Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 10 – Need

Note: I was lost in this part for awhile. I knew I needed more interaction between Oan and Nestor to further their relationship, but wasn't sure where to get it. I am having hard time with the Oan character right now, because I think I've made him a little bland and I am having hard time caring about him. Plus, I've started to think up a couple different wrinkles and storylines to run with this that are occupying my mind.

Disc 1
Track 10: Lonely Day – System of a Down

“It’s a day that I’ll never miss”

They wasted another day letting Nestor recover from his fever. Oan felt a one day lost now was better than ten days lost later if the man did not properly rest. Oan ventured out into the Garden of Manta, scavenging anything that could be useful. He caught two Tanta that they ate at midday and in the afternoon he went back to the creek and speared five Anni.

Nestor was awake most of the time, but still terribly pale and at least twice he crawled away to vomit. Oan was anxious to leave even though the thought of returning to the witch made his own stomach turn.

She was a vile, clingy woman with cold hands and toes. He had lived with her for five years after she pulled him from the Belnor and those were days he seldom allowed his memory to dwell on. Madra had a way with him, a cruel, controlling way that confused him as a child and angers him as a man.

Yet part of him loved her. She had saved his young life from certain death. When his lungs were full of water, she pumped them out. When his heart forgot how to beat, she pressed his small chest against her bosom and used hers as a guide. And when life refused to return to his body, she forced a concoction made of things she only knew down his throat as she chanted in the old language a spell lost everywhere else in time.

The price? Only his childhood, his mother, his father, his tribe, all of it paid in full to her for a life burdened with responsibility beyond his wildest dreams. It was her duty to raise him, to teach him, to prepare him for his ultimate fate – the great battle in the fires of the underworld.

She did it all as they roamed across the lands east of the Belnor. She had roamed west of the mighty river, but where and how she crossed she did not show him. He believed there was some magic to it, she certainly possessed or controlled or conjured more than her fair share. How she did magic, he did not know. He asked many times, but she’d giggle and say “how do you talk,” or “how do you know when to sleep,” or his favorite “how do you know when to squat behind a tree.”

The day crept by as his thoughts dwelled on the witch that had sent him to the Aldroubi at ten years old to learn hunting and fighting and other such things that she did not know or, more likely, did not want to teach. She had brought him into the tribe camped along the banks of the Belnor one day. The women fled from her, the men grabbed spears, but she only lifted a hand high above her head in greeting. The men guided her to a tent where the elders held council. She went inside, moments later she came out, kissed him on the forehead and without a word left him. He liked to think it hurt her like a mother losing a son, like how his own mother must have felt when he fell into the Belnor and never returned, but she never glanced back, never visited him. For the second time in his life, he was orphaned and, for the second time, adopted by complete strangers.

In the years that followed, he had nightmares of her. Memories long repressed of her ways of teaching like killing birds and painting their blood upon trees. Once he remembered her leading him into the middle of a thick, wild forest in the deep dark of the night and then vanishing. He had been with her less than a year, but she left him there for several days, alone and scared of every sound, every shadowy movement. He survived, eating what he could find and huddling under a downed tree at night. When she returned, he ran to her and clung to her bosom. She whispered into his ear then, “See now, you need no one,” then even softer, “no one, except me.”

Now as a grown man sitting in front of a fire cooking Anni with a spear, he could almost hear her whispering in his ear again. He felt just as alone then even though Nestor was alert and sitting across from him. Once again, he needed her. This time, he needed her for answers. Who was he? He remembered little from his life before the witch. His mother’s face was a blur that only amounted to the clear memory of the brown curls of her long hair. His had no memory of his father. The swordbearer had said that the witch might know. He did not doubt that. Everything he knew of the witch was that things did not happen to her by chance. He doubted very much that she just happened to be near the day he fell into the Belnor.

“I don’t know where your mind is, but I do know those fish won’t get anymore cooked,” Nestor said.

The Anni were smoking at the end of his spear, their outer skin completely black. He pulled the spear out, the burned fish nearly falling off. He poked at them twice, the outer skin was nearly ash and the insides felt dry and hard.

“These two will be mine,” Oan said.

“Don’t fret on it boy,” Nestor grinned. “When one’s raised in the Sorna, one gets used to everything being dry.”

“Sorry.” Oan handed one of the Anni across before crunching his teeth into the other. They munched as quietly as possible for the next few minutes. When both were done, Oan started to cook the other Anni.

“I’ll be ready to move tomorrow boy,” Nestor said.

“Aye.”

Nestor gauged Oan before continuing.

“What of this witch?”

“We will see.”

“Well, where do we find her? Where does she hail?”

Oan could not help, but grin.

“She hails from no where you and I know. As far as finding her, she has always roamed across this world never staying in one place for very long.”

“Then how do we find her?”

This had occurred to Oan also. There was no way to be sure which direction to head, but something in his head said north. He would not be surprised to find that it was the witch calling him toward her.

“When I was with her, we stopped twice at a cave at the foothills of the mountains. It was the only place that we visited more than once. Inside, there was nothing but bats, but deep inside where light shouldn’t reach there was a door, a wooden door.”

“A door?”

“That’s all I know. She’d tell me nothing of it, but she was drawn to its presence. I can’t deny that there was something about it that even as a child I could not resist. I wanted to open it. I wanted to find a way to peer through the three diamond shaped windows. It was a sacred place.”

“So you think she is there.”

“I know she is. Remember the swordbearer mentioned it. I believe with Salama’s return that the door is some sort of key to this all. I will make her tell us.”

“Can you do that? Make her do something.”

“I can try. I don’t believe she’ll resist, but she will tell what she wants us to know, but her answers will likely be riddles that raise more questions than we had before.”

“Then why go to her?”

Without a thought, Oan answered. He was not one to feel cold, but he shivered remembering that lonely day in the woods as the witch held him. Her whispered words echoed in his ears.

“Because we need her.”

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 9 – Hatala Del Aram

Note: I wrote this all in one sitting last week and have edited it and added to it here or there. I think this piece is probably better suited placed somewhere else, maybe closer to the front, but it's what came to mind with this lyric. I am trying to stay true somewhat to whatever inspires about a song, lyric or band. A large scale edit afterward may rearrange things a bit.

Disc 1
Track 9: I’m Seeing Robots – Kool Keith

“Body movement, metal metallic, unpure”

“Where do you hail?”

His voice was hollow, his words hissed with a forked tongue. Inside his throat and lungs were aflame. The fires of the underworld burned his bowels and darkened his heart. Boiling streams of fluid coursed through vessels, the one’s near the surface of his dark skin bulked out. His skin had solidified some, nearing the transformation back into this form. His followers called it living form, but he was not alive. His soul burned still in the pits of the underworld, the eternal payment for the black sword at his waist. His mind was returned to this body to consume life from this old world till it was extinguished. That was the want of the Great Master, whose name he would never speak. The Great Master thrived on sucking the life out of everything. The marrow of life fueled the fires of the underworld.

He, who once was Salama and now was again, was a soldier (a high-ranking one at that) siring the Great Master with an army for the final battle while emptying this world of any strong enough to oppose. There was one man he was sent for in particular. One man, who was prophesized to stand tall in the great battle. Salama had hoped it was his old nemesis, Tarek Grandar, but time had caught up to that hero of old and his days of walking in this world were long gone. This was another man, one strong and special.

