Waxing and Waning - Found in an old email account from 02/09/04. 2004 was a time spent working at an O2 call-centre. Feel the pain

The gibbous moon shimmers softly,
A haze of rotten chalk
Blending on the lagoon light,
Holding secrets never taught


Stretching its thousand faces,
Into the madman’s mind
The tendrils of its corruption,
Too deep for man to find

Pain increases tenfold,
Mental wounds suspending
Heart inside grows cold,
In darkness neverending.

Scorn - Originally written 23/03/2009

Summoning the strength within me, I focus upon the maelstrom. Winds nearly cast me off the precipice I stand upon, and I glance down at the chaos in the ocean before me. I hear a horn blow somewhere in the distance, and frenzied shouts of desperate men. I turn about, and see a man with terror in his eyes point frantically at the sea. A massive tentacle darts out of the murky depths, coils around in the air and whistles towards me. I slow things down to myself, which also manages to slow events around me. The leviathan's lethal attack slows to a crawl, and I sidestep, turning towards the beast. I absorb the fear from the men around me, take it within myself, giving me the adrenalin to reach forward and touch the briny, alien arm. As I do so, I release all the energy within myself, all the anguish, all the suffering, all the fury. The beast shrieks in horror at possibly it's first emotions since time began, and sinks once more below the waves. Time speeds up, and I become aware of a few nervous, insane laughs, and one man even claps me on the shoulder. I start to recharge myself, notice their mistrust of me, as anyone mistrusts those who have hidden strength. I walk the opposite way to the others, along the cliff.


Why do I do this? Why do I immerse myself within myself, cast out from the rest of society? I realise many hours have past as I reach the summit on the moor, and my home comes out of the mist to greet me. The local populace have been here recently to, with gifts of bread, cheese, ale, clothes. Simple things from simple people, given almost as a sacrifice to their lesser of two evils - I have yet to cause nightmares amongst the children, or carry off fishermen to the cold dark. In time they will forget the leviathan, and ask me to move on, their gratitude forgotten. I pour a flagon of the cold, salty, suprisingly sweet beer, and think about my next move. I am woken by a loud knock at the door, and the sunlight breaking through the loose boards of the roof onto my dazed face. I collect myself mentally, grasp my staff for physical support, and cast open the door with a tempestuous look on my face. The anger gives way to casual suspicion, and I stare at my visitor. He is dressed in the emperor's purple, and is clutching a scroll with sweaty, well manicured fingers. I raise an eyebrow at him inquistively, and he thrusts the scroll to my face, showing me Emperor Benedict's seal. His message delivered, he turns and almost jogs back to his horse, then gallops away, in the direction of the faraway capital - Benon. I sit back in my chair, and light up the coals, suddenly very chilled despite the sunshine. I break the seal and read:
"News has travelled fast of your heroic victory. You are summoned to
His Excellence's residence to partake of a feast in your honour."

I wisp my fingers slowly over my pipe, and relax as a spark erupts, and draw back heavily on the dark tobacco. It has been many years since I had last been to a city, last within the bounds of normality. I remember the last time I had been in the Banthenon, the emperor's palace. I was lying in the arms of his daughter, the beautiful, yet humble Sophitia. She was similar in me to many respects, yet while I cast society aside and studied the dark arts, she read the ways of the men of science, shutting her mind to God and his nemesis. We each found in the other fierce, dark intelligence, and a mutual respect of the other's learning. This soon developed first into strong friendship, and finally love. The emperor discovered my affair with his daughter, and tortured me for four weeks in his pit of Hell, the Oubliette. Eventually cast out, disfigured and scarred both mentally and physically, I wandered the outskirt towns, living off small petty enchantments and Tavern illusions. Until finally word reached me of a serious threat, a long-forgotten sea demon attacking the minds of the good citizens of Duskmoor. So now I must decide whether to return to that shiny, clean facade of a city, or risk the emperor's vengeance by rejecting his summons. Knowing my answer already, I pack provisions for a week long ride, and set off to Benon.

