#are they even able to do medicine or does doing stitches count as 'doing harm'?

[stopeatingwhales]

“i’ll always love you,” x damon albarn

this one’s for my beloved friend emily, who requested i write something inspired by the song clocks by coldplay for her, and must i say this turned out better than i had anticipated it to. enjoy <3

Paring: 90s damon albarn x reader

Warnings: angst, dysfunctional relationship

Word count: 1.811

Happy late birthday emily x

༉‧₊˚✧

Having to endure his enthralling features pick-up multiple women at a bar accompanied by my watching, plastering a pretend look of inattention, attempting to hypnotise my ears with Graham’s words directed at me was the equivalent of absolute torture. It devastated me. Seeing the woman’s eyes glow up, instantly subdued to Damon; his beauty right away changing the plans for the evening. A chat? Maybe. A shag? Definitely. A boyfriend? No way. He would use the poor woman as a ploy to get back at me, perhaps from an argument that had resurfaced from the previous night - which created much bigger issues the following day. He did it countless amounts of times as revenge, and each time - no matter how many times it had been done - it always felt like he was slipping a knife slowly into my heart, twisting it around as leisurely as possible, creating the most excruciatingly horrific pain. Pain that wouldn’t leave, even after he had finished with her, as he stumbled into the cramped tour bus, avoiding my eyes completely. He was butchering me, in all ways notorious to man. 

Patiently waiting, I was expecting for the usual: some sort of scoff, maybe a roll of the eyes - dearly conducted straight at me. There was nothing. The only attack I had received in the majority of ten seconds was the gust of wind blow straight past my face from his grand entrance - exhilarating goosebumps on my cheeks. I pondered over the situation, battling the idea of whether I should hoot at him or not, his body language unattentive to my view. It was almost as if he was avoiding me, avoiding the scene, as if he was contemplating outside whether it would be a good decision to walk in at such a dingy time. He seemingly tried to rush past me as fast as he could, although there was no chance I’d be letting him get to sleep this early. 

“Damon,” I said, sternly, rising from my sleeping position on the couch. His slow movements came to a halt, my ears perking up at the sound of a hefty sigh roll off his tongue. Funnily enough, he knew this was coming. He knew the repetitive argument that was going to play, almost word for word at this point. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

The rest of the boys were preciously bunked up in their beds, and unfortunately my angry consciousness had little to no care whether they had any sleep or not; I had not been able to get a clean, crisp night’s sleep since the beginning of the tour. Since the beginning of this all. 

Scoffing, Damon’s stilled stance had now twisted round, his daggering stare locking with my hopeless, tearful one. “Sorry?” he muttered? Cocking his head to the side, waiting for another chain of rows to dance out of my mouth. What a dickhead. 

Closing my eyes, I inhaled sharply. I swallowed the pool of saliva forming on my tongue out of nervousness, the tremble of my hands sending my mind into a pit of anger as I cupped them both into fists, each hand hidden by my sides. “You’re such a dickhead,” I mumbled, shaking my head to the ground in utter disbelief, knowing full-well this wasn’t going to end well; it never did.

I averted to laying back down on the couch from my former standing position, deciding that there was absolutely no reason that I should be giving my all into repetitive arguments, all it ever did was dig a much larger pit of agony than I had before. “Of course you’d say that,” I heard Damon chuckle, aggravation grumbling throughout his voice. He stood still, waiting for my response. If I’m being honest, I wanted him to stay there. Regardless of the life he was sucking out of me, I seemingly needed his presence there. All the time. 

For a short moment, the anger that had riled up in my veins was mellowed, but that softness was interrupted by another evil laugh fleeing his lips. Suddenly, everything that had happened in the past evening came right back at me, leaving nothing but pure rage. “Why do you think that sleeping with other women is going to help?” I questioned, turning my head to once again connect our eyes. He was clearly taken aback at my abrupt and explicit asking, due to his eyes widening slightly at my raw phrasing. I wasn’t going easy tonight. 

“You seem to think that making me feel like dirt on your feet mends our arguments. Why?” I asked again, carrying the same, firm tone I was initiating previously. I wanted him to realise what he had been doing, in the cruelest way achievable. He’s harmed me enough. “Does it seem to please you?”

My gaze never left his face. I studied his features, noticing each twitch, shift, and emotion embellishing his appearance. His face was a blanket of snow, almost exactly like the face of the moon. His head was hanging low, the tips of his fringe guiding his hair to freefall from the gravity. His darkened, gold locks effortlessly matched the dynamic of the room, the colour of the lamp blending in with his figure. The air felt painfully still; my words not just affecting him, but me as well. A sudden rush of wonder coursed through my mind, what if one of the boys were listening? They knew about how dysfunctional mine and Damon’s relationship had become over the past couple months, but they never mentioned a word of it, fully aware that it would be yet another reasoning for an argument.

Eventually, his silence began to taunt me. It felt as if he didn’t want to say anything, but all I wanted was for him to just own up to his actions - something he had never come across doing in his lifetime. “Why do I let you do this to me…” I croaked, my eyes beginning to well up with tears. 

Finally, I shifted my stare to my lap, letting my silent tears flee from my eyes, dripping onto my trousers. I didn’t feel like changing, the sickness that had pitted in my stomach from the thought of Damon with someone else becoming like a sickness for me. All of a sudden, I began gaining flashbacks over the past few weeks, remembering the one conversation that started this all. Let’s have an open relationship. Why? It’ll give us more freedom.

I felt all the emotions pent up, engraved inside my mind all rush back to me, my steady breathing now becoming extremely rapid, water now soaking my cheeks as I sobbed as quiet as possible. I squeezed my mouth shut, my constant sniffles being enough to wake the entire bus of sleeping people. Damon rarely saw me cry, not because I didn’t want him to, I felt incapable of doing it in front of people. The perpetual worry of judgement clouded above my mind subconsciously. My crying now was not only a sign for me that I was impotent of carrying on what we had created between ourselves, but for him, to realise that this was unhealthy. What had we become?

“Y/N…” Damon managed to squeak out, the soft sounds of his feet progressively getting louder as he made his way over to where I was, crouching down to eye level with me. “Love, please don’t cry,” he whispered, caressing my hair lightly. 

Subconsciously, I felt my head lean against his hand, the comfort pulsating warmth through my body. He took note of this immediately, standing up slightly to lay down next to me on the couch, disregarding the little to no room for both of us. Our bodies were touching everywhere imaginable, my heart aching as I felt his arm around my shoulder, tightening our embrace. I shut my eyes, beginning to cry into his shoulder. My sobs quickly escalated to wails, Damon’s caressing putting my mind into a complete state of confusion. “Shhh,” he cooed, peppering kisses all over my forehead. See? This is exactly what he does, every time. 

My cries slowly began to die down after a while of his consolations. However, although my body was completely drained inside and out, I couldn’t rest. I knew he could tell, due to my breathing. “Why do you let me hurt you like this,” he mumbled, his voice cracking at the end of his sentence. He never realised how much pain he was causing to not only me, but to himself. We were torturing each other, the toxicity of the relationship way past the point of mending. Our love was a poison and a medicine; he could dismantle my limbs in such a loathsome manner, yet almost immediately be able to perfectly stitch me back to my previous figure, slobbering sorrowful kisses all over my body, realising he had done no good. 

We were one of those oblivious couples, thinking, assuming that nothing would happen to us. Nothing would tear us apart, nothing at all. But the fear? The fear of love tearing you apart? No, that doesn’t exist. What the fuck is that? The usual reaction. How can the person who brought me the utmost joy, the brightest smile, the love of ten thousand adorning stars and more, be the same man who murdered my belief of love, be the one person who causes me the most torment, rips me, corrupts me, pacifies me in places I didn’t know were a part of my body? And yet, all I find myself doing is lingering back to him. 

“I love you Damon, and I really don’t fucking know why I do,” I mumbled into his ear, breathing in helplessly before carrying on. “But I can’t do this anymore,”

My breath hitched in my throat as those words left my mouth, my mind bewildered that I had said such a thing. I felt Damon tense up, the gulp in his throat more prominent than usual. This conversation was avoided many, many times by the both of us, but there was no use in hiding it anymore. “I can’t live without you,” he mumbled into my hair, inhaling the pungent scent, knowing this would most likely be the last time he’d be able to. 

I knew what my words were doing to him. They were daggers, anguishing sharp stabs in his stomach, exactly like the same stabs he’d given me, simply a hundred times worse. “You’re dying with me here,” I replied, biting my lip in pure melancholy. “Go live your life, you’ll find the love of it eventually,” I breathed, my voice barely inaudible as I released myself from Damon’s grasp, standing up. He was as quiet as he had ever been, trying to take in my words one by one. 

“Just remember I’ll always love you,”

[julesdelorme]

WARNING: Violent and explicit language and thoughts.

This is Chapter 4 of faller. You can find the whole thing so far at:

https://www.facebook.com/delormewriting

faller

Chapter 4

Moccasin Face

by Jules F. Delorme

I have floated through time and from body to body for as long as there has been time and the bodies from which to count that time. I have seen and done many things through many different eyes and always I am able to pass for one of them.

I know the exquisite silence of death. 

I have grown fond of death. 

Perhaps because I can never truly know death. Or perhaps because I love the empty and dark silence that always follows death.

I take joy in bringing death to others.

I have lost count of how many deaths that I have brought. 

It has been so many. 

I like to watch the life slipping from behind their eyes and I like to watch their spirits leave the flesh behind to wander lost and suffering for the rest of what it is that they have come to call time.

In this body I have killed over a hundred I think.

Some have said that it is more than one hundred and fifty. Others that it is a little as one hundred. Still others have said that it might be more than one two hundred.

I have lost count. 

The exact number does not matter to me. 

Numbers seem to matter very much to them. But I do not care. 

Though there have been moments where I have tried to count how many lives I have taken in each body so that I know if it is more or less than in the past. I have always grown tired of trying to count.

I do not think that this body has killed over one hundred and fifty.

Most were men. Some were women and children.

I have no particular care about who it is that I kill. One sack of meat is pretty much like the other. It is the exquisite silence of death that I long for and that I kill for and in my opinion they all make too much noise in the coming to the silence. 

His enemies calls this body Two Stick because he wields a war club in each hand during battle.

The people of his village call him Moccasin Face because his face resembles a worn out moccasin that has been stitched together again and again.

They do not call him that to his face. 

But I have heard them say it just the same.

I do not care what any of them call him. Just so long as he is permitted to kill.

That is all that I have ever cared about.

Before there were these two leg creatures I have been here.