“I hail from Stra that was in the old kingdom of Isa,” The girl replied. He had almost forgotten that he had asked. The girl had the pale, freckled complexion of her ancestors and bright red hair that spilled out in curls. She was on her back, presented to him like so many others with her curious green eyes staring longingly up into his face. Green eyes, he thought, an omen to be sure.

“From so far away, so soon?” Salama brought her knees to his scorching hot skin. She recoiled as her pale flesh melted and bonded to him. Her agony filled him with a new joy. He yearned for her. He expected most men of this world felt the same when she entered a room or walked down a busy street.

“I felt your call from deep inside me,” she purred adjusting to her legs forming to his body. Soon he would rip them off in a sudden jerk that would send blinding shocks up to her hips, but that pain would be lost when he burst into her middles, pillaging everything inside. “I came on horseback, never stopping, needing you, feeling that pull. No other woman in Isa felt it, only I.”

“Oh, they’ll all feel the call,” Salama said. The time for his siring was drawing to a close, he was ready to pass that duty onto some of his offspring. They were wild brutes that would mangle each woman they touched to the point of death, but they’d still get one strong offspring from each woman before she was dispatched to the underworld. Once the army was large enough, the spoils of war would provide enough chances for growth that he worried very little about the women in Isa or Besa or any other kingdom for that matter. Not that the call would stop. That was one thing he could not turn off. Women were drawn to him. It was a power that he adored.

“You sense many things that other women do not,” he finally ripped her legs off of him. She screamed in surprise. “You know when it’s going to rain, for instance, or when trouble is looming over the next hill.”

“Master, I do, I do,” tears were streaming down her face. He did not know if the tears were from shame or pain. He did not really care either.

“What a dirty girl, maybe too dirty for my seed,” he grinned down at the small bush of hair between her legs. “Have all the boys been at you? Have you let them in when they like? Are you the whore of Stra? Is that what I, the Master of the Sorna, eternal King of Rion, deserve?”

“Nay Master, I am pure as when I was born, I swear it,” She pleaded for his affection. “I am saved for you alone.”

“Then what are ye bitch,” Salma spit on her, the dark liquid landed with a sizzle under her right eye, leaving a dark red blotch.

“I am nothing,” the woman cried. “Some call me a witch, but I’ve mastered no magic. I can do things others can’t, but I don’t know how or when. They just happen when I am angry or thinking hard about one idea or another. It’s a curse great one. One I never asked for. No man comes near me because of the rumors, the terrible rumors the townsfolk spread. I think they’d burn me if my father were not an elder. He’s ashamed of me, but deep down I believe he still loves me.”

“He doesn’t,” Salama hissed. She wailed as if this were the greatest pain he had delivered to her thus far. “Do you believe your Master?”

“Yes,” she sniffled.

“He doesn’t love you. He despises you. If his will were not so soft, he would have smothered you when you were in your cradle or carved you out of your mother’s womb. Your putrid stain sickens him, but he’s too weak to handle it himself. Do you believe your Master?”

“Yes.” This time her green eyes glowed back into his burning orbs. He could feel a surge of power, still small, but with the promise of much more with the proper coaxing and training, swell up in her skin.

“He hopes all those townsfolk in Stra would burn you. He’d watch your skin boil and he’d cheer at your agony. They all hate you. They’d kill you in a second because they fear you. If you ever had children, they’d trap them when you let them out to play and stake them in pieces to your door. Do you believe your Master?”

She did not respond, but the rage filling her eyes was answer enough. She was his fully now. A tool, a useful tool, to be used hard at the bend of his will.

“What is your name, whore of Stra?”

“Hatala Del Aram.”

He removed the veil over her eyes that saw him as the perfect male specimen. His true self was exposed then. The dark ashen skin, the rotting smell, the four arms, the eyes that burned hot and the forked tongue, all of it as Nestor had seen but that had remained hidden to every other woman. He preferred the illusion to keep the women orderly, but this girl had to take him as is for his plan to truly work. Hatala recoiled and tried to squirrel away.

“Hatala Del Aram, see me as I am,” his voice hissed as he grabbed her wrist. Her skin sizzled and smoldered in his grasp. She was past reacting to every small injury now.

“They all hate you, Hatala Del Aram,” he hissed. “They’ll rape you and burn you and drain their bladders and bowels on your grave every day till the end of time.”

Her eyes were hot. Her heartbeat raced looking back at him. One final tear found its way from her left eye.

“I love you, Hatala Del Aram. I will care for you. I will provide you the army to make them all pay.”

She stopped struggling.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to be my Queen. You shall be the vessel that will bare the ultimate retribution for you in this world and beyond. You shall be at my side, on bended knee of course, but at my side all the same. Do you understand?”

Her forehead creased for a moment, then she eased back down on her back. A great rush of joy went through his ancient being. I will make you scream again my dear, sweet screams that will cut through the heavens. He could not help from smiling.

“I will, my King.” She opened her arms.

“Together, we shall bring down the heavens my dear, starting in this world and then onto every other.”

He came to her then. Plunging deep into her virginal crease (her anguish ringing in his ears as he did), then he sealed her mouth with his cracked lips and let her breathe in the fires of the underworld. He smoked out her insides and boiled her blood. She was strong for a mere woman, but he was raising her beyond that, beyond any other woman in this world or any other world, for that matter. He would leave his seed in her, but its fruit would not bear soon. He had use for her womb in another matter. A plan he hoped would put him on the Great Master’s throne.

When they were finished, the Dinar came to his seat in the old coliseum and removed her. He stood then facing the line of women that still circled around the old building.

“I am through with you bunch. I release you to the will of my sons and daughters.”
A clattering came from the massive pile of corpses as the beasts, some now quite grown and some that resembled normal men and women except for their many arms and various other deformities, emerged with their tongues wagging behind sharp teeth. He left then to shrieks that split the air.

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 8 – The Rock Garden of Manta

Note: A few things to note. One there is a part below this one on the board, if you missed it. All parts are connected on the side link under Red CD Project 2. Second, this part pushed the tale over 10,000 words, I believe making about the third longest thing I've ever wrote. In comparison the first CD Project ended up at about 14,359 words. So I am well ahead of pace. If I keep at this pace, we're looking at about 60,000 - 70,000 word document. That would be average novel length.

Disc 1
Track 8: Intimate Secretary – The Raconteurs

“The other foot looks like it won’t drop”

They rode in silence almost nonstop for two days. They only stopped for a few short hours of sleep and a quick meal each night, but were up early letting Old Moon and New Moon guide their way. By the third day, Nestor was slumping badly in his saddle. His skin was pale and he mumbled nonsense in a language that Oan did not recognize. By midday the man could ride no farther.

They had entered the Rock Garden of Manta early that morning. It was an ancient wonder of the kingdom of Rion. Boulders ranging in size from waist level of the average man to the height of ten men standing one on top of the other were scattered about in no order that Oan could understand. He had traveled through before and knew that it’d take at least five days to make it from the southern entrance to the garden to where it ended in the north. It was nearly the same distance east to west as it was south to north. Weaving around the boulders made it a slow trek.

The history of the garden was lost in time. No elder’s ears had heard that story for their lips to pass it on. All that was left to recount the time of the garden’s history was the fading murals elaborately painted across each boulder. The murals depicted everything from great battles to picturesque landscapes with bubbling brooks where deer drank peacefully. There were more boulders there that could ever be studied and one elder claimed that over time the murals changed their scenes. The witch had said that they were reflections of life and like any reflection the image varied. Oan did not always understand the witch. The woman dealt in secrets and those in that trade depend heavily on lies. He was not sure how much of what she told him when he was a child was true.

