Timothy's Odyssey

Timothy's Odyssey by scorpioscope


My name is Timothy Stern. I am a simple young man with just one secret. I am happy. How, you ask, could such a matter be named a secret? 
In a world of blackmail, fraud and murder, it is not unlikely to get your head cut off for smiling just a simple smile. I've had my share of misfortunes, of course, but somehow they never managed to extinguish the fire of true joy. The blood that got spilled over the face of our beautiful planet could not drown me in sorrow and disbelief. I have already been judged by God and all other deities, during one of my hallucinogenic wanderings, which brought down the weight of the world on my head. I was able to transform those divine creatures for my own creative power and bow my head in dignity. 
Afterwards my body was weak and producing very peculiar fluids, which I will ignore to describe for the sake of healthy appetite, which led me to belief there is but one way to get up again. Setting free my imagination and destroying all cynical clusters which keep tormenting the eternal soul, as they feed glutinously on Fear's cadaver. Every individual needs to understand his or her personal doubts to maintain the balance between childish amazement and the mind-blowing jump into risky business. 
There is no simple way to put it, because I am certain our minds are lost in the growing maze of endless possibilities. To map it out would require extreme diligent and meticulous calculations of all possible connections between the mindful maze, the inner self and the outside world. For this I have developed various attributes and started up a team to help me progress my studies for human evolution. I do admit this might sound ludicrous to human ears, but I am positively sure this is a risk I am willing to take. 

Understanding is just a first layer of the mind's capacities. Love is its core.



Hopeless by scorpioscope
(L'île déserte main title)


I have travelled a great deal in space. And these times, I must admit, my soul is rather gloomily imitating our foul November weather. I lift my foot from the earth, examining dirt and hopefully discovering some of Whitman's remaining immortal atoms. Something to share, far beyond space and time. On these walks I listen to voices humming tunes from a distant past, guiding me, and pushing me onward, for every step I take moves me closer to Spring.

It seems to me that on the day of my birth, it was Ravel's bolero that would finally urge me to leave the womb, only to discover an annoyingly obscure and November-weather world.  I would find but comfort in sleep, and my mother.

I plant another foot beside an old pond with signs advising me not to feed the ducks. I'm still walking and remarkably sleepy. 

Does it surprise me to hear I never cried when I was a baby, yet shedding tears from an endless ocean during childhood? Who would want to disturb a sleeping baby? Who wouldn't want to punish an annoying brat? One of my earliest memories was bound with a notion of time and departure. Being left behind by my mother in some weird and huge place, filled with weird and huge creatures. I remember something like "…'ll be back in just an hour", though I probably left out "a couple of…". Well, what kind of vocabulary do you expect from a three year old? I remember trying to figure out how time exactly worked, and when the hell my mother would finally pick me up again! I watched the clock, I cried and slept; I watched the clock, cried and slept again. I don't think it had anything to do with education, this was me in one of my purest forms. A form in which I had extreme difficulty trying to connect to the outside-world.

There's a cave I've never noticed before. And it seems completely out-of-place there.
There's a statue of a forgotten Virgin, and some benches for prayers, which I'm gladly using to shelter from the rain. There's one candle still burning and I use it to lit a few more surrounding it. It fills my heart with joy for a mere second and it immediately vanishes into the gutter of my soul. I think I'm still doing what I started doing some 25 years ago. To look for some kind of connection with this world, other than sleeping. Back on my feet again, now marching in pace with a different drummer. My legs swell up and I should mind my steps now, because they might injure some innocent bystanders. 

In the mood of an evening dinner, when darkness had already cast its light on a fearful disposition, I found myself to be a lot older, surrounded with beings that hold some kind of grudge against one another. I was anxious to sleep, but uncomfortably discovered the room filled with quiet desperation. Out of comparison and idealism grew some early signs of conscience. And this conscience was rather unhappy with the circumstance of feeling completely useless. It started to care. And at such an age, you can safely regard this conscience not capable of communicating with the mind. It rather throws up some imitated versions of emotions, freezing the surrounders with a shout and a cry, hence to see them think; "it speaks..'
But of course, even the conscience eventually discovers that it cannot change anything in this manner of untempered hatred. If we are to find some peace with one another, the conscience has to grow conscious of its own complexity. Once again, I had to go to sleep. 

I climb a steep hill, and in its sight is planted a stairwell leading up to a small house, almost invisibly hidden in the side of this breast-like elevation of the earth. It certainly resembles the cave I visited earlier, only there are no candles to lit the place. I wait for my eyes to adjust the darkness, and notice an extremely small living room with a broken fire-place; an open, empty cupboard, and a shelve with our suffering in full display. Even Jesus is hiding in darkness. 
This is the third house in decay I encounter on my great travels in this small town, and I'm growing a little suspicious about this coincidence, if so. Could it be that in contemplating my personal history, set forth by some uninviting November weather (even the sun's hiding!), that my feet will lead me right where my mind is staying? Am I not the visitor of this abandoned little house, but rather the inhabitant? Now, instead of jumping up and storming out this claustrophobic place, I decide to sit down this time and stay.

I shall arrange a meeting between my mind and its conscience. 

And not fall asleep.


Mamebou's Hundred Acre Wood

Mamebou's Hundred Acre Wood by scorpioscope


"Frank couldn't find his ass if he used both hands and a mirror. Whatever thing you think you've got going is worth dick." She smiled that cocky smile of hers and stared out of the window. "So, you're a relational therapist now, are you? I must admit, Jack, with all the women you've torn to pieces, that kind of surprises me. But let's benefit my doubt, shall we? Because I am curious. Why shouldn't I marry Frank?"