There were other creatures then. But the two legs are the best to be and to kill because they are aware of death and afraid of death and their minds are filled with hatred and fear and ridiculous reasons to kill that have nothing to do with any real need to kill at all and they are best to kill because they make so much more noise than any of the other living things and thus the silence is so sweet.

It is fun to be Moccasin Face.

There is so much talk to hear about the side that he belongs to and the ones that he does not belong to, about his tribe against that tribe, about good people and bad people. But in the end it always comes down to yet another reason for the killing and that brings me such pleasure. I do not care about the reasons, but the lies that hide behind them make these two legs so much more interesting and so much more fun than other creatures. 

They are happy to have him use his war clubs on their enemies. 

They are even happy that he brings their enemies great pain. 

They just do not want to know that he enjoys it. 

They do not want to know that I enjoy it.

They just do not want to know or to believe how very much that I enjoy the killing.

They want him to enjoy the fight. They want him to enjoy the battle.

They would not be pleased to realize that we enjoy the killing.

That would shatter their carefully constructed illusions. And there is no greater sin that you can commit among these two legs than to rupture their layers of crusted lies.

They would not even like to know how much pleasure I take in the killing of the Black Robes.

The Black Robes, who stink worse than a bear coming out of its winter sleep, whose skin is so pale that they look sickly even when sun lingers, and who speak a language that is as awful as their smell. The Black Robes who want to force a new God on these people. A God who will not accept any of the other Gods because his ego is so large. Who has rules that the Black Robes speak but do not live. The Black Robes who bring sickness and bad medicine from across the great water on their big boats but who cannot even paddle a canoe in the gentlest parts of the great river. Who want to give that river the name of one of their sainted medicine man from a world they come from, a name that has nothing to do with this river or with this world. Who do not even know the river but think that they can give it a name of their own.

They are delicious, these Black Robes.

They lie to themselves more beautifully than any I have seen before this.

But even these self-righteous creatures I am not supposed to take pleasure in killing.

The Black Robes mostly avoid Moccasin Face. The Black Robes mostly avoid me. Something in them sees what I am and they know without knowing to keep their distance from me though that often does not do them any good in the end.

Most of the women avoid Moccasin Face too. 

His face is too ugly and too frightening and perhaps they too see in his eyes that I would enjoy hurting them if given the chance to do so.

I am happy to be left alone to my own musings, and to my own special pleasures. Though I would love to catch one of these Black Robes alone.

The Wyandot have grown so sick with these Black Robes’ disease that their people are fewer now than Moccasin Face’s, even though they were once a much larger Nation than Moccasin Face’s tribe ever was.

That is the disappointing thing that the Black Robes have done. 

They have killed more Wyandot than even I could ever kill.

But many of his people, particularly the women and children have also taken to the Black Robes’ teachings and have been felled by their bad Medicine. They kneel and pray before this new tortured God even as they die from the Black Robe demons and their wonderfully terrible diseases.

And the Black Robes call the Wyandot, their allies, Huron. An insult. Their insult their own allies.

I would like to kill all the Black Robes if I could, but they are so deliciously murderous and duplicitous in their own right that it seems almost a shame to kill them at all.

I would like to kill all the pale devils who come across the Great Water, but they bring their Bad Medicine and their selfish insecure God with them and I so enjoy watching them destroy even the souls of the people that they claim that they wish to save. I like watching the destruction that they bring. I would like to poke a hole in their guts and slowly pull their entrails out while boiling their lower bodies and their scrotums in scalding water or to hang them upside down over a small slow fire to bake the inside of their heads ever so slowly just to watching them scream and denounce their jealous God. But they do such delicious harm, and the Elders of his Council have spoken, and said that he should not kill them or do things to them until they give him good reason.

The pale two legs’ Algonquin guides call Moccasin Face’s people Man-eaters. The Algonquins themselves have been known to eat parts of men in order to send them into the next world without their best and strongest parts. The Algonquin live in dirt huts like Beavers and run away from his people rather than stand and fight. The Algonquin help the pasty skinned two legs that have crossed great waters to claim the land and banish old Gods and who understand nothing of this world yet think that they can tell those already here how to live and put names on things that they do do know.

Moccasin Face has killed many Algonquin. 

He has eaten parts of their bodies.

I have eaten parts of their bodies.

The Algonquin are far stronger and braver than the Black Robes who look down on even them.

Moccasin Face once caught a white skinned soldier in the woods. The soldier tried to aim his thunder stick at Moccasin Face, but it was raining, and they seem only able to call upon the thunder when the sky is not using it. I could see the fear in the soldier’s eyes even though he was supposed to be one of their warriors. I cut thin strips off of the soles of his feet and he screamed like a frightened rabbit. I cut a hole in his belly and dragged some of his innards out. He screamed and cried and he begged Moccasin Face. I could not understand his words but I knew the begging for what it was. Then Moccasin Face took his knife and dug holes in both sides of the soldier’s mouth, and he pried out his teeth out through the holes in the man’s cheeks one by one. The soldier cried in ways that even children would not cry and I thought if this is what the white skinned warriors are, then the Black Robes, who will not even fight, must be weaker than anyone can even imagine. The soldier soiled himself and vomited and urinated all over the insides of his clothes. The smell was a wonderful thing. Crows came along and I let them have their way with him after cutting out his tongue and feeding it to the crows so that he could not scream out loud anymore. His screams were growing tiresome even for me.

But he broke so very deeply and quivered with so much fear and weakness that it filled me with bliss.

I did not eat any part of him.

I was so deeply thankful for his cowardice and his weakness but I feared having it inside Moccasin Face’s body, for fear that that weakness might enter me. 

I decided then and there that these creatures with skin the colour of the underbelly of a toad and their hairy faces were the very best ones to kill. I hope that many more of them will come over the great water and bring their weakness and their one delusional God with them.

Oh, it would please me so.

I was beginning to despair that these stoic people in Moccasin Face’s world would never give me the kind of pleasure that I most deeply desired.

These creatures walk and move like the other two legs. They resemble the other two legs except for their pale skin and all the hair on their faces and bodies. But they are something much better. They are something far more precious than those that were already here, because they have such great delusions and so little courage. They fill me with happiness with the weak ways that they die and the diseases and destruction that they leave behind them.

Even the Wyandot, even the dirt dwelling Algonquin have showed more strength, more dignity and more courage than these hairy, sickly pale, soft and cowardly creatures.

I have resolved that the next time that Moccasin Face catches one of these creatures I will cut him open little by little, to try to keep him alive for as long as possible so that I can see if their insides work in the same way that other two legs do. 

Perhaps they are not even of the same world. 

Perhaps they do not work in the same way at all.

I do not know if cutting them open will reveal their secrets.

It probably will not.

It can be very tricky to tell the insides of one thing from another sometimes.

But at the very least I will cause the next one as much pain as possible before killing them.

That is one thing that I enjoy even more than the killing.

That is the one thing that I have made Moccasin Face better at even than killing. 

He will cause them such incredible pain.

He will cause them such great and truly terrible pain.

And I will enjoy every delicious moment of it.

I will enjoy that next time the most, I think.

I think that I will enjoy the next one more than any of the others so far.

Especially if the next one is one of the wonderful pale skins.

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[massivemindz]

MassiveMindz: Collateral Damage

I’ve grown tired of this, Giving myself to anyone who has ever needed me, Giving pieces of myself to help make them whole again after they’ve been broken, Stripping myself of the very things that make me beautiful, Just to ensure they still are able to find beauty in the world when it is unkind to them, All while never taking anything from anyone, Only later, to be taken advantage of, I’ve always loved every one that I encounter . . . For the most part,   I’ve always given them one-hundred percent of myself, Given them my time, My affection, My love, My loyalty, My honesty, & my friendship, & I always will when it comes to those I love, But there’s something we must talk about, Something that’s been bothering me, I’ve always made a vow to each of you that if things go sour between us, We’d still remain sweet to one another, & I’m not certain what changed, But here we are, Different people, With two very different interpretations of what happened, You, keeper of secrets and every answer I’ve ever needed, & I, keeper of a love I thought was shared between the two of us, A love I once hoped would grow to be more then what it was, & I never once asked anything of you, I can count on one hand how many times I’ve interrupted your life with my problems, I’ve never wanted anything from you but communication, & I’ve never needed anything but honesty, I have never been one to concern myself with things I didn't want or need, But . . . this has become too much for me, I’ve become silent in the day time, Quiet in the afternoon, & I find myself restless in the evening, I don’t sleep much anymore, & when I do, it is not because I am tired, I’ve managed to teach sleep how to keep me, instead of my thoughts, My mind wanders throughout the day, & somehow, no matter what I am doing, You find your way into my mind, You walk around aimlessly in my head, You hold my thoughts hostage, With no intention of ever taking the time to notice, The bruises left behind from your feet, The footprints you’ve left behind, The ones that have managed to somehow find their way to my heart, The heart that you have trampled on, A heart that no longer beats the same, A heart that has been damaged, Time and time again, A heart that I was forced to mend, Time and time again, Using the names of those who hurt me, Not just as stitch, but also reminder, A reminder of the pain inflicted upon me, So that it may never happen again, But time and time again . . . With different people, and at different points in my life, You’ve all managed one way or another to fool me, I figure, if you all were the ones to break my heart, Then only you would be able to heal it, As time has passed on, As I have forgiven each and every one of you, Slowly . . . & one at a time, The parts of my heart I sealed with their very existence, They’ve managed to remove themselves, After each chapter of my life, Each moment, Each memory, As they have turned from today into tomorrow, Yesterday has stolen their place, and their names have long since been forgotten, They’re distant memories, I revisit from time to time, When I need reminding, Of how far I have come, But you still so fresh and new, You torment me, You dangle the future I thought we could have in front of me, Like candy for children, Or treats to an animal, Like gifts to a loved one, You taunt me, Mock my attempts of loving you, You treat me like I mean nothing to you, Ignore me as if I am a stranger and you owe me nothing, Hurt me as if I have never been kind to you, & never once have you stopped to notice how this has affected me, Do you not understand what you mean to me? Maybe I don’t understand what I mean to you, So what exactly am I supposed to do? Love is not something solely for one person, Unless we’re speaking in regard to confidence, & I’m not certain I even know what that means anymore, Because a person who is confident wouldn’t allow this to happen, Wouldn’t allow people to treat them the way I have allowed you to treat me, & all for nothing, I’ve taken abuse time and time again, But I never seem to learn my lesson, I promise you . . . I am not a glutton for punishment, I am simply a foolish dreamer, A hopeless romantic, & I am a person who thrives on the possibilities of something, Something meaningful, Precious, Kind, Magical, Something amazing, Something safe, I spend each day waiting, Wanting, Anticipating for love to find me, But much like those I’ve stumbled upon, I have yet to find myself, Every time I feel I’ve found myself, I find myself . . . In terrible situations, Helping those who never intend to return the favor, Loving those who know nothing of love’s meaning, & caring for those, who never have any intention of caring for me . . . How foolish can you be? I ask myself . . . I often wonder if there’s something wrong with me, Am I the last human being left standing? Am I the last genuine thing the world has to offer? Am I the only one who doesn’t wish to harm anyone or anything? Am I the only one who never intends to hurt people? The only person captivated by ambition, The only person mesmerized by the strength of others, The only individual who has a strong disliking for betrayal, A disliking of dishonesty, A disliking for the process of rebuilding yourself only to be broken again, Am I the only one inspired by the success of my friends and family, & even those I don’t know, The only person chasing fairytale dreams, The only one who wishes to see others succeed, regardless of how they’ve treated me, I want the very best for everybody I encounter, I’ve always wanted to love others, Friends, Family, Acquaintances, I gave each and every one of you a chance, Time and time again, & I’ve always ended up, Disappointed, Left empty-handed, Broken, Afraid to love, & to trust others, Frightened by the very same possibilities I use to find so invigorating, I loved each and every one of you, Regardless of your imperfections, Your shortcomings, Your flaws, & through your lack of self-esteem, Your confidence, I’ve never lied to any of you, I’ve always been honest, Forthcoming, I’ve always been genuine to each of you, I’ve always somehow managed to see the good in all of you, Even when you gave me no reason to find something in you, You hadn’t yet found within yourself, Here I am . . .   Time and time again, Left hurting, Discouraged, Devastated, I’ve helped all of you, in one way or another, Giving you pieces of myself that I knew would never be returned to me, I’ve helped and reconstructed enough people to claim a profession in medicine, But who has been around to help me? Why does this always happen to me? Am I too kind? Too honest, Too loving, Too hopeful, I hate when I begin to feel like this, In each season I find myself on Cloud 9, & in the next . . .   Before I can even prepare for what’s coming, I am shot out of the sky, By bullets I never saw coming, By people I never expect to hurt me, By friends I never expect to harm me, By relationships I never thought would end, By dreams that have been shattered into nightmares, I never expect for any of this to happen, I never intend to put myself through this, Time and time again, I’ve always wanted the best for everyone else, But I guess I’ve never taken time to want it enough for myself, not to let this happen, They say all is fair in love and war, & I am merely . . .

