Chapter 1: Hey, I Just Met You
The world is flat,
And full of rulers
You're an artist stumbling forward,
Fingerpainting in the dark,
But there's something just beyond
That you can taste.
Full disclosure, honestly
It's low-hanging fruit,
But I'm sure I've got a ladder somewhere!
I see your situation,
See your problems,
And with some improvisation
I'm sure you could execute them.
I'll feed you (fatten you)
Facts and phenomena
All it requires
Is a bit of mental stamina.
In full confidence and sincerity,
In my immortal clarity,
I daresay you're the only one
Who's worthy of my time.
Intriguing and exceptional,
(Perhaps morally flexible)
I think we'd have a lot of fun
Two heads together, you and I.
When you can revolutionize?
In the pursuit of greatness
To hesitate is to die.
I'm sure you understand
Why burning daylight–
Is the greatest mortal toil.
Must I actually explain myself?
You trust me,
My belief in you.
Shutter the windows.
Eyes on me.
I'll be all you think and breathe.
You're worthy, and it's worth it.
Take a chance,
I'll catch you (in my teeth,
Eat you alive,
Boil your blood.
On my throne of human agony
You're the diamond
In the mud.)
You can't do this alone, you know?
I need your clever mind.
A space to work,
Your idle hands,
A soul in kind.
(You asked for inspiration.
In the details devils lurk.)
So, what will it be then?
Is this all you can take.
I'm game, and you see reason.
Need a hand? It's right here.
Welcome, one and all,
To the experiment of the ages!
Today we'll be unraveling
A bit more than dusty pages.
If you'll glance at diagram four
You'll see the timeline of decay
And slow replacement that creates
A weedy fossil out of clay.
Subtractive sculpture is an art,
Connect the dots, fill in the lines
And from the cluttered chaos
A new asterism shines.
Tell me something, kiddo.
If a tree falls in a forest
When there's nobody around,
A stately giant crushed to kindling—
Do you think it makes a sound?
Does it go out with a whimper,
Or a bang?
Consume reason with desire,
Freeze with fear or seethe with hate?
You're too busy to have fun,
Firing yourself into the sun,
But when the fletching melts away
You're left abandoned.
Seize the day!
Self-destruct in a cattle chute,
Unaccustomed to light.
I'll kiss your head.
Come along now, little spaceman.
It's time to go to bed.
(Rockabye, Pine Tree
In the treetops.
Since it's my treat,
I'm pulling all stops.
When Gravity Falls
And Earth becomes Sky,
Enjoy the finale!
Spoilers: you'll die.)
These are all products of mild insanity. Safety first, only drink the Koolaid if it has plastic dinosaurs and a zero liability contract attached. Comments welcome. I adopt plot bunnies, and it's not my fault if they turn into rabid beasts capable of slaughtering armored knights.
Weirdmageddon is here!
Weirdmageddon is here!
Come one and all rejects,
Fuck da police! Drink fear!
(*unlimited time offer, available in one location.)
go to sleep.
Go to sleep.
Time to face the music.
How many new bruises?
Not a peep.
Not a peep.
It's raining, it's pouring,
The old fart is snoring.
This stupid head
Is half brain-dead,
And quite frankly annoying.
A phone call, a phone call, I know I have rights.
Listen here, listen here, sleep well tonight.
A phone call, a phone call, it's not much to ask!
Listen here, listen here, wrinkled old ass.
A phone call, a phone call, I only need one.
Listen here, listen here, I am not done—
Can you guess which rhymes?
PJ PBI UWX FVBZ SER KFGRS MHB EIR RSSH FC FL
XF ZOFCIF, HH TEIXSH (LS PSOVYI JORVPQG POSCR VCY. KQH BA? KVG WH? TET, HHBKY PFCOH.)
Listen to the static on the phone.
Hear the silent breathing and the
Crushing white noise.
Tell the bedroom walls about your day.
Bleeding ink and screaming colors
Plotting with toys.
Unappreciated in your time.
Rosy glasses fade to black and white.
Hold on now.
Mystery Twins stand back to back, together.
Now and forever.
No time like the present to stand your ground
Holding tears back when nobody's around.
Maybe he just needs a fellow nerd?
Yeah, he's always been a little lonely genius.
Haven't you always been two in one,
Even though he goes to places you can't follow?
Scrapbook memories catch the light.
The time slips.
The world tips.
Squinting at ciphers through the night.
Suffocating, and he's so frustrating,
It's you and the ghost of his token laugh.
It's him and his life on a cork board graph.
Turn that frown
the whole town
Don't think of
Run in with
Something inside you's dying.
Happy Birthday, make a wish that comes true
Sleeping Beauty, for a prince who loves you.