After many weary days of travelling, I finally reach a signpost informing me that I am entering Benedict's Territory. I stable my horse at a nearby inn, and enter for much needed refreshment. I motion to the innkeeper for a room and a lunch, and take in my surroundings. There are a few patrons quietly drinking mead, while another four are sitting playing some seedy game of chance. There are two fairly well-dressed people, who also look to be travellers to the capital, talking of current events. I hear them mention that my sweet Sophitia is to be at my feast, and a smile breaks out on my face. The chance to see the one I truly love once more. I barely hear them continue to speak as my thoughts move away into fantasy, until a single sentence brings me crashing back to reality. She is to be wed in three days, to a foriegn Prince by the name of Lethe. I raise my hand to my head, and the tavern fades from view. There is a mighty rumbling, flowing out from me to the rest of the world, and the tavern's very foundations begin to shake. I am dimly aware of frightened cursing, and the other people's fear start to be absorbed by my raw power. I fall to my knees with pleasure and strength, and flames erupt around me. Screams of fear turn to screams of pain and I walk away, my eyes red with retribution, towards this feast of the damned.

The palace gates lie open, so I walk into the palace grounds uninterrupted. A few uneasy guards, stand aside for my entrance. One whispers to his comrade, and the other nods, smiling. I feed from them, their eyes rolling upward in their sockets as their very essence powers me. I stride forward and am announced by an unseen voice. The emperor sits at the head of a mighty table, surrounded by his king's courtiers. At a seperate table sits my love, Sophitia and the dark prince Lethe, fabled for his love of drink, loose women and duels by sword. I casually sit opposite them all, and the emperor greets me warmly, trying to make a sign of his powerful ally to Lethe. I smile at them all in turn as we eat, the red meat furthering my other appetite. The meal finished, the emperor claps his hands and a cage is brought in. In it lies a waif-like dark skinned woman lies naked save for a iron collar and chain around her neck. The emperor announces his prisoner of war and starts making comments such as negroes are less sexual than his subjects. Roars of laughter from the sycophantic courtiers and Lethe answer him, and the cage is wheeled out again. Wine is brought out, and I watch them all drink heavily. My sweet Sophitia sits in the corner, forgotten by all except myself and the letching hands of Lethe all over her slender body. I feel my rage start to rise, and a candle near me flutters. For a moment, the conversation stops, and the emperor announces his boredom. Stating that he lacks any excitement in his life, I tell him of a fashion in the fabled city of Acheron for banquets. The king and his courtiers lie rapt in my attention as I tell them that they all pretend to be negroes, and dance around like madmen. The emperor announces for me to help them prepare. So I call for chains and collars to be brought, and chain them all together by the neck. They all start to laugh at each other, and dance around like apes. I call them to silence, and say that they are all far too pale skinned. I have a dark, foul liquid brought to me and pour it all over the bigoted emperor, his twelve fat courtiers, and the dark Lethe last. I reach over to Sophitia and take her by the hand. I bid her watch as they all start to dance around the hall. I close my eyes and feel her, feel her hatred of them start to boil and simmer over. I absorb it all, and stare at the dancing fools. I whisper to her the magic word for the liquid "Tar", and she smiles and visualises to herself the tar erupting into flame, and their painful deaths. She nods silently and I whisper "Burn" and they start to whoop in agony, the only other sound, that of their burning flesh interrupted by my raising laugh of victory, as I leave the burning regime and head back to the simplicity of Duskmoor with my love beside me.

Midnight Musings - Originally written 11/02/2009

As the moonlight filters through the hazy smoke,
Epiphany takes hold of me.

Raising, drifting, shadows awake from their slumber, taking away mine.
I follow them as they indicate to me potential futures. A glimpse into what may happen, based solely on my decision in the next few minutes(days?).

Here - a raspy last breath sat in front of a pine cabin, looking down at my life partner's wrinkled hands and seeing so many memories. The hazy sun shines bright off the lake, and I close my eyes for the last time.