Collateral Damage.

[julesdelorme]

faller

Chapter 4

Moccasin Face

I have floated through time and from body to body for as long as there has been time and the bodies from which to count that time. I have seen and done many things through many different eyes and always I am able to pass for one of them.

I know the exquisite silence of death. 

I have grown fond of death. Perhaps because I can never truly know death. Or perhaps because I love the empty and dark silence that always follows death.

I take joy in bringing death to others.

I have lost count of how many deaths that I have brought. 

It has been so many. 

I like to watch the life slipping from behind their eyes and I like to watch their spirits leave the flesh behind to wander lost and suffering for the rest of what it is that they have come to call time.

In this body I have killed over a hundred.

I have been told by some that it is one hundred and twenty three. And by others that it is a little as one hundred and nine. Still others have said that it might be more than one hundred and fifty.

I have lost count. 

The exact number does not matter to me. 

Numbers seem to matter very much to them. But I do not care.

Though there have been moments where I have tried to count how many lives I have taken in each body so that I know if it is more or less than in the past. I have always grown tired of trying to count.

I do not think that this body has killed over one hundred and fifty.

Most were men. Some were women and children.

I have no particular care about who it is that I kill. One bag of meat is pretty much like the other. It is the exquisite silence of death that I long for and that I kill for and in my opinion they all make too much noise. 

His enemies calls this body Two Stick because he wields a war club in each hand during battle.

The people of his village call him Moccasin Face because his face resembles a worn out moccasin that has been stitched together again and again.

They do not call him that to his face. 

But I have heard them say it just the same.

I do not care what any of them call him. Just so long as he is permitted to kill.

That is all that I have ever cared about.

Before there were these two leg creatures I have been here.

There were other creatures then. But the two legs are the best to be and to kill because they are aware of death and afraid of death and their minds are filled with hatred and fear and ridiculous reasons to kill that have nothing to do with any real need to kill at all and they are best to kill because they make so much more noise than any of the other living things.

It is fun to be Moccasin Face.

There is so much talk to hear about the side that he belongs to and the ones that he does not belong to, about his tribe against that tribe, about good people and bad people. But in the end it always comes down to yet another reason for the killing and that brings me such pleasure. I do not care about the reasons, but the lies that hide behind them make these two legs so much more interesting and so much more fun than other creatures. 

They are happy to have him use his war clubs on their enemies. 

They are even happy that he brings their enemies great pain. 

They just do not want to know that he enjoys it. 

They do not want to know that I enjoy it.

They just do not want to know or to believe how very much that I enjoy the killing.

They want him to enjoy the fight. They want him to enjoy the battle.

They would not be pleased to realize that we enjoy the killing.

That would shatter their carefully constructed illusions. And there is no greater sin that you can commit among these two legs than to rupture their layers of crusted lies.

They would not even like to know how much pleasure I take in the killing of the Black Robes.

The Black Robes, who stink worse than a bear coming out of its winter sleep, whose skin is so pale that they look sickly even when sun lingers, and who speak a language that is as awful as their smell. The Black Robes who want to force a new God on these people. A God who will not accept any of the other Gods because his ego is so large. Who has rules the the Black Robes speak but do not live. The Black Robes who bring sickness and bad medicine from across the great water on their big boats but who cannot even paddle a canoe in the gentlest parts of the great river. Who want to give that river the name of one of their sainted medicine man from a world they come from, a name that has nothing to do with this river or with this world. Who do not even know the river but think that they can give it a name of their own.

They are delicious, these Black Robes.

They lie to themselves more beautifully than any I have seen before this.

But even these self righteous creatures I am not supposed to take pleasure in killing.

The Black Robes mostly avoid Moccasin Face. The Black Robes mostly avoid me. Something in them sees what I am and they know without knowing to keep their distance from me though that often does not do them no good in the end.

Most of the women avoid Moccasin Face too. 

His face is too ugly and too frightening and perhaps they too see in his eyes that I would enjoy hurting them if given the chance to do so.

I am happy to be left alone to my own musings, and to my own special pleasures.

The Wyandot have grown so sick with the Black Robes’ disease that their people are fewer now than his, even though they were once a much larger Nation than Moccasin Face’s tribe ever was.

That is the disappointing thing that the Black Robes have done. 

They have killed more Wyandot than even I could ever kill.

But many of his people, particularly the women and children have also taken to the Black Robes’ teachings and have been felled by their bad Medicine. They kneel and pray before this new tortured God even as they die from the Black Robe demons and their wonderfully terrible diseases.

And the Black Robes call the Wyandot, their allies, Huron. An insult. Their insult their own allies.

I would like to kill all the Black Robes if I could, but they are so deliciously murderous and duplicitous in their own right that it seems almost a shame to kill them at all.

I would like to kill all the pale devils who come across the Great Water, but they bring their Bad Medicine and their selfish insecure God with them and I so enjoy watching them destroy even the souls of the people that they claim that they wish to save. I like watching the destruction that they bring. I would like to poke a hole in their guts and slowly pull their entrails out while boiling their lower bodies and their scrotums in scalding water or to hang them upside down over a small slow fire to bake the inside of their heads ever so slowly just to watching them scream and denounce their jealous God. But they do such delicious harm, and the Elders of his Council have spoken, and said that he should not kill them or do things to them until they give him good reason.

The pale two legs’ Algonquin guides call Moccasin Face’s people Maneaters. The Algonquins themselves have been known to eat parts of men in order to send them into the next world without their best and strongest parts. The Algonquin live in dirt huts like Beavers and run away from his people rather than stand and fight. The Algonquin help the pasty skinned two legs that have crossed great waters to claim the land and banish old Gods and who understand nothing of this world yet think that they can tell those already here how to live and put names on things that they do do know.

Moccasin Face has killed many Algonquin. 

He has eaten parts of their bodies.

I have eaten parts of their bodies.

The Algonquin are far stronger and braver than the Black Robes who look down on even them.

Moccasin Face once caught a white skinned soldier in the woods. The soldier tried to aim his thunder stick at Moccasin Face, but it was raining, and they seem only able to call upon the thunder when the sky is not using it. I could see the fear in the soldier’s eyes even though he was supposed to be one of their warriors. I cut thin strips off of the soles of his feet and he screamed like a frightened rabbit. I cut a hole in his belly and dragged some of his innards out. He screamed and cried and he begged Moccasin Face. I could not understand his words but I knew the begging for what it was. Then Moccasin Face took his knife and dug holes in both sides of the soldier’s mouth, and he pried out his teeth out through the holes in the man’s cheeks one by one. The soldier cried in ways that even children would not cry and I thought if this is what the white skinned warriors are, then the Black Robes, who will not even fight, must be weaker than anyone can even imagine. The soldier soiled himself and vomited and urinated all over the insides of his clothes. The smell was a wonderful thing. Crows came along and I let them have their way with him after cutting out his tongue and feeding it to the crows so that he could not scream out loud anymore. His screams were growing tiresome even for me.

But he broke so very deeply and quivered with so much fear and weakness that it filled me with bliss.

I did not eat any part of him.

I was so deeply thankful for his cowardice and his weakness but I feared having it inside Moccasin Face’s body, for fear that that weakness might enter me. 

I decided then and there that these creatures with skin the colour of the underbelly of a toad and their hairy faces were the very best ones to kill. I hope that many more of them would come over the great water and bring their weakness and their one delusional God with them.

O, it would please me so.

I was beginning to despair that these stoic people in Moccasin Face’s world would never give me the kind of pleasure that I most deeply desired.

These creatures walk and move like the other two legs. They resemble the other two legs except for their pale skin and all the hair on their faces and bodies. But they are something much better. They are something far more precious than those that were already here, because they have such great delusions and so little courage. They fill me with happiness with the weak ways that they die and the diseases and destruction that they leave behind them.

Even the Wyandot, even the dirt dwelling Algonquin have showed more strength, more dignity and more courage than these hairy, sickly pale, soft and cowardly creatures.

I have resolved that the next time that Moccasin Face catches one of these creatures I will cut him open little by little, to try to keep him alive for as long as possible so that I can see if their insides work in the same way that other two legs do. 

Perhaps they are not even of the same world. 

Perhaps they do not work in the same way at all.