I have been listening to that song too much. It fits, and now will forever be Mabel's song. If you listen closely to this poem you can hear my heart breaking. Well, it's either that or Dipper's voice cracking spectacularly.
Ice in the veins
Have you ever heard of the apocalypse?
Alone on an island
Unmoored and insensate
Strange siren-song snares
Laid o'er old R'lyeh.
In sepia, monochrome,
Vivacity colors a name
With "I am".
A manifestation of age-old design
That mortals might dare to say borders divine
The tragedy has begun.
Raise the lights
Spread your hands
Hang the stars
Strike the band
Thrice and twice and yet again
This is the song that never ends.
A pale hand parts the veil.
Ink stains a virgin book.
The darkness, split asunder
To disgorge a vaudeville hook.
"Am I not what you asked for?"
si dormiam capiar
Things that seem and things that are
Reduced to chords on a blue guitar.
A modest proposal.
With a farsighted goal.
There is a cruelty in kindness
Most men have forgot,
The right hand is guileless.
The left hand plots.
nemini confisus sis
By this sign I own you, by this sign I claim
The right to your freedom,
Your soul, and your name.
Who is the demon?
Stanford Pines, for all your glory
Mark ye this: Memento mori.
Now is the blue-out.
sunt lacrimae rerum
et mentem mortalia tangunt
Stanford owns an idea given flesh. Will is a triangular puddle of tears, but I wonder. Good dreams can be dangerous opiates.
The underlined and bold parts are parts spoken during the ritual. Will may or may not be too distracted by having flesh to notice Stanford's mistake.
Chapter 6: Put Down the Damned Knife Please
This is a whole bunch of incantations and prayers for the Transcendence AU. Abandon hope, translators. Some of these are only vaguely related to real languages. A little Greek, a bit of Latin, some Sumerian, probably some Old English, heavily abused Spanish and excessively obscure references. Consider yourself warned, this would make any actual scholars cry.
Disclaimer: the author is not responsible for what happens to anyone who incants these on unholy ground over freshly spilled blood.
Alleged Formal Rite of the Dreambender, origin unknown, as attested by the ruins of an abandoned cult complex:
Tō niht, celebraturi til anpao.
Minus solliciti, ventus habitu induendum.
Qui imprecor in stella, stella, stella.
Procedo et salutaret nostrum dominus, dominus, dominus.
Ita ambulant, ambulate, ambulate per ordinem cetera.
Non, non, ne obliviscaris nos, parens patriae.
dat gör est ēow.
Meri miit, Nachtmære Rex, Excelsissimus, Terribilis.
Meri miit, Somniflecte, Dioskouroi Stella, Noster Stella.
Sas kaloúme: Alcor!
ni gal an ki-a dullame-en.
Excerpt from a Transcendence-era blog, featuring a personal prayer written in an obscure language isolate:
Ol Zu'u praal tum hahnu
Zu'u draal faal Magna-Ge fen dein zii-i
Rul zu'u dir us vu,
Zu'u ov sili wah Ok aaz.
Amateur handwritten work from the Glendale Grimoires, purpose unknown, possibly religious poetry. Dated to the rising of the Circle of the Dreamers' Star:
Glittering, gleaming Dreamers' Star
I wonder at your light.
Your omnipresent Eye sees all,
Enthroned in the vale of night.
Glittering, gleaming Dreamers' Star
I wonder at your light.
When your blazing rage is done
and cool Longnight has begun,
In your heart you set a place.
Enfold us in your kind embrace.
Glittering, gleaming Dreamers' Star
For your light I am in awe.
Incantation of a style made popular on votive lamps frequently unearthed in personal bedrooms, particularly those of children:
Luz aster, aster beor,
Prima stel ii veo noctem.
Kero et bitte
O'ten te ker kero et nox.
Similar incantation, atypically carved into the foundations of a lighthouse in the Isles of California:
Albedo, Bolometri Magni,
Prima Noctem, Chicxulub Calafia.
Belet-ili Tioumoutiri et Sharrum Ouaiti.
Recorded monologue from an Alcorian mystery play or rite commemorating the sundering of California:
Lo! The smoke rises. Storm-drums thunder in the deep, and blood seeps across the dome of the sky. It is April Twenty-Ninth, and the bones of the earth begin to scream.
Fire! Shedding gold like a dying phoenix, death rains over the land. Choking, blazing, the people of the Gold Coast drown in the blood of Midas and the biblical fury of primordial rage, a divine funeral pyre.
Cracks! He tears out the mountains by their roots and hurls them away without a glance into the churning wine-dark sea. He crushes cities underfoot with the crunch of dry leaves, the toothed maw of the earth prised open to screech wordlessly at the tattered sky.