There - Sensing danger, I drop the money and turn on my heels. I hear a deafening noise, and
suddenly the world is at an impossible angle. I look down at myself, seeing, not feeling the
gunshots enter my body. I feel an unlikely sense of peace, and forgive my killers. I see them take
a mobile phone out of my blood-stained pocket and take a photo of me, then send it to my employer.

I knew the job was risky, but the drugs needed to be taken, and that meant unsavoury work. I
suppose at that point I already knew I was terminal, but needed to take the edge away from the
world. I am briefly aware of a human chuckle before the world fades to black again.

Startled back to the present, I see the wispy figures beckon me further, along to a purple and
green ethereal plane. A cacophony of noise erupts around me and I see my memories, shaped like teardrops fly up around me.

Nostalgia turns to anger, to shame, to wasted potential. I see myself turn my back on good things, wallow in hatred, directed at everything. I snap away from the torment and see a pair of golden scales materialise, and the teardrop memories flowing towards them.

They begin to flock to one side, and all my evil past weighs down the scales. The green floor starts to dissolve, and I see below me the dim red fields of Hell. Sinking through the floor, I panic and start to scramble up, not daring to look down at the abominations that lie in wait for me to join them in eternal torment. I start to scream, try to convince this spiritual jury that my life has
not been in vain, with all the evil there is good too, a donation to charity here, a returned
wallet there.

I see more memories flock past me. These are circular, perfect, with a warm white glow
blushing from them. They move towards the other end of the scales, and the green mist starts to
return, and I see myself rise away from the citadels of the damned below. All too soon, the flight
of seraphim slows to a trickle, and I see that the teardrops still far outweigh my few good
moments.

The shadows move back into view, and drag me away from the abnormal jury room, and back
into the welcoming pitch blackness. I feel a overwhelming sense of tension, and suddenly a white
light breaks out into my gaze, along with a sharp pain.

My legs suddenly cramped, I realise I am staring intently at the moon, and my cigarette has burnt it's way down to my fingers. I throw it away, look at the computer screen, and type.

Mad Sultans of Turkey, and some Bad-Ass Cossacks

Crazy Turkish Sultans are the best.

quote:

... Sometimes Murad disguised himself and, accompanied by his executioner, he wandered the streets incognito, personally carrying out inspections. When he came across some "troublemaker", Murad would turn to the executioner and select the tool he thought most suited to the job. Thus Murad had many people mercilessly executed and corpses hung at every street corner. In the early years of his reign, his executions had been justified by unquestionable guilt, but later he was killing out off ill humour or a whim. Once, he forced one of his doctors to swallow an overdose of his own opium. He impaled a courier for informing him mistakenly that he had become father of a boy, whereas in fact it was a daughter. Murad's cruelty became legendary and his approach created a terrified silence everywhere. He cut off the head of every man who came under the slightest suspicion; in 5 years time he executed some 25,000 subjects. His musician, for example, was beheaded for playing a Persian melody. In 1633, coffee houses, wine shops and taverns were closed, because they were meeting places where people could spend their time criticising the government. Murad passed a law prohibiting smoking and the consumption of alcohol or coffee throughout the Ottoman Empire on pain of death. When he caught anyone with a pipe or a cup of coffee, Murad had the offender executed on the spot, although he himself indulged in both habits

Knowing the strife among the harem women, Sultana Kösem had tried to encourage her son to homosexual love, showing him only beautiful boys and keeping him away from girls. During the rest of his life Murad was to show both feelings of lust and hate for women. Once Murad encountered a group of women singing in a meadow and ordered all of them to be drowned for disturbing his peace. When a boat with ladies came too close to the harem walls, Murad ordered his gunners to open fire, sinking the boat and drowning them all. At other times, he forced his harem women to jump naked into a pool. He liked to fire harmless pellets at their bodies or fill the pool with so much water that they had to jump up and down to take a breath. Murad was also intensely jealous. A man who added a room to the top of his house was hanged, because Murad thought he had done it to peer over the palace walls into his harem.

