Wednesday, April 23, 2014


4:30 PM EST. Settled in to the new motel. The Singer and the Old Man are out getting food and drinks for our stay and food that travels well for the road. The motel isn't anything to write home about. It's clean and the TV works. Enjoying my first Coke in over a year.

The Car Thief and the Old Man are sharing a room; the three girls (myself, the Scared Girl, and the Singer) are sharing another. I've opted to sleep on the floor when I'm not on watch. We sleep in shifts, one of us always on the lookout for It or one of Its minions. Sometimes, if I can't sleep, I'll let the others sleep and keep watch all night.

I haven't said anything, because I don't want to worry the others just yet, but the same Winnebago had trailed us down the interstate from Virginia, and pulled into the motel here in Georgia at the same time as us. I was the one to suggest we keep watch, because if someone tails you that long, they probably aren't interested in returning your wallet.

7:30 PM EST. In the meantime, I'm on my laptop, writing this, and texting the Old Man with status updates, and requesting the same, every hour on the hour. I think... I think someone else at this motel is being Hunted. There's a young man. Dirty. Paranoid. Dressed for camping, down to the large backpack and bedroll, when he first arrived. He only opens the door for food delivery. I'll ask the Old Man to investigate the Camper later, see if he clears and if he's interested in joining our entourage.

No sign of the Black King yet, but that Winnebago hasn't left the lot since we got here.

Monday, April 21, 2014


En ĉi tiu memoro, mi dediĉos mian malĝojon. In this memory, I dedicate my grief.

I was wrong. If you can read this, wherever you are in whatever afterlife you find yourself in, Reach, I say this as an apology, a eulogy, a peace offering three years late. Mi eraris. In my despair, I sought to save others from their grief. Mi sercxis absolvon per morto. No longer.

Life is precious—each life, a universe unto itself. It is neither my right nor my privilege to decide what is best. Not when I championed archaic “treatment” and putting down Ava. Not after the things I'd done before dropping off the grid.

But that's what the Black King does to you. He gets in your head, and all of a sudden, it's so easy to justify the greatest of atrocities, if it means getting one step closer to driving back this primal force, just for a little bit. Because at this point, that's what It is. A primal force, a wave cascading through cyberspace and the real world in tandem. Pandora's Box was opened a long time ago. Only, by now, even Hope has taken flight and scattered itself in the winds.

En tiu skribo, mi iros al la longa vojo al repacigon. The road will not be easy. Time will tell if I even deserve to walk it. But I am determined. Mi jam ne kontentiĝas plauxdos en la abismon.

6:30 AM. That's when I write this, as the rain pounds against the window and the wind howls loud enough for the trees to bend before Nature's awesome might. Another sleepless night, as so many have been.

4:04 PM. I left to check on the rest of my group. The Old Man. The Scared Girl. The Car Thief. The Singer. Their names are important. That is why I refuse to post them. The Old Man and the Car Thief were friends. The Scared Girl, I ran into while on the run. Old Man found us walking down the road. The Hunted, we all share that same reflex. We scour the treeline as we walk down the street, peering for It.

We know we'll never see It, not unless It wants to be seen. Nevertheless, the reflex is there. In a way, the longer we go without seeing the Black King, the easier we can sleep.

The Old Man found us, and inducted us to his group. The Singer joined them in Alabama. She's a sweet girl, I suppose. But there's a fevered light in her eyes when she thinks nobody's looking. I've got both eyes on her, but she's sharing a room at the hotel with the Car Thief.

More later. We're about to check out and get back on the road.

Sunday, April 20, 2014


It started with a trip down memory lane. Rereading a blog three years defunct. Just like mine. A blog that faded in 2011. Trials, tribulations, tears, triumphs. Hope, despair. Extremism, reason. Rationality, humanity. A life lived, ten times over. A life lost twice.

My, how time has changed. I'm not sure why I'm writing this. Here. On a blog three years dead. I meant what I said, Reach--you and Ava were my best friends. And once again, I'm the last one standing and everyone else around me has passed on, or left the board.

You were a good man, Reach. Whatever you may have thought about yourself. Whatever went through your mind in those last moments. Ripozu bone kaj flugi libera, frato.

I don't know what inspired me to go back on the grid. Resume posting. Resume giving in to the Lovecraftian compulsion to broadcast my movements, thoughts, and plans where those who would see me dead can find me with a few mouse clicks and a clever Google search.

But I am. I've resumed. Call it a light trying feebly to illuminate the darkness. Call it a Rook who thought she was a Queen, who thought she really stood a chance in a game of strategy against a concept, a beast, a strategist with the accumulated knowledge of lifetimes. Call it a fool's errand.

Call it, once again, my life as I post it for your perusal.

Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

I've come to talk with you again.

Because of visions softly creeping....

Melodrama aside, allow me to announce my triumphant return.

Thursday, May 26, 2011


Much has happened since January. I'm no longer a spectator--no longer watching the game from the stands.

This blog, in that regard, has run its course. I indulged my inner writer for a url, and started a new one to focus on. is where you will find a lone Queen, her back to Rome's ashes and her sword pointed to the Black King's lair.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011


All I see around me is ash. Smoking husks I once called trees cover the grey dust where there was once rich soil. The sky weeps flame and ash, long stained grey from the immolated dreams of the innocent.

Creatures only Lewis Carroll's nightmares could name scurry among the embers and fallen trunks, red-eyed and predatory, once-sleek coats caked and matted with what passes for soil here.

I rise to my feet, choking on the dust. In all directions, bones, white and clean and the only thing pristine in this other world, litter the landscape. The skeletons of men, women, children, infants, all point to a tree in the distance. Still green, alive. Still right. I stumble towards the one beacon of reality as I remember it, my throat dry and face caked with ash. The heat of a nearby fire causes my eyes to water. I continue forward, one agonizing step at a time, bruised body and torn muscles crying out in protest.

The winds carry a whisper. “Save us.”
“Help us.”
“Please, someone, anyone.”
Among the ash and fire, part of the world rebuilds itself. A small town, a faceless monstrosity closes in on a mother and daughter. Rather than fight, the mother begs for a hero to come to the rescue. She had grown complacent, and doomed herself and her daughter in exchange for a docile existence before the King collected his due.

A tall creature appears in my vision. Joints, so many joints. Where the human arm bends at the elbow, its arm bends at seven elbows. Where the human leg bends at the knee, its leg bends at ten knees. There is a face on this one. Empty eyes and a rictus grin, two flaps of white flesh standing out on a field of black, slowly coalescing into a suit made of pulsating, living flesh. Tentacles hang, limp, down to the ground, and the dust floats into the air, forming a miasma thicker than the worst fog.

I reach the great tree, my legs no longer strong enough to hold my weight. I lay, helpless, each breath coming with more effort than the last, as the tree catches fire, lighting the beast from behind.

I wake up, in a cold sweat as always, and know without having to know how that the Black King wins only because his victims are as sheep, relying on a shepherd to save them, rather than wolves, who live, fight, win, and die as one.

Sunday, May 22, 2011


All roads lead to Rome. Cobblestone by cobblestone, the roads catch fire. Ash and burned husks litter the once-verdant landscape.

The firelight glitters off a dagger's edge, a centurion casts aside the shackles of loyalty for the freedom of justice.