Oan guided Nestor’s steed over to a large boulder that blocked the cold wind from the north. While winter was alive in the mountains, it was only late fall in the valley of the garden. However, there were few trees in the Garden of Manta to block the wind. He had heard the slow moving waters of a creek bouncing off the hollow boulders earlier that day. He thought they were very close. He would fish once he got the old man settled behind the boulder. There was little else to hunt in the garden only the small burrowing Tanta that were difficult to catch and not very tasty.

Nestor’s one good eye was all but closed and Oan had to lift him down from the saddle. The man had a fever and Oan did not know if it was from the icy waters of the Belnor or from the poison from Salama’s whip emerging from forced slumber. He dropped the man gently against the boulder and wrapped him in a fur they had brought from the camp. He forced Nestor to drink water from a skin, but little of the liquid made it into his mouth. Nestor mumbled some more gibberish about the Sorna and the demon it had born.

Oan frowned studying his companion. He could not afford to be slowed by the man, but Oan was sure that he could not leave him behind. Nestor’s role in the battle against Salama was not over. Oan did not need the witch or that strange little man that gave Oan the ancient sword Kekur to tell him that. Oan was thinking about all this when he noticed the mural on the boulder he had propped Nestor against. The face of the boulder was flat, but the mural was three-dimensional depicting a large field filled with nothing but white-petaled roses. Way in the distance was a great mountain peak covered in snow and he thought he could make out three small figures atop it. Above the peak was a clear sky painted a soft purple instead of blue. Oan shuddered remembering the swordbearer’s dream.

He left Nestor sleeping against the boulder to search out the creek. Halfway there, he found the splintered, charred remains of a short tree that had been struck by lightning. There was enough good wood left to carry back and start a fire. He made three trips giving them an ample amount to make it through the night.

The creek ended up being slightly farther away than he expected. It was no more than two arm lengths wide with a steady current and clean, clear waters. He could make out several plump fish skipping along with the current. Most of them blue Anni with large gills. Manni were good fish to eat when cooked over a fire. He also saw two orange Dangs. Those he avoided with his spear. They were nasty fish with a slow poison that eventually led to terrible skin blisters and long nights squatting in the weeds.

He speared four Anni in short time, cleaned them and brought them back to the fire. Nestor was sweating and moaning. Oan left again to scavenge anything of value including a few green berries growing on a vine that tangled around one very large boulder that only had the large face of wolf with glowing yellow eyes painted upon it. He also found some Knash Root along the bank of the creek that could be ground down and added with one of the few potions he had brought with him that might break Nestor’s fever. Otherwise, there was little else than sparse nearly brown grass, a few small twisted fir trees and thousands of boulders in the garden.

He mixed the potion with the ground down Knash Root when he returned to Nestor and forced the man to swallow some with a couple of the green berries. By then, it was getting close to dusk and Oan started cooking the fish, two at time at the end of his spear. He sprinkled salt and pepper upon them and ate. The smell aroused Nestor enough for him to sit up and take stock of their location as the sun settled low on the horizon painting the sky a hundred shades of pink, orange and purple. Oan, who still wore no more than a short pair of pants, did not shiver once as the air turned cold from the loss of warmth from the sun. Cold did not bother him. Hot did not bother him either. His body temperature was always precisely the same. That was the gift from the witch, or a small part of a larger gift or as Oan thought of it, curse that the woman had gave him after pulling him from the Belnor when he was a boy.

Some color had returned to Nestor’s skin, his eye sagged a bit and a drooping frown hung on his lips. For the first time, Oan wondered if the man was going to survive this latest illness.

“Where are we?” Nestor’s words came out slurred. “Is it the underworld?”

“Nay, we are in the Rock Garden of Manta,” Oan said while picking his teeth with a thin fish bone.

“Ahhh.” Nestor swatted at something invisible in front of his face. It was a long time before he spoke again. Instead his eye darted about like he had again forgot where he was and whom he was with.

“Don’t leave men here boy, it’s a dying place, I can feel it,” Nestor mumbled before falling back into a restless slumber.

Oan watched Old Moon and New Moon move slowly across the sky for a very long time. He held the old sword Kekur for a time, but it felt wrong and altogether too heavy for his hands. The spear seemed more natural to hands and cleaner to use in battle. At some point though, he knew he’d have to learn to wield the weapon. The swordbearer had claimed he’d carry three swords, but he could barely stand holding one. Oan was lost his thoughts for a long time before noticing that Nestor was awake and studying him closely.

“Feeling better,” Oan asked?

“A mite perhaps,” Nestor’s voice had regained some clarity. “How long have I been out?”

“Since midday for the most part.”

“I’ve had nightmares, boy, terrible ones. I see my wife’s face, her body being torn and twisted. I dream of the demon’s ashen grin as he fouled woman after woman.”

Oan did not have an answer or have any way to soothe the man. If it had been him, he would have found a way to end such nightmares before they started. The shame and pain would be too much to handle. Nestor continued.

“Then right before I awoke, I had a vision, my boy. I was wielding that old sword of Tarek Grandar’s. Not the one you’ve been grasping, but Lunar, the sword forged from the face of Old Moon. I dreamed I had the power to strike the demon down. …”

Oan had stopped listening to Nestor. He was watching the painting on the boulder splashed in the firelight. Like a spell, the Nestor’s voice hummed in Oan’s ears as the great field of whites rose splashed upon the ancient rock face turned a blood red, the green stems wilted black. The mountain peak in the far back was leveled with a river of fire pouring out. Everywhere there was shadow where the orange of glow of fire didn’t reach and below was shining the scared face of the man that seemed more an illusion than a man made of flesh. Oan’s eyes grew heavy, his heartbeat slowed. Before he drifted away in the world of dreams, the entire field and mountain were covered in flames, but between the flames he saw nasty little things crawling about sucking the last bits of life from the roses. Nestor’s voice continued to sound for a long time.

Oan woke once that night to find Nestor had crawled around the fire to where Kekur was laid upon the ground. The man was on his knees almost in worship of the sword, his fingers running up and down the blade and resting once in the grooves of the hilt. Oan watched him, but did not stir. Trust was not something given away freely, and not something he’d giving easily to one-eyed man with a heart full of vengence.

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 7 – The Witch

Note: I debated about this part quite a bit as it's the first time we take a small departure from Oan's point of view. I am not 100% happy how this turned (at least in terms of word composition and style). I stumbled at parts of it even though, it's not really that long of a piece. I'll be interested to see the reaction to this.

Disc 1
Track 7: Lie, Lie, Lie – Serj Tankian

“Take my hand and lets end it all.”

The whispers of winter had already turned to shouts in the steady breezes of the mountains. One such brisk current sped down from the highest peak called Kekur in the old kingdom of Marek, swept past the Great Hall of Metahischo where Tarek Grandar sat upon his throne in the final days of the last age and over the rocky landscape where once a great race of mountain dwellers ruled, down to the base of foothills where an ancient cave’s mouth opened to swallow it up.

The wind’s icy tongue licked up the spine of the witch, her nude body shivered. She tossed her head back, her long dark curls that reached to her waist fell about her as she cooed in surprise.

“Ohhh, I remember that cold breath, I do, I do,” She purred. “I wish it touched further down and in, I do, I do. Quell that cursed fire it would, it would. Hmmm. I remember that touch.”

