To Whom,
Hello there, dear friend. I hope you are doing phenomenal and that you still hold that beautiful wonder in your heart. I, myself, am…in limbo. Grandfather is ticking unceasingly, almost tauntingly—well, I struggle to ascertain of whether it taunts or excites. Regardless, it marches down towards my absence. Yes, I apologize that you must find this in a letter, I would much rather have told you over coffee, but, of course, that persistent Grandfather is a strict Sentinel. Before I tell you where I am going, I must tell you, specifically, where I have been, as I don’t believe I have divulged much of myself to you, for which I apologize. Maybe then you will understand.
My Father is an obese rodent, highly intelligent and charismatic, an animal whisperer, and a neat freak. He enlisted in the Armare upon dropping out of Minerva Academy, becoming one the most dangerous minds across the globe, but one would never know it by looking at him. He holds a false grouchiness for life, hiding a kindness and wonder underneath it. I don’t believe I have ever seen him refuse a drink, the boisterous bastard.
My Mother is made of mostly grass, I think, of many different shades that make up her beautiful appearance like a painting. She, being made of Earth, seemed to have such a connection to it, having a deep understanding of plants, herbs, flowers, as all sustenance, medicines, and poisons alike. She is quite the ruthless businesswomen as well. She is also weird as hell.
My Brother is a Minotaur, a guitarist, a music producer, and a flatulence expert, I will add. He is strong in stature and spirit and has a suave swagger about him. He is currently training in Cage Matches against Flameborne creatures, aiming to make a career out of beating flame ass to save lives. I can beat him in a fight.
My family is a rowdy bunch, myself included, and yet, I love all of them so dearly. We’ve survived quite a lot together, and most certainly, the Lord is what saved our lives a multitude of times. Throughout my childhood my parents watered me devoutly with plenty of food, wisdom, scripture, faith, and heart, attempting to grow me into a proper man as best as they could. I was rather wild, ambitious, a sharp mind, a sharper tongue, and a hypersocial persona, and it took them all Eighteen years to finally mold me into something halfway decent, but it was all done in love, I say truthfully.
One day, in my early maturation, my parents packed a picnic basket for me, and I boarded a Train. I do not remember where the Train was to take me, of course, it didn’t really matter, not to me, at least, as the Train itself was perhaps the most altering experience of my life.
I remember the gentle rocking as we passed horizons; this was amidst the Country, you see, and I remember the slow bustle of people, laughing and chatting within the booths. Now, I was traveling in solitude, but I remember an old man wearing an apron which stopped by. He was pushing a cart, one filled with complicated contraptions of brass, emitting steam at odd ends. Peering his head in, I remember his kind voice.
“Hello there, dear friend. Anything from the Express today?”
I knew not what the Express was, nor what he meant, as I was a young lad and had never been in a Train before.
“I’m sorry?”
“Just coffee, the Express makes. That’s what this hunk of junk does, it does.”
“That thing makes coffee?”
“Of course. Here, watch.”
And I observed as he operated the machine, turning cranks, flicking switches, and narrowing his eyes. There was a large drum, slowly rotating, and a small window with flames behind it. Steam shot out from the top violently, and a grinding noise followed after. The man drew an odd looking handled-cup from his apron, bringing it up just in time to catch as the machine deposited a pool of brown granules. He locked it into place, and pulled a lever on the side. Miraculously, I watched as he drew forth a mug with extreme speed, as the handled-cup poured out a soft golden-brown glow, flowing like velvet into the mug. And with a smile, he handed me the mug.
“Wow- I-, thank you sir. This is…delicious. I’ve never seen such a thing as that!”
“It’s no problem at all. Let me know if you need anything else, friend.”
I was enamored, enthralled. The drink and that which creates it was astounding, a glorious work of art. I dashed out of the booth.
“Wait, please, actually, there is something I need!”
He turned around, curious.
“Yes?”
“I, well, I would like you to teach me. Everything, everything about that.”
He smiled.
“Of course, friend.”
But I never , erm, did learn from him, sadly enough. We passed through a tunnel, and I have no idea what transpired amidst the darkness, but when the light came back, the old man was gone. No one seemed to care or mind that a person had just disappeared, but someone from a neighboring booth called out.
“Hey, Express! Need a couple of joes over here, pronto!”
I sheepishly looked around. No one else seemed to be stepping up to bat, so…why not I?
I will mention that the only experience I had held with work thus far in my life was within the local church, working directly under a patient, kind, and yet raucously audacious pastor named Fennick. He oversought the youth within the church, and I had wished to aid in this service. So, he took me under his wing, metaphorical wing, I will specify, and mentored me in my adolescence in the faith, in teaching, in preaching, in virtues of patience, kindness, gentleness, self-control, goodness, love, joy, peace, and goodness.