I do not know if cutting them open will reveal their secrets.

It probably will not.

It can be very tricky to tell the insides of one thing from another sometimes.

But at the very least I will cause the next one as much pain as possible before killing them.

That is one thing that I enjoy even more than the killing.

That is the one thing that I have made Moccasin Face better at even than killing. 

He will cause them such incredible pain.

He will cause them such great and truly terrible pain.

And I will enjoy every delicious moment of it.

I will enjoy that next time the most, I think.

I think that I will enjoy the next one more than any of the others so far.

Especially if the next one has that wonderful pale skin.

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#fiction #writing #writers #authors #author #novels #novelnovels #newnovels #julesdelorme #julesfdelorme #faller #delormewriting #scarboroughwritersfightclub #story #bear #native #nativestories #metis #metisstories

[julesdelorme]

faller

Chapter 4

Moccasin Face

I have floated through time and from body to body for as long as there has been time and the bodies from which to count that time. I have seen and done many things through many different eyes and always I am able to pass for one of them.

I know the exquisite silence of death. 

I have grown fond of death. Perhaps because I can never truly know death. Or perhaps because I love the empty and dark silence that always follows death.

I take joy in bringing death to others.

I have lost count of how many deaths that I have brought. 

It has been so many. 

I like to watch the life slipping from behind their eyes and I like to watch their spirits leave the flesh behind to wander lost and suffering for the rest of what it is that they have come to call time.

In this body I have killed over a hundred.

I have been told by some that it is one hundred and twenty three. And by others that it is a little as one hundred and nine. Still others have said that it might be more than one hundred and fifty.

I have lost count. 

The exact number does not matter to me. 

Numbers seem to matter very much to them. But I do not care.

Though there have been moments where I have tried to count how many lives I have taken in each body so that I know if it is more or less than in the past. I have always grown tired of trying to count.

I do not think that this body has killed over one hundred and fifty.

Most were men. Some were women and children.

I have no particular care about who it is that I kill. One bag of meat is pretty much like the other. It is the exquisite silence of death that I long for and that I kill for and in my opinion they all make too much noise. 

His enemies calls this body Two Stick because he wields a war club in each hand during battle.

The people of his village call him Moccasin Face because his face resembles a worn out moccasin that has been stitched together again and again.

They do not call him that to his face. 

But I have heard them say it just the same.

I do not care what any of them call him. Just so long as he is permitted to kill.

That is all that I have ever cared about.

Before there were these two leg creatures I have been here.

There were other creatures then. But the two legs are the best to be and to kill because they are aware of death and afraid of death and their minds are filled with hatred and fear and ridiculous reasons to kill that have nothing to do with any real need to kill at all and they are best to kill because they make so much more noise than any of the other living things.

It is fun to be Moccasin Face.

There is so much talk to hear about the side that he belongs to and the ones that he does not belong to, about his tribe against that tribe, about good people and bad people. But in the end it always comes down to yet another reason for the killing and that brings me such pleasure. I do not care about the reasons, but the lies that hide behind them make these two legs so much more interesting and so much more fun than other creatures. 

They are happy to have him use his war clubs on their enemies. 

They are even happy that he brings their enemies great pain. 

They just do not want to know that he enjoys it. 

They do not want to know that I enjoy it.

They just do not want to know or to believe how very much that I enjoy the killing.

They want him to enjoy the fight. They want him to enjoy the battle.

They would not be pleased to realize that we enjoy the killing.

That would shatter their carefully constructed illusions. And there is no greater sin that you can commit among these two legs than to rupture their layers of crusted lies.

They would not even like to know how much pleasure I take in the killing of the Black Robes.

The Black Robes, who stink worse than a bear coming out of its winter sleep, whose skin is so pale that they look sickly even when sun lingers, and who speak a language that is as awful as their smell. The Black Robes who want to force a new God on these people. A God who will not accept any of the other Gods because his ego is so large. Who has rules the the Black Robes speak but do not live. The Black Robes who bring sickness and bad medicine from across the great water on their big boats but who cannot even paddle a canoe in the gentlest parts of the great river. Who want to give that river the name of one of their sainted medicine man from a world they come from, a name that has nothing to do with this river or with this world. Who do not even know the river but think that they can give it a name of their own.

They are delicious, these Black Robes.

They lie to themselves more beautifully than any I have seen before this.

But even these self righteous creatures I am not supposed to take pleasure in killing.

The Black Robes mostly avoid Moccasin Face. The Black Robes mostly avoid me. Something in them sees what I am and they know without knowing to keep their distance from me though that often does not do them no good in the end.

Most of the women avoid Moccasin Face too. 

His face is too ugly and too frightening and perhaps they too see in his eyes that I would enjoy hurting them if given the chance to do so.

I am happy to be left alone to my own musings, and to my own special pleasures.

The Wyandot have grown so sick with the Black Robes’ disease that their people are fewer now than his, even though they were once a much larger Nation than Moccasin Face’s tribe ever was.

That is the disappointing thing that the Black Robes have done. 

They have killed more Wyandot than even I could ever kill.

But many of his people, particularly the women and children have also taken to the Black Robes’ teachings and have been felled by their bad Medicine. They kneel and pray before this new tortured God even as they die from the Black Robe demons and their wonderfully terrible diseases.

And the Black Robes call the Wyandot, their allies, Huron. An insult. Their insult their own allies.

I would like to kill all the Black Robes if I could, but they are so deliciously murderous and duplicitous in their own right that it seems almost a shame to kill them at all.

I would like to kill all the pale devils who come across the Great Water, but they bring their Bad Medicine and their selfish insecure God with them and I so enjoy watching them destroy even the souls of the people that they claim that they wish to save. I like watching the destruction that they bring. I would like to poke a hole in their guts and slowly pull their entrails out while boiling their lower bodies and their scrotums in scalding water or to hang them upside down over a small slow fire to bake the inside of their heads ever so slowly just to watching them scream and denounce their jealous God. But they do such delicious harm, and the Elders of his Council have spoken, and said that he should not kill them or do things to them until they give him good reason.

The pale two legs’ Algonquin guides call Moccasin Face’s people Maneaters. The Algonquins themselves have been known to eat parts of men in order to send them into the next world without their best and strongest parts. The Algonquin live in dirt huts like Beavers and run away from his people rather than stand and fight. The Algonquin help the pasty skinned two legs that have crossed great waters to claim the land and banish old Gods and who understand nothing of this world yet think that they can tell those already here how to live and put names on things that they do do know.

Moccasin Face has killed many Algonquin. 

He has eaten parts of their bodies.

I have eaten parts of their bodies.

The Algonquin are far stronger and braver than the Black Robes who look down on even them.

Moccasin Face once caught a white skinned soldier in the woods. The soldier tried to aim his thunder stick at Moccasin Face, but it was raining, and they seem only able to call upon the thunder when the sky is not using it. I could see the fear in the soldier’s eyes even though he was supposed to be one of their warriors. I cut thin strips off of the soles of his feet and he screamed like a frightened rabbit. I cut a hole in his belly and dragged some of his innards out. He screamed and cried and he begged Moccasin Face. I could not understand his words but I knew the begging for what it was. Then Moccasin Face took his knife and dug holes in both sides of the soldier’s mouth, and he pried out his teeth out through the holes in the man’s cheeks one by one. The soldier cried in ways that even children would not cry and I thought if this is what the white skinned warriors are, then the Black Robes, who will not even fight, must be weaker than anyone can even imagine. The soldier soiled himself and vomited and urinated all over the insides of his clothes. The smell was a wonderful thing. Crows came along and I let them have their way with him after cutting out his tongue and feeding it to the crows so that he could not scream out loud anymore. His screams were growing tiresome even for me.

But he broke so very deeply and quivered with so much fear and weakness that it filled me with bliss.

I did not eat any part of him.

I was so deeply thankful for his cowardice and his weakness but I feared having it inside Moccasin Face’s body, for fear that that weakness might enter me. 

I decided then and there that these creatures with skin the colour of the underbelly of a toad and their hairy faces were the very best ones to kill. I hope that many more of them would come over the great water and bring their weakness and their one delusional God with them.

O, it would please me so.

I was beginning to despair that these stoic people in Moccasin Face’s world would never give me the kind of pleasure that I most deeply desired.

These creatures walk and move like the other two legs. They resemble the other two legs except for their pale skin and all the hair on their faces and bodies. But they are something much better. They are something far more precious than those that were already here, because they have such great delusions and so little courage. They fill me with happiness with the weak ways that they die and the diseases and destruction that they leave behind them.

Even the Wyandot, even the dirt dwelling Algonquin have showed more strength, more dignity and more courage than these hairy, sickly pale, soft and cowardly creatures.

I have resolved that the next time that Moccasin Face catches one of these creatures I will cut him open little by little, to try to keep him alive for as long as possible so that I can see if their insides work in the same way that other two legs do. 

Perhaps they are not even of the same world. 

Perhaps they do not work in the same way at all.

I do not know if cutting them open will reveal their secrets.

It probably will not.

It can be very tricky to tell the insides of one thing from another sometimes.

But at the very least I will cause the next one as much pain as possible before killing them.

That is one thing that I enjoy even more than the killing.

That is the one thing that I have made Moccasin Face better at even than killing. 

He will cause them such incredible pain.

He will cause them such great and truly terrible pain.

And I will enjoy every delicious moment of it.

I will enjoy that next time the most, I think.

I think that I will enjoy the next one more than any of the others so far.

Especially if the next one has that wonderful pale skin.

#fiction #writing #writers #authors #author #novels #novelnovels #newnovels #julesdelorme #julesfdelorme #faller #delormewriting #scarboroughwritersfightclub #story #bear #native #nativestories #metis #metisstories

[julesdelorme]

faller

Chapter 4

Moccasin Face

I have floated through time and from body to body for as long as there has been time and the bodies from which to count that time. I have seen and done many things through many different eyes and always I am able to pass for one of them.

I know the exquisite silence of death. 

I have grown fond of death. Perhaps because I can never truly know death. Or perhaps because I love the empty and dark silence that always follows death.

I take joy in bringing death to others.

I have lost count of how many deaths that I have brought. 

It has been so many. 

I like to watch the life slipping from behind their eyes and I like to watch their spirits leave the flesh behind to wander lost and suffering for the rest of what it is that they have come to call time.

In this body I have killed over a hundred.

I have been told by some that it is one hundred and twenty three. And by others that it is a little as one hundred and nine. Still others have said that it might be more than one hundred and fifty.

I have lost count. 

The exact number does not matter to me. 

Numbers seem to matter very much to them. But I do not care.