She continued to mumble in a variety of languages mixed with grunts and purrs. The witch was perched upon an ancient wooden stool, her small breasts pressed against the cold oak of a door hung seemingly in stone at the back of the cave. Along the walls were glowing blue orbs that illuminated the cave as if the light of day reached that far back.

Across the top, three diamond-shapes were cut into the wood and lined up across the width of the door. Each diamond was filled with a pane of glass, the one on the far right was tinted red, one in the middle blue and the left was green. The glass diamonds were at eye-level for a normal-sized person, but the witch was short and the top of her head only reached the bottom of each diamond.

Even with the stool, she stood upon her tiptoes to peer in the green-tinted glass. Her only reward was the reflection of her eyes of the same color. Yet, she had been there all morning and as the days passed she spent more time pressed against the door waiting for any sort of vision from the opposite side of the door. She knew there was another world where children awaited gifts all year from a fat, bearded elf in celebration of the birth of some god. She felt like those children – giddy and expectant – waiting for anything to appear.

Yet, there were only her eyes staring back at her and behind that the stone of the mountain. The door was still like a sweet wine or some other nasty habit that she couldn’t kick. She needed it, the promise of its magic and of another start, another world. She needed it to block out the damp longing pulling at her loins. He was calling for her, calling to use her, and despite all her powers she could not deny the pull much longer. Soon all the women east of the Belnor would feel the pulsing throb between their legs and the insane notion to run west, to not allow any barrier stop them, even death.

Thus, the witch’s days in this world were growing short, her time to open that door again. But she dare not open it till the door’s will spoke it. A stiff penalty awaited the unwanted, unrequested visitor of the realm inbetween.

For over an age, she had not so much guarded the door, but had been its steward in its tucked away lair at the base of the mountain. For most of that time, she had dropped by every few seasons to gauge its welfare before setting off again into the world. She’d peek into the green window, sometimes witness one great wonder or another. Sometimes there was nothing, but more often than not there was some vision or another giving little bits of wisdom.

The last few seasons had been different. She dwelled closer and closer to the door checking on it more often. Then her visits were daily and finally at the beginning of summer she took permanent residence in the cave. But the door was silent, the green pane of glass still. She dare not look in any other. The blue and the red were not made for her kind.

The witch eased back on her heels resigned that no sign was swirling behind the door today. She dropped off the stool, her bare feet avoiding every sharp spot on the rough stone floor without thought. Above her, bats slept the slumber of the dead. There was no furniture in the cave, nothing to indicate that it was her home except for a small roll of clothes. From the top of the pile, she grabbed a silk green robe that she pulled shut but did not tie.

Far away, another wind started and swiftly found its way down the mountain as she neared the cave’s opening. It gushed in, blowing her robe open. She cooed again wildly letting out an unhindered cackle. Then a shadow appeared at the front of the cave, and her smile grew wider.

“Here for days upon days, I’ve waited for something from beyond that green pane,” The witch’s voice was strong and clear. Her smile grew wider. “Come my brother, come, I shall build a fire and you can tell me what it is that you dream. I shall listen with great interest, I vow to that my dear.”

She held out her hand and one just as small and frail clasped on.

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 6 – Kekur

Note: There's no doubt that this is less disturbing than the last part, but I found it nearly as interesting to write. I hope it doesn't slow down too much from the last couple eye-opening parts.

Disc 1
Track 6: Burn the Witch – Queens of the Stoneage

“There they are, the mob it cries for blood, to twist the tale into fire wood, fan the flames with a little lie.”


In the days before Tarek Grandar took the sword Lunar north to peak of Mount Bela and pierced the heavens spilling forth the waters of the Belnor that split the world between east and west, there were seven great kingdoms.

Nocnil, the kingdom of sand dwellers living in the Sorna, Marek, the men and dwarves of the northern mountains, the sister kingdoms of Isa and Besa that walked the thin line of love and hate with each other throughout eons of time in the south, Atlan on the eastern coast of the great abyss, and the mythical Arna folk west of the Sorna whose existence had always been debated among the rest of the kingdoms.

Last, there was Rion, rulers of the lands just south of the mountains and masters of iron and sword craft. Each great family of the kingdom had a sword, a fine sword, customized to their line. It was an honor for every firstborn son to be presented with the sword of his family to carry on the line. The ceremony for the presenting of each sword lasted over a day. The people of Rion loved swords more as symbols of power than as weapons to gain it.

The master swordsman was a small, mystical man that forged seven great swords to be distributed to the kings of each kingdom. There is a great tale concerning a man named Werhane that was sent west with one of these swords to find Arna, but that is a tale for another time and another place. Each sword was professed to be indestructible, except in a bit of irony each sword would crumble if met in battle with any of its brethren. It was ploy by this little sword master to ensure peace.

Long after this sword master had moved on from this world, a man lusting for more power than the great sword of Rion came to the throne of the kingdom. He desired a sword greater than any other, a power greater than any of his peers in the other six kingdoms. It’s a funny thing about power. There is always a way to get more for those looking for it. This king found it in ancient pagan lore and conjured up a black sword that shook the world.

Rion fell in his wake as he unleashed terrible beasts from the underworld. With his eventual death, the knowledge of sword making and any desire to relearn the art were lost. Those left from the great kingdom were split into two groups. The leaders of the two groups were brothers sworn against each other.

One brother, named Dinar, had been a close confidant of the power-hungry king. He fell into worship of the man after his death and the splitting of the world by Tarek Grandar. He gained followers that wore dark robes to cover up the mangling of their features in some bizarre, dark rite. In those early days, they found a hidden passage across the Belnor and disappeared into myth.

The other brother, Aldroubi, renounced the old king and his brother. He and those that followed him refused all ironwork and devolved into a tribe of hunters and gatherers. The only remnant from their once great kingdom was the swords of their fathers, of their families. They were kept hidden and guarded by a strange man. Whenever one generation of a line passed, the man would appear and present the sword of the family to the next in line. It became tradition for the next of kin to view the sword once to remember the grandeur of their family and then send it back with the man to keep safe. Never once in nearly a thousand season cycles had a man of the Aldroubi touched the steal of a sword.

The history lived on through the tongues of the elders of the Aldroubi. Oan grew up listening to the tales by blazing campfires. He had been told more, maybe more than any elder knew, by the witch. As he watched the men of his tribe file toward the fire in pairs as dawn kissed the sky, he knew very well what was happening.

They marched side by side with wooden spears in their outside hands and round wooden shields held against their chests in their other arms. There was a short hill leading up to the fire where Oan and Nestor stood exhausted from the night’s tale. The Aldroubi formed a circle around the hill, the numbers in this camp equaling maybe two hundred. At the end of the procession, a small man, no more than four feet tall, stood a long bundle braced against his chest.

The man wore a green cape and a white, sleeved shirt that billowed out. His gray trousers stopped just below his knees where there was one neat fold. He wore no shoes or boots and his feet appeared dirty and torn. His eyes were a sightless, milky white. His blindness did not stop him from ascending the hill and standing directly before Oan. The bundle wrapped in no more than an old brown cloak was clutched with tiny hands that did not seem strong enough to handle the weight.

He spoke then in the high pitch voice of a child even though his dirty brown hair was thinned by age.

“I dream of a field of white roses where a breeze, warm and moist, blows eternal. I sit upon a hill overlooking this valley with a lion and a dragon, paw in claw in hand. I see green eyes that smile with no lips. I live, I breathe and days go by.”

