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would like to proudly introduce Fool of Death a modern day fable for this our darkest of hours.
Though this is only a story, a fairytale, a tableau of words and pictures, it is a way for Jesica and I to stand up to a world hell bent on silencing the freethinking mind.
Could you be fooled into creating your own death?
Inside the quiet hollow of the insane mind resides a
glimpse, an understanding of the threadlike divide
separating that which is assumed to be real and that
which is not.
With an air of coy secrecy, Fool of Death, seeks to answer:
What distinguishes the doings of a madman and the
purest of hearts?
Nathan’s fear smoothly transitioned to awe and wonder as he was swept up in the warm breeze and allowed the picturesque view to penetrate his normally stern face. Everything was somehow right. The low sun shimmered in the backdrop of a silvery-white atmosphere, and was kissed with a warm, yellow-orange hue that saturated the upper edge of three-dimensional, dove-gray clouds and melted into the distant ominous haze. A single tear glistened in his young eyes. He was welcoming death with the same warmth and happiness he had whenever he was going home. He shook his head, it was almost a shame. So much beauty in the world and for what?
For what? Let us back up for a moment, what did I mean when I said, this our darkest hour. I’ll answer with a question: Are we free to think, to form our own conclusions, or has the hive mentality usurped the last bastion of freedom: The mind.
The answer should be left up to you, and you alone, it should not be the decision of a handful of people pulling strings of the ignorant populist that will force you to conform.
So today I invite you to join our journey of freedom of thought, of seeking hidden truths, of finding out what drives the madman by picking up a copy of Fool of Death. We have combine three distinct yet powerful forms of art: Illustration, the picture that paints a thousand words. The story that allows you to vicariously live another life, and the poem that laments the failure of mankind.
The darkness thunders down a vacant street whispering an ominous warning: the nothing is coming, time is up, it's the end. The youth shake off their fears and steady their trembling hands. Though the highway is long, persistent, and haunted by those who have lost the fight, they will make a stand, even if they must do it alone.
A strange, almost murky wind slapped against the window, causing the glass to wobble even though it was tightly shut. George Chesterfield heard it whistling through a tiny crack and though it was loud, it seemed remote, as though it were merely an echo in his own mind. The sound resonated continuously, annoyingly, but it was her unusual silence causing this strange sensation, not the wind. Though he could only see the back of her head, he envisioned a smug gaze upon her face. Maybe she knew.
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Forgiveness is sweet... but revenge is sweeter. Meet November and December Webb; seventeen-year old identical twins. Each night, driven by the burden of penance, the Webb sisters search for the worst in mankind. Night after night their secret has remained safe until a rash of murders threatens to expose everything.
Now, as the blood-lust accelerates and their resolve wanes, they become desperate. They must find the killer who is always watching and always one step ahead.
"I found them," November Webb said loudly with a slight edge, and too much enthusiasm.
She jerked her head to the left and with it went the car. It swerved; she corrected, and pointed for her sister to look. She felt her stiff shoulders slump in relief as she was now able to relax enough to stop fidgeting with her hair-clip, which itched and poked the back of her throbbing skull. Both sister's simultaneously peered up at the moonlight, which shined brightly at this hour, reminding them they were quickly running out of time.
November was able to refocus all of her contempt and resolve toward the burly man, their target of the evening. He walked stiffly, his left leg hurt, and his neck pulsated. His muscles were tweaked painfully as he hunched down in order to hold on to the small child's hand with an overly tight grip. The single streetlamp hit the back of his incongruously disheveled cloths hanging from his body and added to his large size. It made him appear more like a grotesque monster and less like a man. This was fitting; November thought as she gazed upon him, he was the very definition of what a monster meant to her.
It is said perception is reality, and yet, what if the reality in question was twisted and corrupted to a disheartening degree of depravity? Would the corruption have the power to shift the human consciousness and control the very nature of what is and is not? Five teenagers will have to answer that very question. Their souls will be thrown into a pit of malevolent despair where they will come face to face with their archetypal selves. Their characters will be tested, they will be deceived, given half-truths, and face punishment for crimes they did not commit.
"My phone’s going to die," were scarcely audible and the only clear words to come through Michael’s cellphone, even before he could utter a greeting.
“Beth? Is that you?” Michael questioned as he leaned forward and pressed the volume button on Christopher’s car radio down in an attempt to hear what was being said.
The amalgam of static, crackling, and dead air made it nearly impossible for him to hear anything. He shifted in his seat and placed one hand up to plug his right ear while the other crammed the phone tightly against his left.
“I--crap--can you----at park----club.” Beth said just as the static overtook the remainder of the half-broken sentence.
Chaos stood on the embankment, breathless in body and mind. Day after day, night after night, doomed time after doomed time, but he could not save eight-year old Raven Clayton. The anguish did not lessen, and now the sorrow was unbearable. It morphed, grew, plaguing him and all those around him. Yet, here he stood, and here he would stay. He made a promise a long time ago and though death is relentlessly stalking her with permission from a voracious force, Chaos will find a way around Raven's cruel fate and save her life.
Her daily headache rose up as she sat
enraptured in a newly formed, heartless mood. The atmosphere grew opaque as the supply of oxygen thinned. She could hardly take in the air. The light dimmed as she opened her eyes and rubbed her head. She was not going to allow her pain to drive her actions. She leaned over Chaos in order to grab the ibuprofen from the glove-box. She took two pills, swallowed them quickly and popped her neck.
For him power and glory are not enough, immortality is the only possibility. His vanity consumes him, forcing his actions to capture, control, and twist her reality. He will make her like him, in this he will not yield. Welcome to Devin Sinclair's world...where each move is watched, carefully controlled, and trusting your eyes can be a fatal mistake. She is alone, terrified of even her own deteriorating mind. She must find the truth which hides in a book that reveals what really happened the few months she was held captive and locked into his game.
Devin was certain she was in a jeep, at least she thought it was a jeep. It was hard to tell from the vantage point of the floorboard in the backseat. Yet she was wrong. She was standing, naked, in front of her peers. She wanted to scream, run, but did not. She coughed, looked down again, her clothes had magically reappeared. She turned to the left, the school principal nodded his head for her to continue reading.
“Humanities food, dark-red blood streaks down the windowpane.
It's continuously dripping down; surely I have gone insane.
Their begging I pity, yet my gun is tempting me to give in.
This feeling so curious, though my heart no longer wants this sin.
The red blood is staining. On my hands it looks brown.
I try to stop the fire, only to take another step down.
I'm feeling a great sensation, my body aches for more.
Heaven is losing its salvation, as I close its last door.
The Devil is laughing; he thinks he's won the game.
He has not realized that we are one and the same.
Would you laugh if I told you that I am ready to die?
I have killed so many, yet no more do I morn; neither do I cry.
A bright flash blinded Devin for a moment, her stomach roiled in pain. Nothing seemed real. The audience erupted in thunderous applause. Devin swallowed in again. Were they all mad? Had they, just as she, gone insane?