Though there have been moments where I have tried to count how many lives I have taken in each body so that I know if it is more or less than in the past. I have always grown tired of trying to count.

I do not think that this body has killed over one hundred and fifty.

Most were men. Some were women and children.

I have no particular care about who it is that I kill. One bag of meat is pretty much like the other. It is the exquisite silence of death that I long for and that I kill for and in my opinion they all make too much noise. 

His enemies calls this body Two Stick because he wields a war club in each hand during battle.

The people of his village call him Moccasin Face because his face resembles a worn out moccasin that has been stitched together again and again.

They do not call him that to his face. 

But I have heard them say it just the same.

I do not care what any of them call him. Just so long as he is permitted to kill.

That is all that I have ever cared about.

Before there were these two leg creatures I have been here.

There were other creatures then. But the two legs are the best to be and to kill because they are aware of death and afraid of death and their minds are filled with hatred and fear and ridiculous reasons to kill that have nothing to do with any real need to kill at all and they are best to kill because they make so much more noise than any of the other living things.

It is fun to be Moccasin Face.

There is so much talk to hear about the side that he belongs to and the ones that he does not belong to, about his tribe against that tribe, about good people and bad people. But in the end it always comes down to yet another reason for the killing and that brings me such pleasure. I do not care about the reasons, but the lies that hide behind them make these two legs so much more interesting and so much more fun than other creatures. 

They are happy to have him use his war clubs on their enemies. 

They are even happy that he brings their enemies great pain. 

They just do not want to know that he enjoys it. 

They do not want to know that I enjoy it.

They just do not want to know or to believe how very much that I enjoy the killing.

They want him to enjoy the fight. They want him to enjoy the battle.

They would not be pleased to realize that we enjoy the killing.

That would shatter their carefully constructed illusions. And there is no greater sin that you can commit among these two legs than to rupture their layers of crusted lies.

They would not even like to know how much pleasure I take in the killing of the Black Robes.

The Black Robes, who stink worse than a bear coming out of its winter sleep, whose skin is so pale that they look sickly even when sun lingers, and who speak a language that is as awful as their smell. The Black Robes who want to force a new God on these people. A God who will not accept any of the other Gods because his ego is so large. Who has rules the the Black Robes speak but do not live. The Black Robes who bring sickness and bad medicine from across the great water on their big boats but who cannot even paddle a canoe in the gentlest parts of the great river. Who want to give that river the name of one of their sainted medicine man from a world they come from, a name that has nothing to do with this river or with this world. Who do not even know the river but think that they can give it a name of their own.

They are delicious, these Black Robes.

They lie to themselves more beautifully than any I have seen before this.

But even these self righteous creatures I am not supposed to take pleasure in killing.

The Black Robes mostly avoid Moccasin Face. The Black Robes mostly avoid me. Something in them sees what I am and they know without knowing to keep their distance from me though that often does not do them no good in the end.

Most of the women avoid Moccasin Face too. 

His face is too ugly and too frightening and perhaps they too see in his eyes that I would enjoy hurting them if given the chance to do so.

I am happy to be left alone to my own musings, and to my own special pleasures.

The Wyandot have grown so sick with the Black Robes’ disease that their people are fewer now than his, even though they were once a much larger Nation than Moccasin Face’s tribe ever was.

That is the disappointing thing that the Black Robes have done. 

They have killed more Wyandot than even I could ever kill.

But many of his people, particularly the women and children have also taken to the Black Robes’ teachings and have been felled by their bad Medicine. They kneel and pray before this new tortured God even as they die from the Black Robe demons and their wonderfully terrible diseases.

And the Black Robes call the Wyandot, their allies, Huron. An insult. Their insult their own allies.

I would like to kill all the Black Robes if I could, but they are so deliciously murderous and duplicitous in their own right that it seems almost a shame to kill them at all.

I would like to kill all the pale devils who come across the Great Water, but they bring their Bad Medicine and their selfish insecure God with them and I so enjoy watching them destroy even the souls of the people that they claim that they wish to save. I like watching the destruction that they bring. I would like to poke a hole in their guts and slowly pull their entrails out while boiling their lower bodies and their scrotums in scalding water or to hang them upside down over a small slow fire to bake the inside of their heads ever so slowly just to watching them scream and denounce their jealous God. But they do such delicious harm, and the Elders of his Council have spoken, and said that he should not kill them or do things to them until they give him good reason.

The pale two legs’ Algonquin guides call Moccasin Face’s people Maneaters. The Algonquins themselves have been known to eat parts of men in order to send them into the next world without their best and strongest parts. The Algonquin live in dirt huts like Beavers and run away from his people rather than stand and fight. The Algonquin help the pasty skinned two legs that have crossed great waters to claim the land and banish old Gods and who understand nothing of this world yet think that they can tell those already here how to live and put names on things that they do do know.

Moccasin Face has killed many Algonquin. 

He has eaten parts of their bodies.

I have eaten parts of their bodies.

The Algonquin are far stronger and braver than the Black Robes who look down on even them.

Moccasin Face once caught a white skinned soldier in the woods. The soldier tried to aim his thunder stick at Moccasin Face, but it was raining, and they seem only able to call upon the thunder when the sky is not using it. I could see the fear in the soldier’s eyes even though he was supposed to be one of their warriors. I cut thin strips off of the soles of his feet and he screamed like a frightened rabbit. I cut a hole in his belly and dragged some of his innards out. He screamed and cried and he begged Moccasin Face. I could not understand his words but I knew the begging for what it was. Then Moccasin Face took his knife and dug holes in both sides of the soldier’s mouth, and he pried out his teeth out through the holes in the man’s cheeks one by one. The soldier cried in ways that even children would not cry and I thought if this is what the white skinned warriors are, then the Black Robes, who will not even fight, must be weaker than anyone can even imagine. The soldier soiled himself and vomited and urinated all over the insides of his clothes. The smell was a wonderful thing. Crows came along and I let them have their way with him after cutting out his tongue and feeding it to the crows so that he could not scream out loud anymore. His screams were growing tiresome even for me.

But he broke so very deeply and quivered with so much fear and weakness that it filled me with bliss.

I did not eat any part of him.

I was so deeply thankful for his cowardice and his weakness but I feared having it inside Moccasin Face’s body, for fear that that weakness might enter me. 

I decided then and there that these creatures with skin the colour of the underbelly of a toad and their hairy faces were the very best ones to kill. I hope that many more of them would come over the great water and bring their weakness and their one delusional God with them.

O, it would please me so.

I was beginning to despair that these stoic people in Moccasin Face’s world would never give me the kind of pleasure that I most deeply desired.

These creatures walk and move like the other two legs. They resemble the other two legs except for their pale skin and all the hair on their faces and bodies. But they are something much better. They are something far more precious than those that were already here, because they have such great delusions and so little courage. They fill me with happiness with the weak ways that they die and the diseases and destruction that they leave behind them.

Even the Wyandot, even the dirt dwelling Algonquin have showed more strength, more dignity and more courage than these hairy, sickly pale, soft and cowardly creatures.

I have resolved that the next time that Moccasin Face catches one of these creatures I will cut him open little by little, to try to keep him alive for as long as possible so that I can see if their insides work in the same way that other two legs do. 

Perhaps they are not even of the same world. 

Perhaps they do not work in the same way at all.

I do not know if cutting them open will reveal their secrets.

It probably will not.

It can be very tricky to tell the insides of one thing from another sometimes.

But at the very least I will cause the next one as much pain as possible before killing them.

That is one thing that I enjoy even more than the killing.

That is the one thing that I have made Moccasin Face better at even than killing. 

He will cause them such incredible pain.

He will cause them such great and truly terrible pain.

And I will enjoy every delicious moment of it.

I will enjoy that next time the most, I think.

I think that I will enjoy the next one more than any of the others so far.

Especially if the next one has that wonderful pale skin.

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[julesdelorme]

faller

Chapter 4

Moccasin Face

I have floated through time and from body to body for as long as there has been time and the bodies from which to count that time. I have seen and done many things through many different eyes and always I am able to pass for one of them.

I know the exquisite silence of death. 

I have grown fond of death. Perhaps because I can never truly know death. Or perhaps because I love the empty and dark silence that always follows death.

I take joy in bringing death to others.

I have lost count of how many deaths that I have brought. 

It has been so many. 

I like to watch the life slipping from behind their eyes and I like to watch their spirits leave the flesh behind to wander lost and suffering for the rest of what it is that they have come to call time.

In this body I have killed over a hundred.

I have been told by some that it is one hundred and twenty three. And by others that it is a little as one hundred and nine. Still others have said that it might be more than one hundred and fifty.

I have lost count. 

The exact number does not matter to me. 

Numbers seem to matter very much to them. But I do not care.

Though there have been moments where I have tried to count how many lives I have taken in each body so that I know if it is more or less than in the past. I have always grown tired of trying to count.

I do not think that this body has killed over one hundred and fifty.

Most were men. Some were women and children.

I have no particular care about who it is that I kill. One bag of meat is pretty much like the other. It is the exquisite silence of death that I long for and that I kill for and in my opinion they all make too much noise. 

His enemies calls this body Two Stick because he wields a war club in each hand during battle.

The people of his village call him Moccasin Face because his face resembles a worn out moccasin that has been stitched together again and again.

They do not call him that to his face. 

But I have heard them say it just the same.

I do not care what any of them call him. Just so long as he is permitted to kill.

That is all that I have ever cared about.

Before there were these two leg creatures I have been here.

There were other creatures then. But the two legs are the best to be and to kill because they are aware of death and afraid of death and their minds are filled with hatred and fear and ridiculous reasons to kill that have nothing to do with any real need to kill at all and they are best to kill because they make so much more noise than any of the other living things.

It is fun to be Moccasin Face.

There is so much talk to hear about the side that he belongs to and the ones that he does not belong to, about his tribe against that tribe, about good people and bad people. But in the end it always comes down to yet another reason for the killing and that brings me such pleasure. I do not care about the reasons, but the lies that hide behind them make these two legs so much more interesting and so much more fun than other creatures. 

They are happy to have him use his war clubs on their enemies. 

They are even happy that he brings their enemies great pain. 

They just do not want to know that he enjoys it. 

They do not want to know that I enjoy it.

They just do not want to know or to believe how very much that I enjoy the killing.

They want him to enjoy the fight. They want him to enjoy the battle.

They would not be pleased to realize that we enjoy the killing.

That would shatter their carefully constructed illusions. And there is no greater sin that you can commit among these two legs than to rupture their layers of crusted lies.

They would not even like to know how much pleasure I take in the killing of the Black Robes.