During the last years of his life Murad became addicted to alcohol. It turned him into a homicidal maniac. Dimitrie Cantemir of Moldavia (1678-1723) wrote: "Very often at midnight he stole out of the women's quarters through the private gate of the palace with his drawn sword, and running through the streets barefooted with only a loose gown around him, like a madman, killed whoever came his way." He took particular pleasure in beheading men with fat necks. Murad practised his powers with the arquebus from the palace walls on passers by - in case they were intending to look into the harem. While riding out, armed with his bow, he used to practise his aim on any passing woman...

Or this fella,

quote:

Ibrahim was born on November 5, 1616, as a younger son of Sultan Ahmed I (1590-1617). As an infant he had been locked up in the "Cage", and ever since he had been living in fear of death. The Sultans Osman II (1604-1622) and Murad IV (1612-1640) had executed all their brothers - except Ibrahim. In 1640, Murad actually ordered Ibrahim's death on his deathbed, because he thought it better for the dynasty to end rather than continue with 'insane seed'. But their mother, Sultana Kösem, intervened.When he had finally left the "Cage", Ibrahim began dancing through the harem, while screaming: "The butcher of the Empire is dead!".

Seeking compensation for his lost years, 23-year-old Ibrahim indulged in an urge for debauchery. Sultana Kösem was happy to reign in her son's place, so she took care of an endless supply of virgins and fat women for his pleasure. Ibrahim was frequently impotent so his mother supplied him with aphrodisiacs, too. Ibrahim preferred women he could not have and found it difficult to make love to slave-girls, who were not in a position to refuse him anything. Dimitri Cantemir of Moldavia wrote: "In the palace gardens he frequently assembled all the virgins, made them strip themselves naked, and neighing like a stallion ran amongst them and as it were ravished one or the other, kicking or struggling by his order". When Ibrahim met the beautiful daughter of the Grand Mufti, Turkey's highest religious leader, he asked him for her hand in marriage. The Mufti, aware of the debaucheries in the harem, advised his daughter to refuse the proposal. Ibrahim was enraged and had the girl followed and kidnapped. He ravaged her for a couple of days and then sent her back to her father. Another time Ibrahim treatened to stuff his Grand Vezir with straw unless he recovered presents given by previous Sultans to the shrine at Medina.

In 1641, one of Ibrahim's concubines, Turhan Hadice (1627-1682), gave birth to his first son, Prince Mehmed (1642-1687). Shortly before the birth, Ibrahim (to the right) acquired a slave girl, who accidentally happened to be pregnant. After the birth she was employed as a wet nurse for the little Prince and so she moved into the Royal harem with her own son. The Sultan was so taken with the healthy and robust little boy - a contrast with his own fragile and sickly son - that he spent a lot of time with him. When Turhan Hadice complained, Ibrahim had one of his rages; he tore his son from his mother's arms and threw him into the pool. Luckily, Mehmed survived. Three months after Mehmed's birth another concubine gave birth to Ibrahim's second son, Süleyman (1642-1691). More sons soon followed. In 1645, Ibrahim betrothed his 3-year old daughter Fatima to Kapudan Yusuf Pasha*, but he had him executed within a year.

The shops of jewellers and European merchants were pillaged to satisfy Ibrahim's whims and tastes of the moment. Ibrahim used to drench his beard, clothes and room hangings with perfumes, especially the exotic ambergris. He had a fetish for furs: his clothes, curtains and walls were all decorated with fur. His pillows were stuffed with it and he had a preference for making love on sable skins. Ibrahim collected books expressing the various ways of coition and he was said to have invented some new and previously unknown positions himself. Once, Ibrahim happened to see the private parts of a wild young cow and according to Cantemir, "he sent the shape of them in gold all over the Empire with orders to make enquiries whether a woman made in just that manner could be found for his lust". A woman fitting the description was found in Armenia and she was received into the harem. Her name was Sechir Para ("Sugar Cube") and she weighed around 150 kilograms. Ibrahim became madly infatuated with her.