The man stopped, staring blankly into Oan’s bare chest. It took a moment for Oan to realize that the little man was waiting a response.

“I do not read dreams, small one.” Oan said.

The man’s forehead wrinkled and then he smiled revealing a mouth of gleaming white teeth.

“Life’s a dream, then we awake,” He chirped and dropped to his knees placing the bundle at Oan’s feet. “I have been dreaming for a very long time. I’ve had more dreams than I can remember, but I remember you very clear. A man just finished being a boy, tall with long dark hair and broad shoulders. His skin dark brown from days under the sun; his blood cold; his heart stone, a man destined for the great battle. A man carrying three blades.”

“Three blades?”

“I dream of a river of fire burning with no end. A gold throne soaked in blood and a million glowing eyes peering from every shadow. Death, sorrow, paw and claw and hand. Agony rolling like thunder on the wind.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Like a flood they’ll come, digging and clawing and pouring upon the soil an endless wave of pain.”

“Who?”

“Salama’s offspring!” Nestor’s voice was distant, heard almost as an echo. The little man twitched toward it and sneered.

“I dream of you holding the sword that shines, the sword that glows and one other.”

“The sword of my fathers.”

“No, you are not a son of Rion. You’re blood flows from the mountain.”

“What?”

“You are an heir of the Marek. Men made hard by the stone of the mountains, men that carried axes and picks, not swords. There was but two swords carried by a king of Marek. There was Lunar that the last king of Marek, Tarek Grandar, forged from the face of old moon. And there was. …”

“Kekur.”

“Yes. Kekur. One of the seven great swords made as gift by the swordmaster of Rion to the seven great kingdoms of old.”

“Are you he?”

“I once had a dream I was.”

“I don’t understand you.”

The man didn’t answer instead he started to unwrap the bundle. Oan saw the hilt, grooved for large hands and the design of a great mountain peak etched into the iron.

“Perhaps, the most unique of the seven great blades, Kekur, named from the highest mountaintop in the Kingdom of Marek, is a marriage of stone and steel. The great swordmaster toiled for many seasons getting the two to forge together. When he did, he rejoiced but found he could not lift the blade up. It was too heavy for him, too heavy for most.”

The man removed the rest of the covering displaying the blade that was nearly four feet long and striped with sections of steal and a white stone sharpened to perfection. There was a chip in one of the stone sections, a chip that could never be fixed. That too is a story for another day, another time.

“I present Kekur, prize of the Marek.”

Oan felt Nestor gazing over his shoulder. Oan dropped to his knees viewing its grandeur and smelling its history.

“I thank you for this glimpse. Please go now and take. …”

“Oh, you may not send this back with me son of the Marek. The son’s Rion have cursed off blades, perhaps for too long, but the son, nay the King of Marek, may not refuse Kekur. It is a gift not to be denied.”

“I am no King.”

“Perhaps not, but I dream of you holding this sword. It is time for that dream to awake.”

With that, the short man arose and turned away leaving Oan on his knees before the ancient sword. He did not have the courage yet to touch it. A question then came to his mind only seconds before it hit his lips.

“Who am I?”

The short man stopped, but did not turn around. Instead, he tilted his head back as if to view the sky.

“That was not in my dream.”

“Who am I?”

“I dream of the witch. Holed up in her cave, peaking through the glass of that secret door. Her green eyes have seen much more than my blind ones. Paw and and claw and hand, and if anyone knows who you are, it’s the witch.”

The little man started walking again and as he reached the bottom of the hills he seemed to fade a little and the farther he walked the more of him disappeared. Then he was gone.

“The witch,” Oan whispered staring at the blade. “Gods, I thought I was done with her.”

He reached down, recovered the sword in the brown cloak and lifted it. The blade was nearly too much for him, he used both arms to haul it down the hill with Nestor following. The Aldroubi had left, knowing that their message was clear. It was time for Oan and Nestor to leave.

“Where are we to go?” Nestor asked while Oan packed up a few things from his tent. The Aldroubi left two fine horses waiting for them there.

“To see the witch.” Oan answered and that was all he said from then till they left the camp and had rode for nearly the entire day.

Nestor seemed shaken by the news and did not speak either.

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 5 – Noce

Note: I'm going to let this part speak for itself.

Disc 1
Track 5: No You Girls – Franz Ferdinand

“Oh how the girl feels.”

“Noce is a day’s walk from my tower. I tore away the sleeves of my robe taking one to wrap around my forehead and the other on my mangled hand. The blood had stopped flowing by the time I awoke. The wounds were almost like brands the cattle herders use to mark their livestock, seared and black. Yet the wind and the sand nicked and gnawed away the open sores and peaking bone. I had to cover them. There was also the streaks of black and green, poison no doubt, starting to appear along my veins near my hand and no doubt on my face. I could not bear to watch the poison slowly eat its way to my heart, my brain or whatever part of my body it most desired to consume.

“I arrived delirious in Noce under the cover of a night sky where clouds blotted out Old Moon’s face and New Moon’s curve was nothing more than a wavy blue apparition. No men were posted on the outer walls, but I feared I saw glowing eyes blinking in the shadows of the sentry towers. Yet no alarm sounded as I entered the iron gates that served as the main entrance to the huge sandstone city. One of the gates was sagging badly on its hinge digging into the stone street.

“The city streets were dead, the all-night market closed, the taverns empty. Every corner where one would expect to find life no matter the time of the day was silent, desolate. All there was was sand, and, of course, the occasional corpse dried and hollow eyed. On the wind there were moans carried from the great coliseum where men of the watch are tested against each other, against beasts, against themselves to prove their worth. Atop the coliseum, the twenty-four pyres of Tarak Grandar were lit spewing forth ugly red flames and black smoke into the night sky. The pyres were there to celebrate the casting of Salama into the sand once a year. That night they were welcoming the evil back to the world.

“Behind me, I heard the slapping of bare heals on the stone streets and I sank back into a shadow. Sprinting down the middle of the street, a girl, probably just getting to the age where she put away dolls, but well before her parents would have started arranging a marriage, came with wild steps. Her thin legs looked about ready to topple, her common dress was torn and tattered. Her feet, I saw them well enough as she strode pass, were cut and bruised. She’d been running for a day I believe. She was a girl from an outer village, probably a farmer’s daughter, pulled to the city by an urge, which I had not yet fully realized.

“When the girl had passed, I continued on toward the coliseum not sure what sort of scene lay ahead of me, but sure that the minutes of my life were numbered down.

“The coliseum is a great ring, my boy, with outer walls that reach high into the sky, but there are many ways into and onto the great building without going into the great entrances that lead to the spectators’ seating. For instance, there’s a hidden ladder along the east wall that leads up to the pyres. That’s where I made my way. I counted on that whoever lit the pyres had dropped back down after the task.

“From high above, I was witness to the whole grotesque show. Below a black throne was cast a top a pile of bones. To the side were twelve smaller thrones where men, at least I think they were men, sat with dark hoods covering, if the tales be true, faces burned and painted since childbirth. On the great throne in the middle, the demon sat. Around him was a mass grave of men, but not all of them were dead. Many were alive, screaming and gurgling and calling out in agony. From high above, I could see things crawling among the bodies, but at that point my eye did not want to believe the horror.

“Leading to the throne was a line of women. Every woman in and near the city without the will power to fall upon a sword or cut her wrists was in the line that led to the spectators seating and wrapped around and around the coliseum. I believe I saw the girl from the street at the end of the line.

