The Granulate Hotel Episode

(Abysmal Terror, in ’99) Written in Lima, Peru, 1-10-2009; based on similar events taken place at the time
(Rewritten as ‘Resurrecting Jonathan’, 11/2011)



He had listened to the voice without interrupting. He was speaking to him slowly, and as his voice faded, his body seemed thicker than a wall, and the man’s voice sent back an occasional echo.
He regarded himself as frozen in place; thus, the young man was forced to listen—; consequently, without embarrassment. Otherwise, he’d not been able to tell the police the part of this story he endured. The rest of the story the girl across the hall, and the police would fill in upon his resurrection.

It was a stranger’s path he had crossed that afternoon, in a bar, in Miraflores, Lima, and an American male with two Peruvian friends, feeling no need to shoo away the company. He didn’t know he’d be wrapped in the anonymous cloak of a strange scheme; these three were up to something. And when he’d cast off the cloak of darkness, removing the unknown, such things are never brought back to its normality, and life never the same.
The waiter informed the young American, pointed out to him—one of the three men put something into his drink, then they all three up and left the bar. What the waiter did not tell him was that there were three other persons, a man and two women also interested in him in the bar (not knowing of course their intent).
The two women were rather on the hefty and broad side; they had blue jeans on, both had a medical bag, both under thirty years old. They rather looked alike, yet didn’t clash.
The man had his back turned away from the waiter, and Jonathan.
“I thought it would interest you,” said the waiter, “because I heard you speaking English, with the two Peruvians.”
Involuntarily Jonathan exchanged a glance with one of the two hefty women, followed by a look of near stale indifference by her, as if she couldn’t care less. He then looked cautiously, peering around the room in all directions, and within his head, the voices within the bar, seemingly turned into whispers, innumerable near silent exchanges.

Within the following fifteen minutes, He discovered himself at his four star hotel opening up his door to his room His head in miseries.
It was imperceptible, impossible closing of his eyelids. He heard voices over him—without the slightest sign of interest to his moaning.
“We know who you are,” said a woman’s voice, “bring me smaller seizers,” she told her female accomplice, as she continued to do whatever she was doing, calmly.
“Where’s … (a pause) said the first voice to the accomplice, making a gesture.
“He’s guarding the door,” said the accomplice.
They needed less than an hour in the apartment; dusk had fallen, and the windows and curtains had been closed by the male. Also the man by the door had turned off all the lights, all but the one by the bed, where Jonathan lay paralyzed as the operation took place.

Had anyone rang, it wouldn’t have mattered, Jonathan couldn’t have answered—but Georgina from across the hall had seen all, everything, and called the police, but she knew it would take them hours to come, if they came at all. They seldom took such calls serious (and more often than not, they were not the solution, rather part of the problem).
For half an hour she sat waiting, listening to the sounds from across the hall. Immense feelings of dread, loss came over her, helplessness, it wasn’t painful I mean, more like a dim shadow creeping over her from under the door across the hall, into her room, she felt as if she wanted to swallow up the police for not showing up. That whatever they were doing to him, they could do to her, to anyone without regard for their liberties.
And in the mist of all this, Jonathan, in helpless desolation, became empty inside, weighting less than before. And the next step would sink the scales of repair probability into the sea, forevermore lost.

“Fill them up with gauze!” said the hefty surgeon, to her accomplice.
The man was half asleep leaning against the door, wakened by the sound of voices on the street, and then they disappeared into the entrance of the hotel.
“Be quick,” said the surgeon. “We can go now,” she added in the second moment.
“We’ll meet in San Juan Miraflores,” said the man, “I left my suitcase there at the Hostel, near the ‘Cristo Redentor’ church and park next to it, around the corner, under the name Garcia.
“Pay your bill and go to another hotel, call me on the cell then,” said the Surgeon.