The Black Robes, who stink worse than a bear coming out of its winter sleep, whose skin is so pale that they look sickly even when sun lingers, and who speak a language that is as awful as their smell. The Black Robes who want to force a new God on these people. A God who will not accept any of the other Gods because his ego is so large. Who has rules the the Black Robes speak but do not live. The Black Robes who bring sickness and bad medicine from across the great water on their big boats but who cannot even paddle a canoe in the gentlest parts of the great river. Who want to give that river the name of one of their sainted medicine man from a world they come from, a name that has nothing to do with this river or with this world. Who do not even know the river but think that they can give it a name of their own.

They are delicious, these Black Robes.

They lie to themselves more beautifully than any I have seen before this.

But even these self righteous creatures I am not supposed to take pleasure in killing.

The Black Robes mostly avoid Moccasin Face. The Black Robes mostly avoid me. Something in them sees what I am and they know without knowing to keep their distance from me though that often does not do them no good in the end.

Most of the women avoid Moccasin Face too. 

His face is too ugly and too frightening and perhaps they too see in his eyes that I would enjoy hurting them if given the chance to do so.

I am happy to be left alone to my own musings, and to my own special pleasures.

The Wyandot have grown so sick with the Black Robes’ disease that their people are fewer now than his, even though they were once a much larger Nation than Moccasin Face’s tribe ever was.

That is the disappointing thing that the Black Robes have done. 

They have killed more Wyandot than even I could ever kill.

But many of his people, particularly the women and children have also taken to the Black Robes’ teachings and have been felled by their bad Medicine. They kneel and pray before this new tortured God even as they die from the Black Robe demons and their wonderfully terrible diseases.

And the Black Robes call the Wyandot, their allies, Huron. An insult. Their insult their own allies.

I would like to kill all the Black Robes if I could, but they are so deliciously murderous and duplicitous in their own right that it seems almost a shame to kill them at all.

I would like to kill all the pale devils who come across the Great Water, but they bring their Bad Medicine and their selfish insecure God with them and I so enjoy watching them destroy even the souls of the people that they claim that they wish to save. I like watching the destruction that they bring. I would like to poke a hole in their guts and slowly pull their entrails out while boiling their lower bodies and their scrotums in scalding water or to hang them upside down over a small slow fire to bake the inside of their heads ever so slowly just to watching them scream and denounce their jealous God. But they do such delicious harm, and the Elders of his Council have spoken, and said that he should not kill them or do things to them until they give him good reason.

The pale two legs’ Algonquin guides call Moccasin Face’s people Maneaters. The Algonquins themselves have been known to eat parts of men in order to send them into the next world without their best and strongest parts. The Algonquin live in dirt huts like Beavers and run away from his people rather than stand and fight. The Algonquin help the pasty skinned two legs that have crossed great waters to claim the land and banish old Gods and who understand nothing of this world yet think that they can tell those already here how to live and put names on things that they do do know.

Moccasin Face has killed many Algonquin. 

He has eaten parts of their bodies.

I have eaten parts of their bodies.

The Algonquin are far stronger and braver than the Black Robes who look down on even them.

Moccasin Face once caught a white skinned soldier in the woods. The soldier tried to aim his thunder stick at Moccasin Face, but it was raining, and they seem only able to call upon the thunder when the sky is not using it. I could see the fear in the soldier’s eyes even though he was supposed to be one of their warriors. I cut thin strips off of the soles of his feet and he screamed like a frightened rabbit. I cut a hole in his belly and dragged some of his innards out. He screamed and cried and he begged Moccasin Face. I could not understand his words but I knew the begging for what it was. Then Moccasin Face took his knife and dug holes in both sides of the soldier’s mouth, and he pried out his teeth out through the holes in the man’s cheeks one by one. The soldier cried in ways that even children would not cry and I thought if this is what the white skinned warriors are, then the Black Robes, who will not even fight, must be weaker than anyone can even imagine. The soldier soiled himself and vomited and urinated all over the insides of his clothes. The smell was a wonderful thing. Crows came along and I let them have their way with him after cutting out his tongue and feeding it to the crows so that he could not scream out loud anymore. His screams were growing tiresome even for me.

But he broke so very deeply and quivered with so much fear and weakness that it filled me with bliss.

I did not eat any part of him.

I was so deeply thankful for his cowardice and his weakness but I feared having it inside Moccasin Face’s body, for fear that that weakness might enter me. 

I decided then and there that these creatures with skin the colour of the underbelly of a toad and their hairy faces were the very best ones to kill. I hope that many more of them would come over the great water and bring their weakness and their one delusional God with them.

O, it would please me so.

I was beginning to despair that these stoic people in Moccasin Face’s world would never give me the kind of pleasure that I most deeply desired.

These creatures walk and move like the other two legs. They resemble the other two legs except for their pale skin and all the hair on their faces and bodies. But they are something much better. They are something far more precious than those that were already here, because they have such great delusions and so little courage. They fill me with happiness with the weak ways that they die and the diseases and destruction that they leave behind them.

Even the Wyandot, even the dirt dwelling Algonquin have showed more strength, more dignity and more courage than these hairy, sickly pale, soft and cowardly creatures.

I have resolved that the next time that Moccasin Face catches one of these creatures I will cut him open little by little, to try to keep him alive for as long as possible so that I can see if their insides work in the same way that other two legs do. 

Perhaps they are not even of the same world. 

Perhaps they do not work in the same way at all.

I do not know if cutting them open will reveal their secrets.

It probably will not.

It can be very tricky to tell the insides of one thing from another sometimes.

But at the very least I will cause the next one as much pain as possible before killing them.

That is one thing that I enjoy even more than the killing.

That is the one thing that I have made Moccasin Face better at even than killing. 

He will cause them such incredible pain.

He will cause them such great and truly terrible pain.

And I will enjoy every delicious moment of it.

I will enjoy that next time the most, I think.

I think that I will enjoy the next one more than any of the others so far.

Especially if the next one has that wonderful pale skin.

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[julesdelorme]

faller

Chapter 4

Moccasin Face

I have floated through time and from body to body for as long as there has been time and the bodies from which to count that time. I have seen and done many things through many different eyes and always I am able to pass for one of them.

I know the exquisite silence of death.

I have grown fond of death. Perhaps because I can never truly know death. Or perhaps because I love the empty and dark silence that always follows death.

I take joy in bringing death to others.

I have lost count of how many deaths that I have brought.

It has been so many.

I like to watch the life slipping from behind their eyes and I like to watch their spirits leave the flesh behind to wander lost and suffering for the rest of what it is that they have come to call time.

In this body I have killed over a hundred.

I have been told by some that it is one hundred and twenty three. And by others that it is a little as one hundred and nine. Still others have said that it might be more than one hundred and fifty.

I have lost count.

The exact number does not matter to me.

Numbers seem to matter very much to them. But I do not care.

Though there have been moments where I have tried to count how many lives I have taken in each body so that I know if it is more or less than in the past. I have always grown tired of trying to count.

I do not think that this body has killed over one hundred and fifty.

Most were men. Some were women and children.

I have no particular care about who it is that I kill. One bag of meat is pretty much like the other. It is the exquisite silence of death that I long for and that I kill for and in my opinion they all make too much noise.

His enemies calls this body Two Stick because he wields a war club in each hand during battle.

The people of his village call him Moccasin Face because his face resembles a worn out moccasin that has been stitched together again and again.

They do not call him that to his face.

But I have heard them say it just the same.

I do not care what any of them call him. Just so long as he is permitted to kill.

That is all that I have ever cared about.

Before there were these two leg creatures I have been here.

There were other creatures then. But the two legs are the best to be and to kill because they are aware of death and afraid of death and their minds are filled with hatred and fear and ridiculous reasons to kill that have nothing to do with any real need to kill at all and they are best to kill because they make so much more noise than any of the other living things.

It is fun to be Moccasin Face.

There is so much talk to hear about the side that he belongs to and the ones that he does not belong to, about his tribe against that tribe, about good people and bad people. But in the end it always comes down to yet another reason for the killing and that brings me such pleasure. I do not care about the reasons, but the lies that hide behind them make these two legs so much more interesting and so much more fun than other creatures.

They are happy to have him use his war clubs on their enemies.

They are even happy that he brings their enemies great pain.

They just do not want to know that he enjoys it.

They do not want to know that I enjoy it.

They just do not want to know or to believe how very much that I enjoy the killing.

They want him to enjoy the fight. They want him to enjoy the battle.

They would not be pleased to realize that we enjoy the killing.

That would shatter their carefully constructed illusions. And there is no greater sin that you can commit among these two legs than to rupture their layers of crusted lies.

They would not even like to know how much pleasure I take in the killing of the Black Robes.

The Black Robes, who stink worse than a bear coming out of its winter sleep, whose skin is so pale that they look sickly even when sun lingers, and who speak a language that is as awful as their smell. The Black Robes who want to force a new God on these people. A God who will not accept any of the other Gods because his ego is so large. Who has rules the the Black Robes speak but do not live. The Black Robes who bring sickness and bad medicine from across the great water on their big boats but who cannot even paddle a canoe in the gentlest parts of the great river. Who want to give that river the name of one of their sainted medicine man from a world they come from, a name that has nothing to do with this river or with this world. Who do not even know the river but think that they can give it a name of their own.

They are delicious, these Black Robes.

They lie to themselves more beautifully than any I have seen before this.

But even these self righteous creatures I am not supposed to take pleasure in killing.

The Black Robes mostly avoid Moccasin Face. The Black Robes mostly avoid me. Something in them sees what I am and they know without knowing to keep their distance from me though that often does not do them no good in the end.

Most of the women avoid Moccasin Face too.

His face is too ugly and too frightening and perhaps they too see in his eyes that I would enjoy hurting them if given the chance to do so.

I am happy to be left alone to my own musings, and to my own special pleasures.

The Wyandot have grown so sick with the Black Robes’ disease that their people are fewer now than his, even though they were once a much larger Nation than Moccasin Face’s tribe ever was.

That is the disappointing thing that the Black Robes have done.

They have killed more Wyandot than even I could ever kill.

But many of his people, particularly the women and children have also taken to the Black Robes’ teachings and have been felled by their bad Medicine. They kneel and pray before this new tortured God even as they die from the Black Robe demons and their wonderfully terrible diseases.

And the Black Robes call the Wyandot, their allies, Huron. An insult. Their insult their own allies.

I would like to kill all the Black Robes if I could, but they are so deliciously murderous and duplicitous in their own right that it seems almost a shame to kill them at all.