“The womam at the front of the line, I recognized well enough. Her gray hair hung at curls to her side. I could recall how her callused hands rested upon my chest night after night when I was not stationed on the tower. She was my wife. Behind her my son’s wife who had failed in a birth not more than a season earlier, stood.

“My wife, Quinta her name be, came before the throne swooning like a girl in the spring of her life instead of the fall. See my boy, the women don’t see the disgusting, ashen man that we see. Nay, I believe they see the epitome of man before them. They’re drawn to him like calves to the pasture. Quinta bowed before him and he stood up and disrobed. To my eyes, his body was scarred and sagging with blotches of red showing through his dark skin.

“She dropped to her back, legs spread open. The demon came to her then tearing away her clothes with his four hands, not caring if bits of flesh were clawed away as well. He fouled her then in great heaping thrusts that must have split and tore apart her insides. He licked down her neck (a forked-tongue now part of his being) leaving a black burn mark. His ripped at her breasts with long, sharp nails, pulled away at her hair and bit into her flesh. All the while, thrusting and pumping with no care for her pain. But she did not wail. Instead, she responded with moans of pleasure, but her eyes showed her terror, her agony. She didn’t want it, but couldn’t help herself, couldn’t resist. The other women in line watched jealous, greedy for their turn, a turn soon enough to come.

“It ended as such acts do with him casting her aside like a child discarding an old toy. Her pain wasn’t over. Nay, the worst was to come. As the demon moved onto another of my kin, a great round belly started to form on my long barren wife. She was pregnant, but the pace of growth was unnatural. Within moments, she was to full term. Then one of the robed men arose, came to her and spread her legs out. I could hear her scream and wretch. I was there for our son’s birth and the pain sounded a thousand times worse.

“I couldn’t see it all, thank heavens, from my vantage, but I saw enough. What came from her was not human. It was all legs and claws, black and red with a great gap where two rows of small sharp teeth glistened. When the birthing was over, the robed man took the offspring over to the pile of men and released it. The little beast jumped from the hands of its momentary captor to the neck of a man not yet dead and began to feed. Great streaks of blood shot out and one final wail came from the poor man.

“I vomited and my knees gave out. I couldn’t bear to watch it. The women were slaves to this demon, his own personal harem to breed an army of monsters. The worst of it, my Quinta, blood-soaked and ravaged arose after the birth bowed to her new master and started hobbling toward the back of the line. She would go through it again and again till her womb was too used and tired then she’d be fed to her offspring. I doubt she lasted long at her age. But the young girls, like the one I saw running in the street, it chills me to think the number of beasts she’ll bare before she’s released from her terrible bond.

“I didn’t stay to watch anymore. As I said, I think the demon knew I’d come and see and wanted me to get away. He pleasured in pain and knew that my shame was a pain much greater than death.

“I ran boy with fear and shame in my heart. I ran with poison eating away at my arm and face. For weeks I ran, stopping only when I collapsed from my delirium. I recall little, thank heavens for that, until I hit the waters and heard the voices underneath. The waters froze the poison and drew it out. I can feel that now, but the shame, the fear are still there boy. I know he’ll be coming with a great army. I know the women here will soon start to feel his pull. A great evil is upon the world and part of me wishes very much you’d left me to die in the Belnor.

“While my honor bemoans me to correct this wrong, my will weakens. I hope, nay, I pray never to see that demon again. But I can see it in your eyes now that you won’t allow me that blessing. You’re the type to stand and fight. Maybe you’re curse will be our blessing. I doubt it very much, but a good man doesn’t back down. I can feel you’re a good man indeed, Oan Stoneheart.

“I’ll pray we’re victorious. I will, I will.”

With that his story ended as both moons returned to the underworld and the sky lightened in the east.

The Dark Tower IV: Web browsing

Note: I finished this book a few weeks ago, but a post was pushed back by a few other things that we've been doing on here.

WIZARD AND GLASS

I stated in my last post that this book was probably my least favorite of the bunch the first time I read the series. Until I read the rest of the books again, I can't say if it still holds that spot. What I can say is that I understand better this book's role in the overall story.

"Wizard and Glass" is primarily the backstory of the Gunslinger prior to where we meet in the first book. It's the story of what happens to him after he earns his guns, finds out his mother is cheating on his father with a magician and then is sent away to an outlying region called Mejis by his father with his friends Cuthbert and Alain.

I am not going to hit the whole plot here. Ultimately, this story shouts clearly how Roland became a killer driven by one ultimate goal - The Dark Tower. He's only 14 here as he sacrifices his first love for the tower and foresakes all that would join him that they would likely die in the hunt the tower.

In all, it's an important character developing book. It's also the one in the series that Snake would probably like best. It has an old west feel during the tale of Mejis. There is also an awesome war scene as the Gunslinger rides for the first time into a battle outnumbered.

In conclusion, I decided to make this post more about the allure of the series. So I did some research. I am going to post a Youtube tribute (there are a large amount of these and some them are poorly made and overtop) and some websites. I know Snake likes to troll the web. If he has time, he may enjoy some of this.

No. 1 - Here's a good video. The music is referenced in the final couple books. The art comes from the book and from a comic book series.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7wY5Y5gZ060&feature=fvw

No. 2 - The official website - Lots of good stuff here. Check out the connections part. I've been meaning to do a post on this, but why when they are all there for you. There is also an interactive thing that I haven't checked out yet.

http://www.stephenking.com/DarkTower/

No. 3 - Another website. I guess I like seeing that I am not the only junkie of this stuff.

http://www.thedarktower.com/

I'll stop there, but maybe I'll post more as I look around more.

Next up - The Wolves of Calla. I don't have this one, but I am hoping it will be in the stocking this Chrsitmas.

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 4 – Reap

Note: OK, so this part is long. Really long. Believe it or not, this is what I intended to write in the very first section before I realized I had to get here first. This was a hard section to write due to it being first person for much of it. Dialogue, in the form of storytelling, is hard. If I go back and edit and clean this up, this part will likely need a lot of work. But, for now, I hope you enjoy. 

Disc 1
Track 4: House of Doom – Black Label Society

“They say you reap what you sow. Hell, if that ain’t a fact”

Nestor turned his back and, for a second, Oan considered driving the spear, which was still lying across his chest, between the old man’s shoulder blades. He had asked the questions that had been running through his mind and his soul since pulling Nestor from the Belnor, but now he was not entirely sure he wanted to hear the answer. His chance for attack slipped as Nestor glanced over his shoulder, the light hitting the ridge of the scar that ran down his face. He thought both Nestor’s mouth and the scar grinned daring him to try.

Oan instead tossed the spear aside, rose from the fire, his skin healing fully as he did. He fed a few more logs into the flames and dropped to the ground. Doom settled over Oan as Nestor’s voice started with a low rumble that seemed to echo off the dark sky and reach the ears of Old and New Moon. Oan heard movements from the camp, but he knew as that as long as the voice spoke that the Aldroubi would stay away knowing not to interrupt a telling such as this. While the story conjured evil, the spirits of the forest, of the river, of the wild and of the earth would want to hear. Interrupting would only incur their wrath.

Nestor began, perhaps with a tear running down his cheek although it very well could have been a cold sweat. Oan was not close enough to tell.