They went out the back door of the hotel unseen, except for the eyes of the neighbor across the hall. The police showed up, a warm feeling came over Georgina. She opened the door, the layer of paleness that had stretched out over her face, stilled showed, but her eyes sparkled.
“Something was going on in that apartment, I saw one man and two men enter and leave, they’ve been in there for a bit over an hour with a young gringo, what took you so long?” she questioned, knowing she was not going to get an answer, and just a stare which
The police did not reply as expected, as was normal practice for them, and knocked on the door as she the young female kept talking, as if the whole matter involved a murder. Then the door opened, it hadn’t been locked.
A foot inside the door she muttered words that sounded like a prayer. When the police turned on the lights, she held her breath; the young man was laying on his bed, on his back, bandages over his eyes.
“What are you waiting for?” she questioned the police.
They knew now what had taken place, it didn’t baffled hem, as it had Georgina.
Jonathan, druggy, slow in motion, trying to get his senses back, life his body upward with what strength in his hands he had left, said, “Whose here, what’s going on?” Then leaning his back against the backboard of the bed, his mind reactivated from his hour long, and slightly dimmed hangover, came out of his dilemma. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded and shouted; now feeling the gauze over his eyes; Tarring the gauze and its holding tape out from his eye sockets.
“Please calm down young man,” said one of the officers, he new what had taken place; it was a new kind of business going on.
Georgina fainted, the surgeon had stolen his eyes, they would within a short period of time sell them on the black market.

#834 Originally written in 2008, and rewritten in a shorter version 11/24/2011, based on actual events taking place in 2006, in Lima, Peru, fictionalized here by the author.

Through the Eyes of the Dead (A Minnesota Story)

Opening: “I’ve held this story back somewhat, had put it into limbo for the most part, for most people do not know of my experiences in the way of Second Sight, or indeed of the phenomenon itself. Neither in Europe nor America does such a belief prevail (although they believe in a God they cannot see, and miracles of long ago, and the devil made me do it axiom). Most folk’s think, something has turned the brain, when someone shares such an experience. Therefore, I shall not try to convince the reader one way or another, let it rest under science fiction if indeed it gets better reception. But nonetheless, I shall place it under fiction, for my own journals. I shall try to write it in a form of poetic prose, thus allowing the reader to feel the depth of the story.” Dlsiluk


The Story


I could never again by closing my eyes, have seen anything of which the eyes of my soul had rested upon, and they were open, it was death.

It was strange indeed. It all seemed composed of dark patches of fog like crystal. In and amongst the trees I rested, the darted mysterious unexplained dark, moved ceaselessly outside my shell, within the bleak winter branches of a tree (it was December, 1963). I could not see–but rather feel and sense, even lightly hear, the water of the river below me, the wind above and the current below the ice—invariably, moving on their course. All was clear, as though I was looking out of a bubble. Every sound was laid bare; yet awareness sank deep into my mind.
It all appeared to be a dual consciousness.
Whatever I was before the accident was not plain and real. Yet not for a moment did I lose my identity: I knew I was where I was.

My automobile had crashed onto the thin, but solid ice of the Mississippi River, over rocks, down an embankment of thirty feet, through trees, now it rested on the river under a cliff. And my dead body lay halfway out of the crashed vehicle on the driver’s side.
There was some divine guiding element which had taken hold of the event; guided from the moment of impact—so I believe.
I took careful scrutiny of all things: the bright lights that passed, on the narrow road, to the far-off left of me, the very road that had brought me to this point in destiny, or providence, or call it luck—although that road felt evilly, and if it was, if the devil himself had planted that patch of ice the car slid on, and zoomed straight forward over the cliff onto the river, again I say, it was fate, saintly fate, that took over, it was a perfect outcome that is, for a deadly disaster.
The moon’s position, crude as it was with its light, likened to an oil lamp—with its thick smoky wick, made the night gloomy.
From this I passed forefront, that is to say, halfway outside of the dilapidated 1953 Desoto. At this point my body was lying halfway out of the front seat of the car onto the ice, and halfway inside of the car. To my far right, lay Ralph, my comrade, asleep, more like knockout. He looked pale and wan. It made my heart dreary to see his body crushed in-between iron and steel and fabric. The old Desoto was half the size it originally was. But there was breath coming out of his mouth and nostrils; fixed resolutions. Knowing him as I did, I cried, silently, “You’re alive,” burned into my lungs and heart. I did not need to guess.
His side of the door was locked. The inside door hinge or bolt, was stuck. The key did not open it. I would have lingered, but the cracking ice and the freezing cold, and the drifting snow compelled me to find a crowbar in the trunk of the car, forcing the door open. Whereat, I moved him out. He was of medium frame, with a light wound on his forehead.