One day Sechir Para told Ibrahim about a rumour that one of his concubines was "compromised by an outsider", but she didn't know any details, like the girl's name. Ibrahim promptly raged for three days. When his son Mehmed made a joke that Ibrahim didn't like, he took his dagger and thrust it in his little son's face. Mehmed was to carry the resulting scar on his forehead until the end of his life. The chief black eunuch, the most powerful man after the Grand Vezir, tried to find the identity of the concubine by torturing some of the harem girls, but he was not provided with a name. Then Ibrahim decided to have his entire harem of 280 women thrown into the Bosporus, tied up in weighted sacks. Sechir Para and Turhan Hadice were spared. Only one other girl survived, because her sack had not been sufficiently tied up. She was dragged out of the water by the crew of a French ship. Eventually Sultana Kösem became jealous of Sechir Para's influence and one day she invited the woman to dinner and had her strangled. She told the inconsolable Ibrahim that the woman "had died suddenly of a powerful illness".

In the provinces the custodians of public property turned into feudal lords. Offices were sold to the highest bidder or given to favourites, taxes were increased and every resource possible was drained to supply the demands of the Sultan's excesses. Ibrahim was indifferent to the chaotic situation in his country and his insane behaviour alienated all political fractions. But the birth of his sons had made Ibrahim replaceable. In 1648, the Janissaries revolted because they were paid poorly or not at all. They cut up the body of the Grand Vezir and sold it in the street. Then the Grand Mufti decided to take revenge for the deflowering of his daughter by sanctioning a coup. When Ibrahim asked him: "Did I not appoint you to this high office?", he replied: "No, God appointed me." Thus Ibrahim was deposed and put back in the "Cage". Confined once again, he became a raving lunatic. Despite the thick walls, his cries could be heard day and night. A week after losing his throne, on August 18, the executioners entered the "Cage". With the Koran in his hand, Ibrahim cried out: "Behold! God's book! By what writ shall you murder me?" and "Is there no one among those who have eaten my bread who will take pity on me and protect me? These cruel men have come to kill me. Mercy! Mercy!" Nevertheless, he was strangled with a bowstring and buried in the Haghia Sophia Mosque beside Mad Mustafa.

And this exchange, true diplomacy,

quote:

The text of the Sultan's letter to the Cossacks:

As the Sultan; son of Muhammad; brother of the Sun and Moon; grandson and viceroy of God; ruler of the kingdoms of Macedonia, Babylon, Jerusalem, Upper and Lower Egypt; emperor of emperors; sovereign of sovereigns; extraordinary knight, never defeated; steadfast guardian of the tomb of Jesus Christ; trustee chosen by God himself; the hope and comfort of Muslims; confounder and great defender of Christians—I command you, the Zaporozhian Cossacks, to submit to me voluntarily and without any resistance, and to desist from troubling me with your attacks.

—Turkish Sultan Mehmed IV

quote:

Zaporozhian Cossacks to the Turkish Sultan!

Thou art a turkish imp, the damned devil's brother and friend, and a secretary to Lucifer himself. What the devil kind of knight art thou that cannot slay a hedgehog with your naked arse? The devil shits, and your army eats. Thou a son of a bitch wilt not ever make subjects of Christian sons; we have no fear of your army, by land and by sea we will battle with thee, fuck thy mother.

Thou art the Babylonian scullion, Macedonian wheelwright, brewer of Jerusalem, goat-fucker of Alexandria, swineherd of Greater and Lesser Egypt, Armenian pig, Podolian villain, catamite of Tartary, hangman of Kamyanets, and fool of all the world and underworld, a fool before our God, a grandson of the Serpent, and the crick in our dick. Pig's snout, mare's arse, slaughterhouse cur, unchristened brow, screw thine own mother!

So the Zaporozhians declare, you lowlife. Thou wilt not even be herding Christian pigs. Now we shall conclude, for we don't know the date and don't have a calendar; the moon's in the sky, the year in the book, the day's the same over here as it is over there; for this kiss our arse!

Koshovyi Otaman Ivan Sirko, with the whole Zaporozhian Host.

Someone did a great painting of the Cossacks as they were replying:

http://img.waffleimages.com/7c68faf751667c188cf3a3734a7ac4cba47053c4/Repin_Cossacks.jpg

Test

Testing... this thing on?