I would like to kill all the pale devils who come across the Great Water, but they bring their Bad Medicine and their selfish insecure God with them and I so enjoy watching them destroy even the souls of the people that they claim that they wish to save. I like watching the destruction that they bring. I would like to poke a hole in their guts and slowly pull their entrails out while boiling their lower bodies and their scrotums in scalding water or to hang them upside down over a small slow fire to bake the inside of their heads ever so slowly just to watching them scream and denounce their jealous God. But they do such delicious harm, and the Elders of his Council have spoken, and said that he should not kill them or do things to them until they give him good reason.

The pale two legs’ Algonquin guides call Moccasin Face’s people Maneaters. The Algonquins themselves have been known to eat parts of men in order to send them into the next world without their best and strongest parts. The Algonquin live in dirt huts like Beavers and run away from his people rather than stand and fight. The Algonquin help the pasty skinned two legs that have crossed great waters to claim the land and banish old Gods and who understand nothing of this world yet think that they can tell those already here how to live and put names on things that they do do know.

Moccasin Face has killed many Algonquin.

He has eaten parts of their bodies.

I have eaten parts of their bodies.

The Algonquin are far stronger and braver than the Black Robes who look down on even them.

Moccasin Face once caught a white skinned soldier in the woods. The soldier tried to aim his thunder stick at Moccasin Face, but it was raining, and they seem only able to call upon the thunder when the sky is not using it. I could see the fear in the soldier’s eyes even though he was supposed to be one of their warriors. I cut thin strips off of the soles of his feet and he screamed like a frightened rabbit. I cut a hole in his belly and dragged some of his innards out. He screamed and cried and he begged Moccasin Face. I could not understand his words but I knew the begging for what it was. Then Moccasin Face took his knife and dug holes in both sides of the soldier’s mouth, and he pried out his teeth out through the holes in the man’s cheeks one by one. The soldier cried in ways that even children would not cry and I thought if this is what the white skinned warriors are, then the Black Robes, who will not even fight, must be weaker than anyone can even imagine. The soldier soiled himself and vomited and urinated all over the insides of his clothes. The smell was a wonderful thing. Crows came along and I let them have their way with him after cutting out his tongue and feeding it to the crows so that he could not scream out loud anymore. His screams were growing tiresome even for me.

But he broke so very deeply and quivered with so much fear and weakness that it filled me with bliss.

I did not eat any part of him.

I was so deeply thankful for his cowardice and his weakness but I feared having it inside Moccasin Face’s body, for fear that that weakness might enter me.

I decided then and there that these creatures with skin the colour of the underbelly of a toad and their hairy faces were the very best ones to kill. I hope that many more of them would come over the great water and bring their weakness and their one delusional God with them.

O, it would please me so.

I was beginning to despair that these stoic people in Moccasin Face’s world would never give me the kind of pleasure that I most deeply desired.

These creatures walk and move like the other two legs. They resemble the other two legs except for their pale skin and all the hair on their faces and bodies. But they are something much better. They are something far more precious than those that were already here, because they have such great delusions and so little courage. They fill me with happiness with the weak ways that they die and the diseases and destruction that they leave behind them.

Even the Wyandot, even the dirt dwelling Algonquin have showed more strength, more dignity and more courage than these hairy, sickly pale, soft and cowardly creatures.

I have resolved that the next time that Moccasin Face catches one of these creatures I will cut him open little by little, to try to keep him alive for as long as possible so that I can see if their insides work in the same way that other two legs do.

Perhaps they are not even of the same world.

Perhaps they do not work in the same way at all.

I do not know if cutting them open will reveal their secrets.

It probably will not.

It can be very tricky to tell the insides of one thing from another sometimes.

But at the very least I will cause the next one as much pain as possible before killing them.

That is one thing that I enjoy even more than the killing.

That is the one thing that I have made Moccasin Face better at even than killing.

He will cause them such incredible pain.

He will cause them such great and truly terrible pain.

And I will enjoy every delicious moment of it.

I will enjoy that next time the most, I think.

I think that I will enjoy the next one more than any of the others so far.

Especially if the next one has that wonderful pale skin.

#fiction #writing #writers #authors #author #novels #novelnovels #newnovels #julesdelorme #julesfdelorme #faller #delormewriting #scarboroughwritersfightclub #story #bear #native #nativestories #metis #metisstories

[julesdelorme]

faller

Chapter 4

Moccasin Face

I have floated through time and from body to body for as long as there has been time and the bodies from which to count that time. I have seen and done many things through many different eyes and always I am able to pass for one of them.

I know the exquisite silence of death.

I have grown fond of death. Perhaps because I can never truly know death. Or perhaps because I love the empty and dark silence that always follows death.

I take joy in bringing death to others.

I have lost count of how many deaths that I have brought.

It has been so many.

I like to watch the life slipping from behind their eyes and I like to watch their spirits leave the flesh behind to wander lost and suffering for the rest of what it is that they have come to call time.

In this body I have killed over a hundred.

I have been told by some that it is one hundred and twenty three. And by others that it is a little as one hundred and nine. Still others have said that it might be more than one hundred and fifty.

I have lost count.

The exact number does not matter to me.

Numbers seem to matter very much to them. But I do not care.

Though there have been moments where I have tried to count how many lives I have taken in each body so that I know if it is more or less than in the past. I have always grown tired of trying to count.

I do not think that this body has killed over one hundred and fifty.

Most were men. Some were women and children.

I have no particular care about who it is that I kill. One bag of meat is pretty much like the other. It is the exquisite silence of death that I long for and that I kill for and in my opinion they all make too much noise.

His enemies calls this body Two Stick because he wields a war club in each hand during battle.

The people of his village call him Moccasin Face because his face resembles a worn out moccasin that has been stitched together again and again.

They do not call him that to his face.

But I have heard them say it just the same.

I do not care what any of them call him. Just so long as he is permitted to kill.

That is all that I have ever cared about.

Before there were these two leg creatures I have been here.

There were other creatures then. But the two legs are the best to be and to kill because they are aware of death and afraid of death and their minds are filled with hatred and fear and ridiculous reasons to kill that have nothing to do with any real need to kill at all and they are best to kill because they make so much more noise than any of the other living things.

It is fun to be Moccasin Face.

There is so much talk to hear about the side that he belongs to and the ones that he does not belong to, about his tribe against that tribe, about good people and bad people. But in the end it always comes down to yet another reason for the killing and that brings me such pleasure. I do not care about the reasons, but the lies that hide behind them make these two legs so much more interesting and so much more fun than other creatures.

They are happy to have him use his war clubs on their enemies.

They are even happy that he brings their enemies great pain.

They just do not want to know that he enjoys it.

They do not want to know that I enjoy it.

They just do not want to know or to believe how very much that I enjoy the killing.

They want him to enjoy the fight. They want him to enjoy the battle.

They would not be pleased to realize that we enjoy the killing.

That would shatter their carefully constructed illusions. And there is no greater sin that you can commit among these two legs than to rupture their layers of crusted lies.

They would not even like to know how much pleasure I take in the killing of the Black Robes.

The Black Robes, who stink worse than a bear coming out of its winter sleep, whose skin is so pale that they look sickly even when sun lingers, and who speak a language that is as awful as their smell. The Black Robes who want to force a new God on these people. A God who will not accept any of the other Gods because his ego is so large. Who has rules the the Black Robes speak but do not live. The Black Robes who bring sickness and bad medicine from across the great water on their big boats but who cannot even paddle a canoe in the gentlest parts of the great river. Who want to give that river the name of one of their sainted medicine man from a world they come from, a name that has nothing to do with this river or with this world. Who do not even know the river but think that they can give it a name of their own.

They are delicious, these Black Robes.

They lie to themselves more beautifully than any I have seen before this.

But even these self righteous creatures I am not supposed to take pleasure in killing.

The Black Robes mostly avoid Moccasin Face. The Black Robes mostly avoid me. Something in them sees what I am and they know without knowing to keep their distance from me though that often does not do them no good in the end.

Most of the women avoid Moccasin Face too.

His face is too ugly and too frightening and perhaps they too see in his eyes that I would enjoy hurting them if given the chance to do so.

I am happy to be left alone to my own musings, and to my own special pleasures.

The Wyandot have grown so sick with the Black Robes’ disease that their people are fewer now than his, even though they were once a much larger Nation than Moccasin Face’s tribe ever was.

That is the disappointing thing that the Black Robes have done.

They have killed more Wyandot than even I could ever kill.

But many of his people, particularly the women and children have also taken to the Black Robes’ teachings and have been felled by their bad Medicine. They kneel and pray before this new tortured God even as they die from the Black Robe demons and their wonderfully terrible diseases.

And the Black Robes call the Wyandot, their allies, Huron. An insult. Their insult their own allies.

I would like to kill all the Black Robes if I could, but they are so deliciously murderous and duplicitous in their own right that it seems almost a shame to kill them at all.

I would like to kill all the pale devils who come across the Great Water, but they bring their Bad Medicine and their selfish insecure God with them and I so enjoy watching them destroy even the souls of the people that they claim that they wish to save. I like watching the destruction that they bring. I would like to poke a hole in their guts and slowly pull their entrails out while boiling their lower bodies and their scrotums in scalding water or to hang them upside down over a small slow fire to bake the inside of their heads ever so slowly just to watching them scream and denounce their jealous God. But they do such delicious harm, and the Elders of his Council have spoken, and said that he should not kill them or do things to them until they give him good reason.

The pale two legs’ Algonquin guides call Moccasin Face’s people Maneaters. The Algonquins themselves have been known to eat parts of men in order to send them into the next world without their best and strongest parts. The Algonquin live in dirt huts like Beavers and run away from his people rather than stand and fight. The Algonquin help the pasty skinned two legs that have crossed great waters to claim the land and banish old Gods and who understand nothing of this world yet think that they can tell those already here how to live and put names on things that they do do know.

Moccasin Face has killed many Algonquin.

He has eaten parts of their bodies.

I have eaten parts of their bodies.

The Algonquin are far stronger and braver than the Black Robes who look down on even them.

Moccasin Face once caught a white skinned soldier in the woods. The soldier tried to aim his thunder stick at Moccasin Face, but it was raining, and they seem only able to call upon the thunder when the sky is not using it. I could see the fear in the soldier’s eyes even though he was supposed to be one of their warriors. I cut thin strips off of the soles of his feet and he screamed like a frightened rabbit. I cut a hole in his belly and dragged some of his innards out. He screamed and cried and he begged Moccasin Face. I could not understand his words but I knew the begging for what it was. Then Moccasin Face took his knife and dug holes in both sides of the soldier’s mouth, and he pried out his teeth out through the holes in the man’s cheeks one by one. The soldier cried in ways that even children would not cry and I thought if this is what the white skinned warriors are, then the Black Robes, who will not even fight, must be weaker than anyone can even imagine. The soldier soiled himself and vomited and urinated all over the insides of his clothes. The smell was a wonderful thing. Crows came along and I let them have their way with him after cutting out his tongue and feeding it to the crows so that he could not scream out loud anymore. His screams were growing tiresome even for me.