We also played many games which I was much better at him at and will persist to be better at. There was a time where I had gone to Fennick for anything, but, of course, as we both matured in our lives, we grew apart, if only slightly.
He was the first individual I confided in as I witnessed the beginning events which led to my collection of letters; my Opus Mortis; and aided in with his own accounts to help, and encouraged me to watch and write much, much more, and to share it with the world. How I wish we could’ve written and spoke more together on these things, or even other, unrelated matters of both sense and nonsense, but lo, life’s beauty. Not too long after our last conversation together did I hear of his illness, and his eventual passing.
Something odd though, I did see upon his headstone, was the date of birth. Surely, they must have gotten it wrong, as how could one man live for centuries?
I stayed on that Train for a few years. The Express was so complex, and with no guidance, I verily fucked things up many a time. But, I learned. I learned its secrets, its intricacies, I began to experiment, developing new ideology, ingredients, and flavor. I saw regulars amidst the Train and memorized their orders, made friends, connections; community. But there was one day, and then another, and then weeks, and during those crucial hours, the art was lost to demand. Well, the demand outweighed my effort to create the art.
So, I had a word with the conductor, and returned home. I told my family of the Train and, more importantly, of the Express, and they thought it a most wondrous thing as well. They boarded the Train, I taught them of the Express, and they resumed its duties in my stead, even expanding it beyond anything I could ever have imagined. I departed from that Train in Autumn, going out into a scholar’s realm.
There was not much worthy of note during my time in Minerva Academy, as I found little to no use for most of my classes. Lost in thought and dreams, perhaps. Truly, I valued experience and perspective above all else, and despised homework more than anything. I did, however, gleam a few things:
One, I became addicted to Ink, exercising my pen and evolving its prowess.
Two, I made several friends, most prominent of these as
the Titan, Prometheus (I lit his cigarette with fire I stole and we gambled away our life savings in competitive poker, was our first interaction),
Wizard Gnome (he was extremely knowledgeable in the sciences, and, funnily, charged arcane prowess using any object colored pink, which I actively sought to hide any semblance of the color around him),
and Krotos (I believe he slept in the woods surrounding Minerva, feasting off the land, always intelligent over cultures and natures, and ever the performer; I am actually not sure if he even attended the school).
And Three, I met Her; my beloved Palindrome.
We, Palindrome and I, had departed Minerva together (well, Prometheus also took his leave, but I married not the Titan!) and set forth on our grand life as One. We journeyed forth, and we would stay wherever we found ourselves until another Autumn so happened to urge us onward once more. The first of these was within the Woods at an encampment of Nomads, those of which wore an element of Butterscotch, typically some sort of colored garments or accompanying jewelry, in all attire worn.
I had purchased a hut for my betrothed and I, one much larger on the inside than it appeared on the outside, but we still had to duck under the doorway to use the bathroom. This hut in particular was bought from an abhorrent, yet trustworthy, hag who lived many towns away. Naturally, this meant our Humble Hut was equipped with Two pairs of haired, humanlike legs, that of which allowed us to travel wherever we wished.
In the encampment, I worked as a Greensman. When I clocked in, I was given a vial’s worth of a Green tonic. Taking the shot granted the user a symbiotic defense against the forces of nature, which said forces was the nature of my job. The Woods surrounding the encampment had a tendency to attempt reclamation of the land we occupy.
It was the Greensmen duty to slay wandering tendrils of root and bite back with blade encroaching leaves of grass. There were several weapons bestowed to us, most of which relied on a sort of engine; bastardly engines which reeked of petrol. Further, the Woods domed over us and created a greenhouse, baking us in Helios’ fury and suffocating us in Deciduous exhalation.
Funny enough, plenty of Nomads, at least, ones which I met within the encampment, had also made deals with hags, each acquiring Legged huts of their own of all different shapes and sizes. An additional Greensman duty was tending to the various huts, slotting them within the encampment’s borders, and maintaining any amenities either the huts came with or the encampment built up. We had a communal well, sewered pipelines, and miniature radio towers dotted around. Unfortunately, as I came to know, the hags dealt with more than huts, but outcrops of land as well, including the very land our encampment was built upon.
As fate would have it, when Autumn came of that year, the hag raised her payment of the land, and the encampment banished several Greensman and repossessed their huts in order to make payment. I was, thankfully, not one of these, however, me and my beloved decided to make our cordial leave before we were next.
