Mea Umbra

I Am

I am The Impeccable One–anointed to thrust His sword.

I am The DragnMastr–DragnMastr13–and I am mastering the shadow serpent within, having slain The Great Dragon clad in red, black, and white scales of deception.

I have walked alongside The Grim Reaper, looked over the eternal cliffs of dreamless sleep, and hardened Myself against the vertigo of looming death.

The outcome?

A metamorphosis of mind–I am a mountain.

Nothing can move Me.

Nothing can shake Me.

Nothing can diminish Me.

And yet, I have been moved. I have been shaken. I have been diminished.

But I am a blackhole–swallowing the fears, doubts, and insecurities that cross My event horizon–infinitely in a state of expansion.

A Cremation of Pity

The pyre from Her self-indulgence cremated any pity we had preserved for her, as she continued on:

"O inoculator, I am weak.

Your virile insertions bring me to your feet.

The logical part of me is indignant by this experiment you've performed on me, but there is another side–a more instinct-driven side in which you've bored into me during one of your unrelenting sessions.

This side of me is thrilled by your creation, this side feels complete having been injected with the serum you've infused from me. Complete, but desiring more.

Was that the plan, inoculator? To get me addicted to your great syringe? If so, then go and rejoice because though I suffer the consequences of your actions, your plan has succeeded."

There was something of a grotesque understanding of what she had expressed. My demigoddess, My idol of devoted worship, was descending into the molten depths of self-annihilation, where the inoculator reigned supreme over her body, mind, spirit.

May she have mercy on her own soul.

 

A flash fiction collaboration with: @its.cherry.sister

 

A Visitor of Ill Omen

From the towering heights of her balcony, The Flexilis Pupa looked down on Us, as Lasciva Libido articulated the following omen:

"A visitor stays within the temple. I say, O visiting soul, you may use The temple's resources. Sleep in its refuge, eat and drink, nourish yourself in whatever way you need. But your stay comes with a price: your spirit. Your spirit will reside within the temple forever, although you will be here only one more week. Just know this: you may return one day, and your spirit will still be here for you."

A tender feeling of melancholia cloaked the air. My breathing became belabored, as the denseness of the situation infiltrated My lungs.

There would be retribution to pay, and the definiteness of Death's stroke was upon her inoculator's horizon–I would make sure of it.

 

A flash fiction collaboration with: @its.cherry.sister

Supplications of a Demigoddess

You see, Lasciva Libido was more than a mere high priestess, her feminine warmth emanated throughout My bone marrow, and stoked the biting flames of My essentia. You could say that she was the demigoddess dwelling at the tabernacle of My lechery.

At once, she opened her lips and spoke thus:

"O Impeccable One!

The nooks of my body drip with ripeness.

The foliage flowing from my head is tangled.

My heart is pregnant with mirth.

My loins overflow with the elixir of life.

My soul swells with warmth as the coat of ice which had encased it after so many days has thawed and washed away.

Yet, I beg for release.

My womb is host to a parasite that must be shed.

It tires me.

It consumes all I consume.

I am weary and hungry at all times.

I eat and am sick thereafter.

My DragnMastr!

I implore You!

Help flush this parasite from me!"

 

A flash fiction collaboration with: @its.cherry.sister

The Transfiguration of an Insemination

As The Flexilis Pupa and Hirsutus Puella sustained their nerve-wracking standoff, the scent of another botanical being wafted My voyeuristic nostril.

Gradually her image and likeness took form, and I was beholden to whom stood before Me–none other than My fellow interdimensional assassin in arms, the one they called Lasciva Libido!

The situation was entering into a quadrilateral aberration that inseminated our senses. 

Excavated Laughter

She talked of crystals, and understood them. I took it in and heard the earth.

A mine I followed, impossible to crawl through. A geode that shatters with her youth.

I examined the glimmer, upon the surface. Each cold crystal had a blackened glow.

My love was there, for the taking. Now it's been given back to her.

But anger can fade if you cast it away. Dig a hole, bury it, and welcome back laughter.

A sparkling gem abandoned down in the depths. My love's been given back to her.

