March 12, 2006
adrift: mescaline seas II
The last of the entries of Commissioner Scepter on his voyage through the Mescaline Seas. -P.B.
Log Update: November 28th, 2004
6:00 am: Day 3
Phase 188.
Day light again. As horrific as the night was, and as thankful as I am for the sun to dissolve the aberrations of terror, the day is little comfort. The cycle will repeat, and again, darkness will descend upon the barge and this wasteland of middle of America.
Before night fell, the waterway had began a serpentine course. From what
I could gather during the reign of the despot that is blackness was that we continued in this manner. We’ve also begun to circle the Blue Flames,
moving in an inward spiral: snaked curves and circling in. We grow closer to the Alexis Flames, but always out side her reach. She’s taunting us.
My body is withering from lack of food and the foul water from the river. Shaggy’s candy stash has been eaten so long ago I can barely remember the delicate treats melting on my tongue. Oh, Zeus, what have I down to deserve this fate? Who on Olympus have I offended?
…
10:35am
I have made a disturbing discovery on the east side of the barge. I am not alone on this forsaken, floating island. Footprints. Wet, human footprints along the length of the deck. Who’s are they? Do they mean me harm? If they were friendly why do they insist on this clandestinity? Are they after the corn I just planted on Aloha deck?
I’ve convinced myself that I must begin constructing a defendable position. A fort at the aft of the ship. I fear these footprints will bring my destruction. If starvation and madness do not claim me first.
Commissioner Lance Scepter
..
..
Log Update: November 28th, 11:00pm, Night 3
I fear this will be my last entry, for I do not believe I have the constitution required to survive another night on this barge of death. My fortification on the aft deck is completed. I’ve retreated deep into its walls, but I hear them. Pattering. Young corn ripped from its stalks. Lumber beasts. Rattling. My poor goat’s whelps. Clanging. They mock my fear with their bellow cries. Their badminton joviality. What manner of creature that has assaulted this barge I cannot say. But, if it’s a death by their vile hands or a death by ants, I choose ants.
I’ve eaten my left calf.
No water.
If there is an ant amongst the shores of choppily minstrel’s morning chores, I’ll seek this chief beneath the hill of milking, mowing, sewing and lore. About his lair of tunnels and drones, and ladybug wenches and grasshoppers trolls, I’ll trudge and trudge and trudge and trudge until I find this insect judge. Pikes the swords and shields the bucklers, the gauntlet faced and gloved complexion, antennae, chirps, and chitinoid seams he points at me, the basilisk breakfast. But, no, I’m not, I say and plead, the meal of a lizardsnake on my knees, but a man in dread and trying to flee the Kentucky drift towards the Alexis seas. The seas of flames that burns the will of everyone trapped beneath the swill of complacent life in the middle country where tutors teach backwards to the magic bean, which brought about the glorious leaves, the mortal tongue, and English teas, the crow and camel, the ocelot’s nose, the left foot, finger and index toe, shale and stones and stalagmite chairs, the rings of Neptune and the green solar flares. This bean of power and almighty truth, the construct of constructs between two towers, the tight rope walker and an over jump jester. The Ant King listens to the terrible fate I’m destined to live for the rest of my life, an existence in chains, and ogre debates, and endless orations from the self-righteous states. He opens his mandible all juicy and raw, this royal ant king who’s left me in awe, and with one quick flick, and a remorseful humph, he licks the dirt from the crease of my eye.
Commissioner Lance Scepter, your loving companion through out this life.
Posted by dougrice at March 12, 2006 11:37 PM