But he broke so very deeply and quivered with so much fear and weakness that it filled me with bliss.

I did not eat any part of him.

I was so deeply thankful for his cowardice and his weakness but I feared having it inside Moccasin Face’s body, for fear that that weakness might enter me.

I decided then and there that these creatures with skin the colour of the underbelly of a toad and their hairy faces were the very best ones to kill. I hope that many more of them would come over the great water and bring their weakness and their one delusional God with them.

O, it would please me so.

I was beginning to despair that these stoic people in Moccasin Face’s world would never give me the kind of pleasure that I most deeply desired.

These creatures walk and move like the other two legs. They resemble the other two legs except for their pale skin and all the hair on their faces and bodies. But they are something much better. They are something far more precious than those that were already here, because they have such great delusions and so little courage. They fill me with happiness with the weak ways that they die and the diseases and destruction that they leave behind them.

Even the Wyandot, even the dirt dwelling Algonquin have showed more strength, more dignity and more courage than these hairy, sickly pale, soft and cowardly creatures.

I have resolved that the next time that Moccasin Face catches one of these creatures I will cut him open little by little, to try to keep him alive for as long as possible so that I can see if their insides work in the same way that other two legs do.

Perhaps they are not even of the same world.

Perhaps they do not work in the same way at all.

I do not know if cutting them open will reveal their secrets.

It probably will not.

It can be very tricky to tell the insides of one thing from another sometimes.

But at the very least I will cause the next one as much pain as possible before killing them.

That is one thing that I enjoy even more than the killing.

That is the one thing that I have made Moccasin Face better at even than killing.

He will cause them such incredible pain.

He will cause them such great and truly terrible pain.

And I will enjoy every delicious moment of it.

I will enjoy that next time the most, I think.

I think that I will enjoy the next one more than any of the others so far.

Especially if the next one has that wonderful pale skin.

#fiction #writing #writers #authors #author #novels #novelnovels #newnovels #julesdelorme #julesfdelorme #faller #delormewriting #scarboroughwritersfightclub #story #bear #native #nativestories #metis #metisstories

[julesdelorme]

faller

Chapter 4

Moccasin Face

I have floated through time and from body to body for as long as there has been time and the bodies from which to count that time. I have seen and done many things through many different eyes and always I am able to pass for one of them.

I know the exquisite silence of death.

I have grown fond of death. Perhaps because I can never truly know death. Or perhaps because I love the empty and dark silence that always follows death.

I take joy in bringing death to others.

I have lost count of how many deaths that I have brought.

It has been so many.

I like to watch the life slipping from behind their eyes and I like to watch their spirits leave the flesh behind to wander lost and suffering for the rest of what it is that they have come to call time.

In this body I have killed over a hundred.

I have been told by some that it is one hundred and twenty three. And by others that it is a little as one hundred and nine. Still others have said that it might be more than one hundred and fifty.

I have lost count.

The exact number does not matter to me.

Though I do like to count how many lives I take in each body so that I know if it is more or less than in the past.

I do not think that this body has killed over one hundred and fifty.

Most were men. Some were women and children.

I have no particular qualms about who it is that I kill.

The enemy calls this body Two Stick because he wields a war club in each hand during battle.

The people of his village call him Moccasin Face because his face resembles a worn out moccasin that has been stitched together again and again.

They do not call him that to his face.

But I have heard them say it just the same.

I do not care what any of them call him. Just so long as he is permitted to kill.

That is all that I have ever cared about.

Before there were these two leg creatures I have been here.

There were other creatures then. But the two legs are the best to be and to kill because they are aware of death and afraid of death and their minds are filled with hatred and fear and ridiculous reasons to kill that have nothing to do with any real need to kill at all.

It is fun to be Moccasin Face.

There is so much talk to hear about the side that he belongs to and the ones that he does not, about his tribe against that tribe, about good people and bad people. But in the end it always comes down to yet another reason for the killing and that brings me such pleasure. I do not care about the reasons, but the lies that hide behind them make these two legs so much more interesting and so much more fun than other creatures.

They are happy to have him use his war clubs on their enemies.

They are even happy that he brings their enemies great pain.

They just do not want to know that he enjoys it.

They do not want to know that I enjoy it.

They just do not want to know or to believe how very much that I enjoy the killing.

They want him to enjoy the fight. They want him to enjoy the battle.

They would not be pleased to realize that we enjoy the killing.

That would shatter their illusions. And there is no greater sin that you can commit among these two legs than to rupture their carefully crusted lies.

They would not even like to know how much pleasure I take in the killing of the Black Robes.

The Black Robes, who stink worse than a bear coming out of its winter sleep, whose skin is so pale that they look sickly even when sun lingers, and who speak a language that is as awful as their smell. The Black Robes who want to force a new God on these people. A God who will not accept any of the other Gods because his ego is so large. Who has rules the the Black Robes speak but do not live. The Black Robes who bring sickness and bad medicine from across the great water on their big boats but who cannot even paddle a canoe in the gentlest parts of the great river. Who want to give that river the name of one of their sainted medicine man from a world they come from, a name that has nothing to do with this river or with this world. Who do not even know the river but think that they can give it a name of their own.

They are delicious, these Black Robes.

They lie to themselves more beautifully than any I have seen before this.

But even these self righteous creatures I am not supposed to take pleasure in killing.

The Black Robes mostly avoid Moccasin Face. The Black Robes mostly avoid me. Something in them sees what I am and they know without knowing to keep their distance from me though that often does not do them no good in the end.

Most of the women avoid Moccasin Face too.

His face is too ugly and too frightening and perhaps they too see in his eyes that I would enjoy hurting them if given the chance to do so.

I am happy to be left alone to my own musings, and to my own special pleasures.

The Wyandot have grown so sick with the Black Robes’ disease that their people are fewer now than his, even though they were once a much larger Nation than Moccasin Face’s ever was.

That is the one good thing that the Black Robes have done.

They have killed more Wyandot than even I could ever kill.

But many of his people, particularly the women and children have also taken to the Black Robes’ teaching and been felled by their Bad Medicine. They kneel and pray before this new tortured God even as they die from the Black Robe demons and their wonderfully terrible diseases.

And the Black Robes call the Wyandot, their allies, Huron. An insult. Their insult their own allies.

I would like to kill all the Black Robes if I could, but they are so deliciously murderous and duplicitous in their own right that it seems almost a shame to kill them at all.

I would like to kill all the pale devils who come across the Great Water, but they bring their Bad Medicine and their selfish insecure God with them and I so enjoy watching them destroy even the souls of the people that they claim that they wish to save. I like watching the destruction that they bring. I would like to poke a hole in their guts and slowly pull their entrails out while boiling their lower bodies and their scrotums in scalding water or to hang them upside down over a small slow fire to bake the inside of their heads ever so slowly just to watching them scream and denounce their jealous God. But they do such delicious harm, and the Elders of his Council have spoken, and said that he should not kill them or do things to them until they give him good reason.

The pale two legs’ Algonquin guides call Moccasin Face’s people Maneaters. The Algonquins themselves have been known to eat parts of men in order to send them into the next world without their best and strongest parts. The Algonquin live in dirt huts like Beavers and run away from his people rather than stand and fight. The Algonquin help the pasty skinned two legs that have crossed great waters to claim the land and banish old Gods and who understand nothing of this world yet think that they can tell those already here how to live and put names on things that they do do know.

Moccasin Face has killed many Algonquin.

He has eaten parts of their bodies.

I have eaten parts of their bodies.

The Algonquin are far stronger and braver than the Black Robes who look down on even them.

Moccasin Face once caught a white skinned soldier in the woods. The soldier tried to aim his thunder stick at Moccasin Face, but it was raining, and they seem only able to call upon the thunder when the sky is not using it. I could see the fear in the soldier’s eyes even though he was supposed to be one of their warriors. I cut thin strips off of the soles of his feet and he screamed like a frightened rabbit. I cut a hole in his belly and dragged some of his innards out. He screamed and cried and he begged Moccasin Face. I could not understand his words but I knew the begging for what it was. Then Moccasin Face took his knife and dug holes in both sides of the soldier’s mouth, and he pried out his teeth out through the holes in the man’s cheeks one by one. The soldier cried in ways that even children would not cry and I thought if this is what the white skinned warriors are, then the Black Robes, who will not even fight, must be weaker than anyone can even imagine. The soldier soiled himself and vomited and urinated all over the insides of his clothes. The smell was a wonderful thing. Crows came along and I let them have their way with him after cutting out his tongue and feeding it to the crows so that he could not scream out loud anymore. His screams were growing tiresome even for me.

But he broke so very deeply and quivered with so much fear and weakness that it filled me with bliss.

I did not eat any part of him.

I was so deeply thankful for his cowardice and his weakness.

I decided then and there that these creatures with skin the colour of the underbelly of a toad and their hairy faces were the very best ones to kill. I hope that many more of them would come over the great water and bring their weakness and their one delusional God with them.

O, it would please me so.

I was beginning to despair that these stoic people in Moccasin Face’s world would never give me the kind of pleasure that I most deeply desired.

These creatures walk and move like the other two legs. They resemble the other two legs except for their pale skin and all the hair on their faces and bodies.

But they are something much better. They are something far more precious than those that were already here, because they have such great delusions and so little courage. They fill me with happiness with the weak ways that they die and the diseases and destruction that they leave behind them.

Even the Wyandot, even the dirt dwelling Algonquin have showed more strength, more dignity and more courage than these hairy, sickly pale, soft and cowardly creatures.

I have resolved that the next time that Moccasin Face catches one of these creatures I will cut him open little by little, to try to keep him alive for as long as possible so that I can see if their insides work in the same way that other two legs do.

Perhaps they are not even of the same world.

Perhaps they do not work in the same way at all.

I do not know if cutting them open will reveal their secrets.

It probably will not.

It can be very tricky to tell the insides of one thing from another sometimes.

But at the very least I will cause the next one as much pain as possible before killing them.

That is one thing that I enjoy even more than the killing.

That is the one thing that I have made Moccasin Face better at even than killing.

He will cause them such incredible pain.

He will cause them such great and truly terrible pain.

And I will enjoy every delicious moment of it.

I will enjoy that next time the most, I think.

I think that I will enjoy the next one more than any of the others so far.

Especially if the next one has that wonderful pale skin.

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