our minds almost

constantly. The first being the potential existence of a divine power, and what our role is relative to it. The second being, how our

human lives are simultaneously incomprehensible and crushingly simplistic. Lastly, the endless and militant search for a scapegoat of

our transgressions against the world and each other. My dissertation is a short story that explores these ideas in a poetic narrative;

outlining the flawed beauty of our species as well as an existential question of celestial power, but most importantly, what it means to

be human. It is also important that this piece is read as part one of a series of short stories. This decision came about through my

experimentation with character development, plot and analysis of the unfolding story; I concluded that this should be seen as an

excerpt from a seemingly never-ending tale that illuminates the sheer endlessness of being. Combining the use of romanticised

imagery, under the influence of writers such as Emily Bronte, J. R. R. Tolkien, and George Elliot. As Tolkien once said: “I wanted to

create a poetic legend that I felt England lacked.” I intend to draw upon the framework of ancient mythology and modern philosophy

to create my own poetic legend, humanity's origin story and a tale of our demise. Looking to the work of Soren Kierkegaard and his

influence on authors such as Samuel Beckett, my narrative shall retain a realist approach with an absurdist feel to it, exploring and

experimenting with the mysteries of our universe and the tragic beauty of humanity, whilst balancing notes of whimsy and the

macabre to tell the tale of mortal gods. There is no existence more flawed and breathtaking than the apparent immortality of the

human race.

Bibliography

Beckett, Samuel. Waiting For Godot. New York: Grove Press, 1954. Print.

Bronte, Emily. Wuthering Heights. Champaign, Ill.: Project Gutenberg. Print.

Eliot, George. Daniel Deronda. [Auckland, N.Z.]: Floating Press, 2009. Print.

Kierkegaard, Søren. Edifying Discourses. New York: Harper, 1958. Print.

Kierkegaard, Søren. Either. Princeton: Princeton Uni. Pr, 1974. Print.

Tolkien, J. R. R and Christopher Tolkien. The Silmarillion. Print.

Tolkien, J. R. R. The Hobbit, Or, There And Back Again. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1966. Print.

Tolkien, J. R. R. The Lord Of The Rings. London: Collins, 2001. Print.