The night when Renee was hiding under her bed, she must've known something was wrong. She had just eaten too many oranges and her belly was aching horribly. There was a storm outside and the full moon shone hard, casting murky shadows on the bedroom wall. Her imagination got tangled up in the wrestling marathon of her tummy and gave birth to visions of horrible monsters and bloody battlefields. There was fear in her eyes when Jack called her out from under the bed. He had made her a booboo buddy for her stomach ache, and told her to press the hot sock against her belly. Jack never was a big fan of tragic conversation, but this was one catastrophic event even he couldn't embellish with a zest of comic relief. This was a bitter pill to swallow, for both of them.

"Haven't I always been there for my baby sister? Keep you from getting into trouble?"
The presumptuous and tense smile around her lips ceased to exist as she contemplated on those words. She was fully concentrated now, and Jack had but one shot to keep her from marrying dumb-ass Frank.
"Do you remember that night a couple of months back. You went out on a date with Frank, and in the middle of the night you came knocking on my door. You had sensed something was wrong then, like you very often do. You have a gift to smell the shit before it hits the fence."
"Things have changed, Frank has changed. He was in debt, he got into trouble, and finally he got out."
"No one ever gets out that kind of mess."
"Look, Jack, do you remember about the night our parents died?"
"How could I forget?"
"I had the worst stomachache and you brought…"
"…I brought you a booboo buddy…"
"Yes… I know you feel like you need to take care of me, Jack. Prevent me from making stupid decisions, but I'm a grown woman now, I can deal with this situation."
Jack was losing the battle, running out of artillery to manipulate her mind. Maybe it was time to let go. Maybe.

Renee was sitting on the porch as she peeled the skin from her second orange. The sun blooded the sky. The wind was rushing hard over the fields and through Jacks hair. He wanted to cry but his tears vaporized as soon as they touched his skin. His hands were smeared with blood as he held his mother in his arms. He didn't really want to kill them, just show him he wasn't afraid. Just show him he actually loved that dog. The father took the dog's life as a punishment for the boy's disobedience, and made him bury it. Jack gave him a blow with the shovel in the back of the neck as mother just walked in on them. He had to strangle his mother, while she cursed him to hell. Demon-boy. Only thing he wanted to do was run, but he had to take Renee, he couldn't leave her behind.
"My tummy hurts." Renee cried as Jack ordered her to grab some clothes.

"I'm tired of running, Jack. I have seen the scenery change far too often. I need to settle down. I'm gonna meet with Frank now. And we will get married, with or without your consent."
"You're not meeting Frank, Renee..."

In her eyes he could see the same doubt that clouded her mind all this time from seeing the truth the day they left the house. For Jack, Renee was right about one thing though, they had been running for too long. They had to stop.

"...Frank's dead."



LadyBug by scorpioscope


There's a gun I could use to force my way out of here, unfortunately it's empty and I sure as hell wouldn't know how to bluff a turd into gold. Ain't much of a gambler and only played one game of poker since my day of birth. It had cost me a month's salary and a furious hurricane in the form of a woman. 
My woman. Ladybird. Never saw a lady so goddamn' good-lookin' and have such character that'll make you think twice on when to break another heartbeat. Her eyes are the color of a high noon sea, you'd drown in your mind if you stared in 'em too long. Her black hair'd convince you there was no god capable of ruining such a pretty sight. 
No god could, but man did. 

In his infinite stupidity man somehow sees himself fit to blood the rivers of beauty and strangle an earthbound angel, only to define the personality he needs to conquer a fictional world. His own. I have joined the brotherhood of stupidity and easily found a purpose to die. 
My vengeance never tasted sweet, but I cut off all hope of regaining any previous chance to live in grace, long ago. And now I can cut off all hope to die in grace as well. 

From behind the altar I stand up to meet the vendetta and take down to hell all greedy consumers of divine beauty. I don't feel the bullets, I don't feel the pain. I break a neck and stab a heart. Drain life from lives I do not care about. The light dissipates through the stained glass from behind the alter as I suddenly remember for no obvious reason some old nursery rhyme. I feel the cold iron barrel of the gun against the back of my neck. I do not shiver.

Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home 
Your house is on fire and your children are gone
All except one… 


War Machine

War Machine by scorpioscope


I drowned the sharp ticking of the clock in the fat sound of a deep yawn. It felt like there was a huge gap between me and that thing which I perceived as being the world. People were running around like rabbits with ribbons wrapped around their wrists, leaving nothing behind but an enormous innocent fart. 
If I didn't know any better, I'd believe I was different. I was living in the shade, rather than dying in the sun. I was floating on a breeze and not drowning in the storm. Yes, if I didn't know any better, I'd believe my love was mature, none of that puppy love could throw me off course. Of course, I did know somewhat better.

She anchored her ship in the shade, and slowly set down her feet on the shore. Leaving traces in the sand, she came with the sun to hide from the smell. I felt slop solidifying in the corner of my eyes, as I blinked to adjust to the new exposure. She asked questions in reasonable doubt, which I answered in unreasonable belief. I spoke like a turtle and she smiled like a bunny while tying the ribbon in her hair.
I whispered the silent whisper of a gasp and felt my cartilaginous shell melt and then vaporize into thin air. The smell forced me to step out and find comfort in the shade of her bosom, which she kindly offered as my new home. 

Now her beating heart is my wristwatch. I do not feel the need for lazy lamentations any more, but can finally hop along our chaotic existence and eventually die gracefully in the sun.