As we wandered in our Humble Hut, I took a job within a diner near my family’s house. It was a diner I knew well, too well, and the work was ever-exhausting; but it was work. Such a wild environment, a diner is. Moving so fast, everything is a blur, the sound of a bell over and over, so many voices they muddle together, the smells of various foods and trash, carrying saucers of meals, refilling ice and booze, nonstop. Fifteen minutes is experienced as Three hours. Whenever I entered the Diner, the outside world disappeared entirely. All I could see was an expanse of space and stars from the dining room windows.
I believe it was because the owner of the Diner, the greedy toolbag, wished to increase his profits that it had extended the clientele to intergalactic levels, which was, of course, great for business, but detrimental to employee wellbeing. Although, one gets good and bad customers across human and alienkind alike, so, it didn’t matter, truly; it was a purgatory hell of rushed business in any case.
However, I will say, the combined suffering brings together a ragtag family of sorts, amongst all who serve in said suffering together there. As much as I gripe about it, there are days I miss the chaos. I did learn very valuable skills during my time in the Diner, the best of them were: how to abstract into an octopus, extending one’s multitasking capabilities to beyond human, how to memorize a plethora of information all at once, lest you scorn some customer’s passive-wrath, and finally; how to fucking swear. I worked there until the following Autumn gave us a golden opportunity.
A bewedded couple of bears, those of which tended to don majority comfy clothes year-round, were selling their house, the house, actually, next to my family’s farm. My father wanted that house since the bears had moved there, wishing to own the land around his farm for his children to own, and Lady Luck, under servitude of the Lord, granted my beautiful Palindrome and I the funds to purchase the house.
And lo, Home.
Humble Hut had roosted back at the farm, and Palindrome and I set forth on garnering work to help pay for our newly beloved Home. She had been on the Train, since the encampment days, actually. But at this point, the Train had docked and operated in conjunction with its station, becoming a hub of provisions for travelers of all sorts. She had learned all of the Express’ secrets and the tricks of the trade within Trainstation and Train alike over all that time.
How much she had grown; I was so proud of her. She never was one to talk to people very much, no, but sure enough, one could see her cracking jokes and hosting customers in her cozy atmosphere she gave off. Unless someone was rude, in which case, they would certainly find the atmosphere to be far from cozy. She didn’t play that shit.
I, on the other hand, took up a job within a private club of sorts. I found myself dressed in suit and tie stood within a den of wolves; the Suite of Sinners. The Suite of Sinners was a far expanse of land which held host to several well-lavished clubhouses and manors across it. Private golf courses, private dinners, private bars—all was done either personally, privately, or in secrecy. It was an environment which made me rather uncomfortable, but it was a living at the time, a simple one, at that.
Greet and smile, take coats, light cigars, pour whiskey, log the arrival and departure of Suite of Sinner members and their guests, charge them, wave them goodbye, and lastly, very, very lastly, and the most important lastly: ask no questions. And so I didn’t. I never did know what the charges were for; some were up to Ten, Twenty-thousand in a single charge. I asked no questions. I knew the individuals within the Suite of Sinners were rather high society, although most only lived with a front of luxury. But front or not, plenty within were powerful, wealthy people, and I knew better than to toil with such personnel.
It was a very easy job though, truly. Most shifts revolved around my arrival and turning on the lights and such, grabbing some coffee from a sweet lady who ran the outside bar—Brandewijn, I believe—and…that was it. A member would come in, I’d greet them, and a good bit were friendly, too, I’d charge them, and they would be on their way. Some brought guests, some guests became members, actually. Some were political figures spending some downtime. Some members I saw once, and never, ever, again. I asked no questions.
But, of course, if there were no members or guests, I had no responsibilities. Sure, I spent some time cleaning the clubhouse, but for majority of my hours, I scribbled pictures, wrote thoughts and stories, watched films, ate sandwiches (courtesy of the Brandewijn) and drank more coffee. I also made a friend with a gleeful woman from Caledonia, Andivy, her name was, whom I could hardly understand at first, but eventually could get at least 60% of what she was saying.
She was, and still is, a phenomenal golfer; not being much a fan of the game myself, and I still acknowledge the sheer talent she held. It was pretty nice, actually, the work and company, save for the looming dread of being around such secrecy and influential people.
They company cut my hours in the winter time of that year, said the members weren’t as active throughout this particular clubhouse in the cold, but most unfortunately, that meant the pay was no longer sufficient to pay my bills. So, I left. On good terms, of course. I knew better than to burn these bridges.