“Aye, the Sorna watch failed. On the day a thousand season cycles ago that Tarek Grandar cast Salama to his tomb in the sand, he posted two-dozen towers along the sprawl of the barren land to watch for the demon’s return. He blessed the men charged to give watch, but cursed them if they failed. The men of watch came from the city of Noce, heart of the great kingdom of Nocnil, one of the seven great kingdoms of the old age. If I may add, the only one of those great kingdoms that remains, unless of course you believe the tales and such of Arna, which they say is west of the Sorna. Don’t believe them boy! Everything dies west of Noce. Only the damned come back from those sands.

“Since that day men have been trained to watch the sand blow and shift across the vast wasteland. It takes a keen eye, my boy, it does and a strong heart. Most of all your taught the tale of Salama, of Tarek and his blade Lunar. To watch, because even today, those in black cloaks try their hand at the desert to find the hidden tomb, deliver a baby of pure stock and bring the demon back to life. But for years, those in the black cloaks have dwindled and all but disappeared from the earth. The watch grew uneventful and boring.

“Arrogant and restless were youngest men of the watch. Too good, they were to watch sand and their time too valuable to guard against an old fantasy. Too many days, too many nights, they left their posts unwatched. I warned them, I being the oldest still alive. I could feel a change, smell it you know, in the dust kicked up by the wind.

“Then one day, I spotted his ashen corpse top a golden dune far off in the distance. Even with my sharp eyes, I had to squint to see the demon. I was alone atop my tower and I sounded a horn, but no one came. As the day drew on, I blew the horn more as the bedeviled man closed in leaving a black trail of dead steps in the sand. He arrived as the sun burned its way to the underworld and behind me Old Moon’s cracked face peaked over the horizon.

“The demon recoiled at the sight of Old Moon. I think the old wound from Lunar flared just then and Salama thought of Tarek Grandar and the blade born from Old Moon’s own face. I saw it all on the demon’s face, you see, because I wasn’t bout to forfeit my tower and my honor without a battle.

“I’d been trained and tested, my boy. I had lived through battles and brawls. I was good boy, as you can now attest. But I knew that no sword or staff of mine would pierce this demon’s skin. My only defense was the old skins filled long ago with the icy waters of the Belnor where it touches the heavens (where it is at its most pure) brought by Tarek Grandar and placed in each tower. It was said the Belnor water, once thrown on the demon, would extinguish the fires boiling in his blood.

“So armed with nothing more than a skin of water, I rushed down the stairs of my tower and met the man that torched kingdoms and nearly devoured all the world.

“He was like no man I’ve seen. His skin, nay, it wasn’t skin. It was flaky and black, not like those of the men from the south, but like ash and some blew off in a strong wind. The demon had four arms, two from his shoulders like you and I, and another short pair from the side his chest. He wore a black robe that covered his naked chest. There were no pupils to his eyes, just a clear surface that changed colors and tones from purple to red to a milky white. There was little else to the form to his face, just subtle features that had not yet taken shape. My current scarred features pale in ugliness to that monstrosity.

“In a scabbard was the black sword he received from the lord of the underworld so long ago. In his hand, a whip was unfurled, but not naturally dangling. It was coiled and tense.

“His ugliness burned at my eyes, but I could not look away and he did not speak for I do not think he had a tongue. Least not one that had grown through the ash and decay yet. Nor did I speak because I knew there was no reasoning with a demon. Only action in the ways of the demons and such – ill-intentioned action that scars and carves great craters of agony in the light.

“I fumbled with the skin, unscrewing a cap sealed for what I thought was centuries, but I knew straight away that the treachery that had reborn this monster had sullied my only defense. The water inside was warm and dirty. The kind of water I was bathed in as a babe and drank all my days. This was no Belnor water. This was water from Serj, a nasty pool south of Noce. Someone, likely a man of the Sorna Watch, had replaced the true water. A shame and a curse, I put upon that unknown man every morning when I awake.

“Alas, I sprayed the water anyway at the demon and he didn’t so much as flinch. All I heard was slight crackle like pissing on a fire as it landed on his ashen skin and then nothing. I swear the demon smiled then revealing a row of razor sharp teeth and a fiery abyss beyond.

“Then he cracked his whip once with a grin and then unleashed its hell. It snapped and whizzed.

“Now boy, I’m fast. Even for a man whose hairs are gray and back is weak, I was quick enough. I snatched the tip from the air with my right hand. The sting pierced my skin, but my speed did impress the demon. I held the whip contemplating pulling it hard. Then I heard a snap, then a crack. In my hand, the tip of the whip was biting away at my first two fingers. The whip had a face of a snake that had a full mouth of teeth and venom. I shrieked pulling away, the snake grinned taking my two fingers with it.

“The pain coursed through my arm and I feared a poison that may burn through my soul. I was paralyzed as I fell to my knees. The sand below seemed to be swallowing me up. The whip or the snake or whatever the cursed thing was slithered along ground toward me, hungry for blood, for bone.

“The last I remember was it stiffening once on the ground and then uncoiling toward my face. It’s jaw unhinged, gorging down my face then plucking my eyeball straight away from my socket. There a wet noise, my boy, when your eye leaves your skull. One that haunts my dreams and turns my insides even to this day.

“I screamed and everything after was black. I didn’t dream. I didn’t stir. For hours, nay it may even been days, my blood soaked into the Sorna. Why the demon or the snake didn’t finish me, I cannot say. I reckon the horror and shame of my failure was more pleasurable to the demon then my demise.

“For when I awoke that’s what I was forced to confront in the form of a string of corpses lining the road back to Noce. All of them men, of which many were men of the watch that had answered my horn’s call too late.

“The men were devoured, ruined and drained of their blood. They appeared to be corpses left in the sand for months, not one’s lying there for less than a day. With each, the jaws were wrenched open in a final scream of horror. The first few, I stopped and wept by. Then the numbers became too many, the feeling inside too numb.

“But I tell ya, boy. What was done to the men was terrible, that’s for sure. I soon discovered though, it was much more favorable to the fate of the women. That hell, along with a poison slowing coursing through my veins, sent me on the run to the waters of the Belnor.”

1001 Albums (401-415): If I Should Fall From Grace With God - Infected

Note: Back by popular demand, we get a wide variety of acts and sound here especially at the top of the list. I think Snake will have plenty to write about from this group.


The Good

If You Can Believe Your Eyes and Ears (1966) by The Mama’s and The Papa’s

Jon Phillips song writing ability melded with the unique harmonizing vocals, which was the staple of the group. The hippie aura, fat Mama Cass, hot Michelle Philips, they are still part of pop culture lore. This album features hits “Monday, Monday,” “California Dreamin’”, and “Go Where You Wanna Go.”

Ill Communication (1994) by Beastie Boys

A turning point for the Boys as they transitioned from a young strictly party group to a group of guys trying to say something. Jumping off this album is “Sabotage” that, along with its classic video, became one of the biggest, most important tunes of the 1990s. Definitely an album that belongs on this list!

Imagine (1971) by John Lennon

Probably the biggest post-Beatle album, Imagine is an all-star cast, No. 1 blockbuster. The title track is the probably the singular song people think about when they here Lennon’s name. It’s his mantra, his biggest idea. “How” and “Jealous Guy” are the two other tracks that hit it really big as singles.

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida (1968) by Iron Butterfly

Most people would say that one song does not make an album, but in this case their wrong. Without the 17 minute title track, Iron Butterfly likely would never be talked about again. While I don’t know if people need to own this album, they do need to hear it once or twice in their life. It’s an experience like no other. “Hey Marge, we used to make out to this hymm.” I had to sneak that in.