Howl! The Forgotten One screeches and the rivers flee their beds in terror, lakes startled to boiling and the sea surging with fright. Frogs rain over the wreckage, flesh and blood plummet from the sky to rot like spiked heads on the crumpled gates of Hell. Witchlight flickers in the craters, a bitter wormwood glow, seething with chains of curses known to us as the Mists of Madness.
Claws! They rend the sky and tatter the veil of night, snag the frayed edges of the world and rip loose with the force of death incarnate. The Dreambender warps reality with a breath, unrestrained, the terror of the devouring void limned with a searing glory. The dust settles, the sky falls and the earth crumbles apart. Bloody and drenched in the aftermath, the world quivers, and the stray dregs of his wrath linger to haunt the shattered bones of California.
It is done, and the sirens sleep for the day the Dreamer wracks the earth with nightmares once again.
Authorized for publication in approved demonology textbooks by the Department of Esoteric Education.
Have fun with these, folks. I take requests if any other authors want excessively researched pseudo-spells that look like they could wake the Dreamer. If you want me to walk through rough translations, that is a thing that can happen. It's more fun if you try to puzzle it out though. Be the bedraggled, dusty-haired archaeologist I know you can be.
A lot goes into a sweater.
Creation is a kind of magic,
and for good reason do we call
the elegant expression of skill
The fates weave.
The warp of space and the weft of time
Locked firmly together
By the encouraging shuttle-comb
Of happenstance masquerading as destiny.
That's the big picture,
a loomhouse the size of reality
Where stardust leads are spun on glittering bobbins
And tufts of dark matter are carded into shape by the eternal march of entropy.
Magnify the joy of new love,
Young flesh with the sap rising in it
Like snowdrops in April
And the rising flush of dawn
Gilding the pines with motes of fairy dust.
Skeins of yarn in every jewelled tone,
Of bleeding hearts
And dewy mornings
And late-night-whispery blue.
Pink like explosions behind your eyes
And red like teeth knocked out
In a truly epic bike-riding fail.
Purple pulled gently from blossoming bruises
Planted by unkind hands,
Green pulled from sparkling binary code
And grass stains on well-loved shorts.
Whole skeins of orange spill forth
Like the ropy guts of a bonfire,
Safety-bright and pumpkin-cheerful
And sometimes shades of turn-on-the-nightlight.
There are so many shades of brown,
So many gradients of gray,
Loam and ash
clean wriggly puppies and grunkle-hair,
but she whips up her twin magic wands
Her music batons
And dual-wields them fiercely like a fabulous warrior-princess of old
Enthroned in her kingdom of soft warmth.
With flying colors and flair
A hurricane of textures and patterns takes shape in her grip.
Formless need twists and stretches
Aching swirls through yards of soft thread
Love snags in the loops
And smiles linger in the seams.
In the beginning was the Word,
And that word was "Sweater Town."
It is too a word,
That word was neither the beginning nor the end of anything,
but a full-body hug as warm as young laughter
As bright as fireworks
And as long as a bajillion lifetimes.
It's out there,
born of enthusiastic effervescence
and trembling fingers,
and it won't ever stop being there for you,
Not even if stupid nerd boys get funny ideas about machismo
And forget that the most badass thing they ever saw
Was an old man so full of love
That he picked up an awl
And slip-stitched his own spirit line
This.... did not quite turn out the way I intended, but it refuses to become anything else. So. Have a thing. Is someone chopping onions in my scriptorium? Because that's rude, and now my notebook is all blurry. For shame.
Chapter 8: Adrasteia
I just watched the Hell to your Doorstep animatic and fell in love.
Sun&Moon AU: http://luminaxandra.tumblr.com/post/170740982174/ok-so-theres-no-way-the-other-options-in-the-poll
Bless her and her overworked wrist.
Dripping, ragged, torn,
Well-loved and deeply creased
You choke on your emotions
While I sip a fine wine
Pressed from the grapes of wrath
And aged in a dead man's cask.
Dawn breaks beneath my heel,
Crushed to embers,
The grey witchlight stifled
By the pure embrace of night.
Unadulterated and unleashed
Scrub your goodbye from my cheeks
This is payback.
Think me setback.
Think it till your judgement day.
The stars will strike
The sky will fall
The dominion of earth will be mine,
And none will be left
To waste their breath
On this traitor sister mine.
The seasons turn,
But the wheel will burn
Dark with soot.
Breathe with me
in slumber deep
The tragedy's afoot.
(Dear brother locked in sleep sublime,
What I wouldn't give to turn back time.)
Rough and a little ragged, with a jarcha at the end because I'm a nerd. Probably should revisit this when I'm more awake, but. The angry moon god says no. "Listen to the angry moon god" is pretty solid advice, methinks.