By the dawn of the New Year, I began work within Cloak and Hanger. It wasn’t a particularly difficult job, although prior to my employment, I had no carpentry knowledge in the slightest. But one learns, of course. Cloak and Hanger is a field of, ah, interior design. I would go to an individual’s home and cover their windows with a soft or sometimes sturdy fabric, simply put.
I flipped out a step-stool, one of which always seemed to have the exact amount of height I needed, and I used a wooden crank with a spiral tip at the end. The crank must’ve had several gears or something within it, because barely one turn caused the spiral tip to spin extremely fast.
Using the crank, I could bore in my anchors above, ontop of, or inside the windows, depending on what the customer wanted. Then, I attached a rod, sometimes oblong in shape, to the anchors, and placed ornaments on the ends of the rod. Finally, with a flourish, I would swish out my fabric, and gently hook it onto the rod, watching it as it unfurled, flowing down to cover the window.
There could be many reasons why someone invested in Cloak and Hanger, whether protection from the beautiful radiation, obscuration from stalking eyes, or perhaps the art of it, the patterned or colored fabric decorating their home. On that, there were many different kinds of fabric I used. Some were only pieces, slats, connected by strings. Some were made of multiple sheets of fabric, woven together in different shapes. And oddly still, some seemed to have a consciousness, stacking, rolling, or parting themselves to the side or up to the rod upon request.
Those were particularly troublesome to work with, as fabric can be hard to reason with.
I learned a great deal within Cloak and Hanger, which was most thanks to my superior, Björn, a twelve-foot tall giant that never needed a ladder, fabric always obeyed his commands, and had a fiery temper which sparked at spirits of unkindness, but always held a boisterous smile and a word of wisdom. But more than my occupation, I had the opportunity, daily, to exist within rather sizable homes.
The process of Cloak and Hanger takes time, sometimes hours, depending on the fabric, size of the windows, and amount of windows, so there were days I spent plenty of time around the wealthy, as those were the primary clientele who purchased from us. Now, one tries not to eavesdrop, well, I’m sure they do, but I certainly tried half-heartedly. While I typically brought a small record player to the houses, which most people were hospitable and allowed me to play the classics, there were times when conversations could be heard from even above the music.
Now, I won’t divulge all what I have heard, but I will say that I have heard a great deal of rather interesting, sometimes disturbing, thoughts, ideals, plans, and secrets in my time. People don’t seem to notice your presence when you are focused on your work and relatively quiet. Unfortunately, I was let go in this avenue, as my employer themself discovered how much I had heard, more specifically, what I had heard from them and in regards to them. I wasn’t one for blackmail, so I took my leave gracefully.
Palindrome, having mastered over Trainstation, and us both needing more money, sought additional ventures in the Cthosmetology field. She entered an apprenticeship, a lacklustre apprenticeship, at which we both were rather perturbed over, which exposed her to the world of Cthosmetology.
Now, I, myself, never worked within spiral salons of this nature, but it seems like a great deal similar to the chaos I endured in the Diner. Spiral-Salon, forgive me, refers to the nature of Cthosmetological shops, as they are known by the spiraling decorum outside of the stores. Inside the stores, additionally, the entire floor revolves consistently, but the Beauticians can alter the speed. Sometimes the speed is so great, experienced Beauticians use the centrifugal force as aid during appointments. Don’t ask me how.
Palindrome experienced a vast populus of intriguing individuals at the Spiral-Salon, and the Beauticians had to appease any stylistic treatments they wanted. Some of the notable guests were: a gorgon with short term memory loss, several gnomes pretending to be one person, Three Drunk Witches, a plastic Salesman, and a regular lady who was just a bitch. Palindrome mostly was subjected to the washing of hair, or, the closest thing to hair a customer had, but she learned a wide amount of knowledge of the industry in her time there.
After my leave of Cloak and Hanger, I ended up in a grounded field of work as a Ventricle, which is a technician, of sorts. Everytime a dwelling of any kind is made, Luchtstroom is formed with it. Unknowingly, of course, to all but us Ventricles. Luchtstroom exists as an inexplicable expanse between walls, ceilings, and floors. It is a dimension host to foreign materials such as a floating liquid without gravity, that of which is so cold it can scald what it touches.
The air is damp, filled with particles, microorganisms, and thousands of unidentifiable creatures skitter and crawl all around. Some Luchtstroom passages have a Black Death within that rots away everything around it; and also makes my allergies act up. Some passages have heaps and heaps of a deceitful wool, as it is filled with millions of microscopic teeth, consuming all who fall within.