I Never Loved A Man The Way I Love You (1967) by Aretha Franklin

Possibly one of the most important female albums of the century, it hits right away with the cover of Otis Redding’s “Respect.” From there, Franklin mixes in covers with self wrote, self-accompanied tunes that displayed the freedom Atlantic records gave her.

The Middle

I’m A Lonesome Fugitive (1967) by Merle Haggard

Haggard saw Johnny Cash play at San Quentin and realized that there was a big market with former convicts singing country songs. Haggard, an ex-convict released a string of albums focused on his past, this being the height of his self-exploration.

I’m Your Man (1988) by Leonard Cohen

Cohen is a poet that decided to sing his poem. I haven’t made it through many of his songs, but he has a signature voice and his lyrics (always strong) usually are dripping with either sexuality or humor (often both). I am not familiar with these songs, but might be worth looking up.

In A Silent Way (1969) by Miles Davis

This is a stepping-stone to the later high point of Davis’ career “Bitches Brew.” This album features two 20-minute songs that use silent moments as part of the effect. Also appearing are Herbie Hancock and Chick Corea.

The Best of the Rest

If I Should Fall From Grace With God (1988) by The Pogues

A nine-piece Irish band sounds like it might be fun to listen too. It’s kind of fun, drinking kind of music.

The Rest

If You’re Feeling Sinister (1996) by Belle and Sebastian

Well these two Scots were a big mystery in the UK as they refused to make appearances often sending friends in their sted. They also used a former boxer (Stuart Murdoch) as their vocalist. Yet, the two barely-out-of-high-school kids seemed to make decent music.

I Had Too Much to Dream (Last Night) (1967) by The Electric Prunes

Here’s the best band name of the week. A group of teenagers plucked from their garage by a real estate agent, provided professional song writers that released an album that later inspired some punk bands in the 70s.

Illmatic (1994) by Nas

Here’s a rap album that unlike its contemporaries exposes the realities of the streets and gang life rather than trying to glorify them. Also infused with jazz to add depth.

Immigres (1984) by Youssou N’Dour

A Senegal star is born. I guess there are four songs here on a 34-minute album. That’s something to talk about.

Imperial Bedroom (1982) by Elvis Costello and The Attractions

Well it’s been awhile since we had an Elvis Costello album. Once again, here’s a simply amazing album that apparently no one really liked but critics. Maybe it’s good, I don’t know.

Infected (1986) by The The

Apparently this angry Brit, didn’t like Ronald Reagan, capitalism or AIDS. So he made this album with this silly, stupid band name.

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 3 – Changing courses

Note: It may be a bad pun to say it was burning me to get this part started. I knew how I wanted it to go, I just didn't have time to write it. Unlike some other things I've written like this, I am tickling in more backstory as we move the current story forward. I think that's why it feels like a lot has happened even though, through three parts we're still by the fire. 

Disc 1

Track 3: All Messed Up – The Donnas

“You turn me inside out and upside down… Now I am all messed up”

Oan was a blur, grasping the spear and charging in one mesmerizing movement. Since a boy, he had lived by the hunt. Ten season cycles into life, he had slain a full-grown bear with this very spear and a stone. He still wore those bear’s teeth on a necklace around his neck. There was no man among the Aldroubi that could equal his speed, his stealth and his precision during a hunt. Oan was a born killer.

He skipped over the fire instead of going around, the spear point directed at the heart of Nestor, who didn’t so much as flinch until the spearhead neared the brown flesh poking out below the fur wrapped around his body.

Then Nestor was gone, disappeared to Oan’s eyes with some sort of magic. Oan could accept no other explanation; least of all being that Nestor was quicker and better than he. In fact, the old man from across Belnor had done the impossible dodging the spearhead with such speed that he seemed to leave wrinkles in air as he moved. Before Oan could react, the spear was tugged forward with his momentum carried with it. The world spun and he felt a leg sweep under his and, for an instant, he was staring at Old Moon’s fractured gaze before landing on his back with a thud and a crackle.

The thud was from a log; the crackle was from the fire. Nestor was atop him bracing the spear’s shaft against his chest. His wrinkled face and deadeye staring down with drool falling from his lips. Underneath Oan, the fire burned away at his body. He could feel the flames roasting away, the blisters forming and then one popped spewing forth his frozen blood.

Everything was silent then except for heavy breathing of two men as Oan’s lifeforce kissed the flames, which danced as if the blood was a new, better fuel. His blood dripped down and then the fire screamed and hissed at its touch as if doused with a bucket of water and then shot out in all directions colored blue and green instead of orange.

Oan heard his comrades drawn to the fire by the commotion, scream in horror at the flames. They saw Oan, the boy raised by the witch, pinned to the fire and yet not burning. For years, rumors had swirled about what the witch had done to him. Now, they were all sure that his blood and his body were polluted by some spell. His longtime tribesmen, some of them he considered friends, fled with screams. Oan knew the Aldroubi well. They would regroup their wits and mettle soon. Then they would come back with spears and bows and maybe even the swords of their grandfathers to drive him away. His time with the Aldroubi was over.

His gaze returned to Nestor’s face. The old man was unaffected by all that was around him. Oan felt the strange tickle of his skin healing on his back as his chilled blood was suffocating the flames. He pushed up against Nestor, but the man was ungodly strong.

“Stop you’s fighting,” Nestor voice was strained. He could not keep Oan down like this long. “I let you up soons enough, I will.”

He felt another flame spring up and heard his skin pop on his left shoulder blade. Shadows hit Nestor’s face, making him more ugly and deadlier all the same.

“I’s had you pegged from the start boy, so I did,” Nestor started with his strange accent thick again. “Those waters still chills me to the bone a day later. Yet, you go in neck-high to get me and you’s skin is burning hot by the time we reach the bank. While’s I sit here shivering by the fire, you’re bear-chested and brave.”

“My blood runs cold, old man,” Oan said trying more to push the man off.

“Stop it boy, I’ve been a-watch in the Sorna since well-before you walked this earth. No one’s blood runs warmer than mine, I’ll hold you hear all night if I’s have to.”

Finally, Oan ceased struggling and his felt Nestor’s grip loosen.

“Now, I’ll know one thing before I let you up and from there it’s likely we’ll both be going on our way.”

“What is it, cursed man?”

“Gentle, boy. I’ve tangled with one demon on this earth before and paid a great cost for it. I know one when I’s see it with my good and bad eye. So what is it boy? What sort of demon are ye?”

Over Nestor’s shoulder, Oan could make out New Moon’s blue curved smile. It calmed him a little even though he knew his life was forever turned from its coarse. The witch had told him that one such as him could never grow comfortable on one path because sooner or later he’d have to go another direction.

He settled on Nestor’s empty socket and he was the man saw best from that one.

“I am Oan Stoneheart. The Belnor has taken my breath once. Madra the Lurking Witch healed me with a curse. The blood in my veins runs forever like the Belnor’s iced waters. My course is set to the underworld for one final great battle, but that is a very long journey and one that meanders often.”

Oan stopped, gauging Nestor’s reaction. There was little asthis man had seen enough not to be surprised by tales of witches and curses.

“Now, tell me man of the Sorna watch. Does thee spy for Salama of the Sand since thee failed you’re watch? Or do you truly flee from his evil?”

The lines on Nestor’s face slackened and he stood up.