A fog hung thick over the top of the trees, was seeping downward, dropping to several feet above the ice, all around; the vast cold air, and the rising depths of the cold water below me, were freezing the upper and lower parts of my body, I had lost one shoe also.
So far as the mind can think, in such situations, possibilities lay open.
The floor of the river still under me, my iron and steel-bound automobile, my Desoto lying heavily on the ice, the ice cracking, making designs like a giant spider web, all such marked a bleak picture, perhaps an unwelcoming ending.
Then as I had pulled Ralph from the car, he awake.
Far away were several car lights—headlights. A few miles out, were house lights—windows lit up, like dots. Slowly we moved off the ice, a tide of relief, for surely the car would sink sooner than later. But that which drew my eyes, once on the road as to a magnet draws to iron, was the clumsily shifting, the zigzagging of smoke from chimneys. Outwardly, only a few hundred yards away.

#845 (12/29/2011)

Through Old Spectacles: The Jail (Poetic Prose)

There is a common compulsion (duress) to a floor of a jail (perhaps a prison). A tang or aftertaste, of the herded, and their smell: a craze caused by a drumming against a door, a crazed drumming: the compulsion of abandonment.
There is an occasional and stylistic strangeness about a jail cell, its iron doors, and its clang. Corridors are like alleys, rare passages that slowly decay the flesh. A new-world in pedigree, for the rare-breed, —it is all timelessness. You never adopt—to this drama (which often, too often, you may describe as a dream—count the days), describe as a story as it were, where exists a fifth wall to the room you’re in, which would otherwise be a stage (and is in your dream) with a backdrop, a deep one, where if only one had wings, could escape (and perhaps one does develop them for a moment for flick of an eyelash).
Here presents the on stage of enforced unnatural restlessness, movements regulated of the incarcerated. Here comes together inmates, people who would never by any other chance have got to know each other—; where resides no common bond, class or opinion that will be allowed to harden.
You battle down the nausea, avoid the hyenas. Better than this you learn your psychological limits, for in this environment: in its alleys and cells, and behind its never ending walls, there are all kinds of animals: the Fighters, the Judas’, Mr. Clean, the Fixer, the Bully, the man that peeks over your shoulder, to see if he can…seditious minds; many not susceptible to psychological analysis, too indefinable, the etcetera.
All in all, one becomes so utterly un-at-ease while just waiting for the axe to fall, or the door to open, metaphorically speaking.

#3362 (12/30/2011)

Marble Cold

(or ‘Grandpa’s Wooden Pipe and Gunsmoke’)



Grandpa Anton, he took a match and he looked at me (I was sitting on the coach, parallel to his sofa chair, eleven years old) and he looked me, then turning away struck the match on his shoe with a quick pompous gesture, drew heavily on his wooden pipe, then at last—shot a puff of smoke into the air— and then another and another until the tobacco was red hot inside the chimney of the pipe. Satisfied, he continued on, his right hand gasping the pipe, between his index and second finger, resting the side of his palm on the sofa chair, his legs now halfway crossed, his small body pressed backward into the softness of the chair, a wee unshaven. He mumbles in a confidential tone of one who relates to an unbelievable moment of quiet—the television in front of him, no more than four feet away, he’s watching ‘Gunsmoke’ (he loves cowboy movies); it’s nine o’clock in the evening. At this moment his thumb moves, he’s checking the stuffed burning tobacco in his pipe, so do I—but from a distance. I think he sees me from the corner of his eye, trying to see the red hot burning tobacco, it’s crimson in color a sharp crimson like volcanic lava, he’s marble cold about all this, he’d be a good poker player, now that I think of it.

He lowers his pipe, leans forward, stretching his neck, his eyes fixated on the movie, looking as if for the first time.

Of me, he asks no favors, only expects me to be quiet. It always seems so desolate when he and I, and at times my older brother watch late television together. Although I get a few little pinches and pulls from, and odd looks from Mike, he gets bored easily, and then grandpa gives the evil eye to us—woops, not us, to me, his favorite is Mike.
As I look back now, I remember gazing stupidly at him, grandpa, wanting to say: ‘It’s Mike’s fault!’ but I say nothing, he’d not believe me anyhow—plus, he’d become a jerky texture of muscles, who seemingly would like to eat me up for a snack during intermission.