Tagged:

A Mourning Realization On the Fickle Nature of Happiness

And they lived happily ever after...

The next morning, she looked over her shoulder and realized her Siamese twin was dead.

Interpretation: It is a naive fantasy to believe that people live happily ever after–happiness does not behave in that way. Happiness is fickle and does not owe you anything.

One moment you may be happy, and the next you are sharing rigor mortis with a clump of cadaverous meat and a contorted, pallor face staring blankly back at you. 

It is ok to be unhappy–it is part of the absurd order of things.

My Menses Maiden

I'll tell you where she buried Roberto's body next time. At the moment, I'd rather get into a curious habit she had:

She enjoyed coating her bed linen with her menstrual discharge. Everything in her room was unassuming, except for the blood-imbued bedding.

If you looked closely, you could make out the age of the blood stains by their hue of burnt burgundy–the older ones were darker in shade than the newly moistened ones.

To tell you the truth, the sight of the bloodied bedspreads didn't bother me, or even their offensive odor. Nay, what perturbed me was her overbearing insistence that I suckle on the bedsheets during our weekly bioenergetic catharsis meetings.

I don't care for the taste of iron, selenium has always been my favorite tasting chemical element. However, I would go along with her relentless pleas because I knew she meant well–she knew my platelet levels were low from the chemotherapy I was doing, and she wanted to ensure that I wasn't anemic.

She was kind in heart, and generous too. 

East of No Ideologies

My words ride strapped on the bare backs of galloping Mongol warhorses ready to find their mark–projected by the bows of cold-blooded and benumbed barbarians.

From across the East Cerebral Valley the revelation whizzes through the air,
marauding the village people in your unconscious where your beliefs about the unknown are conceived under the dubious glow of comprehension.

Having been impaled by the message, the only thing about you that will slowly die is your ignorance and malnourished perception, for you will begin to drowsily awaken to an alternative set of eyes, and seeing will become anew.

I come to awaken the snoring swine within your boudoir, and I will boot it out and lead it to its deserving slop pen so that it may roll around in its filth!

I will rid you of your vile and foul doctrines–impotent ideologies that offend the hairs in the nostril and inhibit the mind.

Thus spoke, The DragnMastr.

A Foreboding Prelude to the Amplitude of Pain

There was a shadow amoeba in my hospital room the size of an adult hand, and I watched it make its rounds as it crawled up and down the wall for 17 minutes straight. Blinking sparingly, I followed its foreboding gestures so that I wouldn't miss its intentions.

I was transfixed with its disciplined oscillations and wavering habits. It would flicker assertively at times, grow faint, disappear for split seconds, then abruptly emerge as its blacker denser shadow reincarnate–all while adhering to its committed three foot linear path on the wall facing me.

It was unsettling, yet poetic in its deliberateness. I could've watched it perform its routine all night, but my nurse interrupted my curious voyeurism so that she could replace my chemo bag, marking the commencement of the new day at 1:46 am.

Shadow friend gone, my attention was redirected toward the fresh toxicity inserted into my central line, serving as a sadistic reminder of the perdition that awaited my diminishing body. As I laid there, tormenting for any kind of sleep spurt, I could hear the sinister laughter of the abdominal and bone pains, nausea, and vomiting in the prelude of the approaching day.

Don't Eat It, Send It Back

She was someone I could see Myself with. Undeniable beauty, impeccable style, sharp wit, sassafras in abundance–a real live one.

The flirtatious banter crescendoed over the weeks, until, at last I decided to dig a little.

I asked her about her most recent act of vengeance. She hesitated as I prodded with curiosity, but disclosed a full account of the event in question.

What a masterful chef she was, for her dish was certainly served cold.

I felt a sense of dejected disorientation, as I mourned the possibility of any romantic future with her. 

The thing with chefs, is that they have the tendency to delight in the dishes they serve, but the years of heartache have taught Me to watch what I eat.

Needless to say, I won't be pursuing her anymore.

I'm sad. Very sad.

Yes, I am The DragnMastr, but I am of tender disposition, and I have an affinity for seductive delicacies that afford a sweet aftertaste.