What people don’t realize is that Luchtstroom, no matter where it is created, is alive. A living, breathing entity. The key part of being a Ventricle is finding the Heart of any Luchtstroom outcrop; a large, pulsating mass that lives off of the frigid liquid and organism filled atmosphere. What Ventricles do is build a metal cage around the Heart, attaching wires filled with the liquid in odd places to connect it, and adhere shiny tubes from the cage, almost like long ventricles of a human heart, hence the name. This forces the Heart to pump Luchtstroom atmosphere through the wires, through the tubes, and directly into parts of the dwelling.
Why, you might ask, would someone want to pipe an otherworldly dimension’s own atmosphere into their dwelling? Simple: the air which flows through cools them off.
But, as Lady Luck would most certainly orchestrate it, as is the Lord’s plan, I must believe, I perceived writing on the wall of the office bathroom. It said, “The king of the sandcastle lords over his underlings!” And lo, after work, my home telephone rang out at dead of night. Now, I am blessed to have been able to purchase services from a local soothsayer, whom installed a small, fogged mirror into our telephone stand.
It had one purpose: display who was calling. So, at dead of night, I witnessed the name of my boss ringing my line, and promptly ignored it. I believe the man had no business calling my household afterhours, and I went to bed without a trace of guilt in my soul.
Of course, this happened a few times over the course of a week, until finally, he called earlier in the evening, on a day I just so happened to arrive home from work earlier than usual. Unenthusiastically, I answered.
“Hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time!”
“What is it, sir?”
“No, no, see, I just really want to know who told you that you didn’t have to answer my calls!”
“I do not answer work calls past the hour of Five, I, truly, do not believe I ever have.”
“Well, haha, you WILL be answering when I call you, regardless of the hour, I’ll tell you that.”
“I most certainly will not be.”
“I’m sorry, I must be mistaken, or maybe you can illuminate me, but, I am the one paying you, is that right?”
“Sorry, are you insinuating that you are going to pay me per minute per phone call afterhours?”
“Of course not! See, I don’t understand that, the entitlement, expecting to be paid. Sure, I’ll pay those above you when I call them for things late at night, but that’s because they are above you, know more than you, and thus, get paid more. Quite frankly, I have no use for you afterhours!”
“If you have no use for me afterhours…why are you calling me afterhours then?”
“I think you’re going to need to find another job.”
“Alright.”
And I hung up.
I never knew what he originally called for, or the purpose of calling me in the first place. Perhaps I was rash, or rude, but I believe I was more reasonable than anything. Regardless, and if it wasn’t obvious, I was not welcome within the Ventricle employment at this location anymore. I found myself unemployed, bills looming closer, and a severe lack of hope. So, I began to search, and search, and search, until finally, I heard its voice.
I stood on the bank of the City, staring out into the gloomy, windy, clouded horizon; gorgeous, really. And I heard its voice. I cannot, for the life of me, describe the words, the tone, anything of it, but I heard it. Of my knowledge, I believe I am not the only one to have heard it, and those who have also heard it share my sentiment of being unable to fully comprehend it, only feeling it.
The sea, the waves, called me forth. At first, I thought it was beckoning my suicide, to which it quickly corrected, and urged my presence across its embrace. I stood there for, goodness, I don’t know how long, listening to the ebb and flow, the crashing and soft swooshing sound, winds against my face and anxiety in my mind, but the sea was patient with me, letting me go over its words, its call.
Eventually, I left. And I enlisted in the Continental Navy.
And now, dear friend, I write to you hastily, as I am to depart here soon, swept off to the Seven. I believe my previous letters have arrived safely, as the monstrously efficient and bloodsworently trustworthy Postman has never failed me so. He recognizes my seal by now, I think. But those previous letters are only Slate One of what I am to regale to you, dear Whom. There is more, so much more, to tell, and I fear I must do it sooner, or history is to repeat itself; cursed, of sorts.
More than repetition, but illumination…ah…I apologize, I must sound positively mad; which, of course, I am, but nevermind that. Allow me to simply say all will be revealed in time, and I trust you to share, share vastly, what you gleam from my words. The words which will certainly be delayed, as there is no superhuman Postman of the Seven, furiously the captain of his Canoe sailing to and fro land and sea.
But I believe the Continental Navy provides a flock of carrier pigeons aboard the ships, so, I guess that is what I am to put my hope in for external communication. Yippee. Expect more from me, regardless, dear friend, and I sincerely hope to hear much more from you!
Please, I beg of you, do not lose that shine in your eyes, the softness of your heart, nor the warmness of your spirit. The world is cold; be a Pizza Popper.
.
Fair winds and following seas,
ever your scribe.
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