In any case, for this brief moment in time, Grandpa has escaped the natural world, and the entire world is better for it, especially me. Now he gets up, without a word—marble cold, ‘Gunsmoke’ is over, I’m sure you’ve already guessed that, and gets into bed—; thus, I have rendered to Caesar what is Caesar’s.

#847 (12/29/2011) cc

The Arms of Heaven

(From: "The Books behind Methuselah")((Written: 1656-years After Adam)


It is said by Enoch and Methuselah that men came into the world in the time of the shadow of the serpent, and they fell swiftly under his dominion; for he sent his emissaries among them: Azaz’el (Angelic Watcher), Lilith & Asmodeus (Lilith married Asmodeus, the king of Demons), Agaliarept (The Henchman of Hell or Sheol) Naamah (the angelic whore of heaven conceived while Adam was married to Lilith), Nephilim (decedents of the Watchers, the Giants of Old), King Og (King of the Nephilim).The Nachash
or, Burning Ones, Shinning Ones (equal to the serpents, originally from the Angelic order, a very High order, said to have had sexual relations with Eve, which produced Cain, and the seed that infected Adam’s line thereafter) and the Goat like Demon, to mention a few. And they all listened to this evil one and his cunning words, and they worshipped the foundation of the demonic world, and feared it. But there were a number of those who turned from evil and left the lands of their kindred, and kept their distance; for they knew of a rumor, that being, Yahweh was going to dim the world with the arms of heaven; these were the days of Methuselah, of which he lived 969-years.
The servants of the Nachash, pursued them with abhorrence, and their lives were short and hard, Enoch hid in caves, and Methuselah, the son of Enoch became king of those who followed Yahweh. And there was war among the Giants, the Sons of the Watchers, and war among the common men, and there were great deeds of velour.
And in those last days before Yahweh was going to dim the world, it was written in the ‘Books of Methuselah’ of which he copied from his father’s 365-scrolls, it told how at the last, victory of Nachash was almost complete, whereupon, Noah, the grandson of Methuselah, built a ship, and people laughed at him for how could he take a voyage upon the unassailable sands of which his ship rested.
Yet Noah desired to speak before the powers of the earth on behalf of Yahweh, that he might have pity on them. But he achieved not his quest after long labors and many threats, and their came a host of kings who had scoured him, for arrogant assumption.
Thus, the Great Flood came, and Nachash was overthrown and the earth broken and men fought to get into the great ship that Noah had built. Evil men, who were still untamed and lawless, refusing the command to cast away the shadow of the serpent, and the fear of the demonic world, but they stayed with their kings: forsook a time of grace, refused the summons of Yahweh, to dwell in darkness: and as a result, demons and dragons, and misshaped men-beasts, and all mockeries of Yahweh, perished, the whole lot of mankind unsaved.

But Yahweh put forth his Seraphim (The highest known rank of angels) and shut the Watchers, beyond the world, in the Prison House for Angelic Beings (beyond Orion), that is without, light, and they cannot themselves return again into the world present and visible, yet some fled to be enthroned, on other worlds, such as Enceladus (Saturn’s moon) Europa
(Contained by Aliens: Jumper’s moon), and other places among the stars. Yet the seeds that they had planted still grew and sprouted, after the flood, the Nephilim (decedents of the Watchers, the Giants of Old were still among the world’s order), bearing evil fruit, and many did tend them. For it was King Og, who hid in Noah’s ship, and guided his giant servants, moving them ever towards spoil and battle, the will of their forefathers, and Nachash, the evil serpent. And those after the flood, who did not follow, or obey them, were destroyed.
The kings of those lands knew full well, they had counsel concerning the ages before, and now after, Gilgamesh among them ((half human, and of half supernatural: born of the demonic race, a hybrid of the Watchers)(a Sumerian: and as most Sumerians believed in those far-off days, to be from a supernatural origin)).
And there was in that land a haven, know as the Circle of Refaim, where a caste of giants lived, as well as in Jericho, the clan being Rephaim (among others), whose name came from Rapha, a noble one among them, the father of many giants, faithful; he came to them and taught them, and he gave them wisdom and power and life a mortal race that possessed the sins of their forefathers.


#848 (1-1-2012)