I have so much content, I felt that it would be prudent to start my own "Niemand Geist's Writings and Shizznat" thread. No need to make multiple posts to submit my writings, as that would just clutter the forum. From here on out, all of my written work will be submitted here, unless it's a trip report that belongs in "Storming the Gates". Even completed short stories will appear here.
A lot of this may be heavily unrefined, bits and pieces of things I had abandoned long ago, only to begin working on again.
Who is Niemand Geist?
I am Niemand Geist. Loosely translated, in German, "Niemand Geist" can mean "Nobody's Ghost" or "Nobody's Spirit". You can just call me Niemand. I'm just a spectre; a disembodied spirit wandering the depths of the internet.
[FINAL DRAFT]s will be marked as such, BEFORE the title of any entry, in the same manner as the beginning of this sentence appears.
Comments, Critiques, and Questions are welcome! Even if you think it's crap: You can voice your opinion here, too! No judgment! Can't please everyone, after all! I believe that every person's feelings are legitimate and that people should have a chance to say what is on their mind. Please be mindful that the moderators may choose to edit or ditch your comments if you are are much too crass and if you do not obey the rules of this forum.
This thread will be updated possibly somewhat regularly. Or irregularly. I'm an irregular kind of guy, after all.
If the mods would please be so kind as to merge the following thread of mine with this one, that would be cool: https://mycotopia.ne...rve-to-be-free/ (Two poems are located there).
The large, oblique pylons lay scattered about the cold desert. Creaking in the wind, the wires rusted and faulty, a cruel sort of music, as that from a cacophonous and demonic wind chime, seethed into my ears. Great dunes shifted inward and out as the wind tore at the very fabric of time. My presence in this place was as insignificant as could be. Its nature unyielding, uncaring, I was nothing more than something else that it could tear at, grind up and swallow back into itself infinitely.
The sky was a dark, unsettled mesh of gray and violet. All around me the sound of decay, the writhing sand and distant screams from things I cannot begin to imagine formed a medley of somber discontent. I walked on, my feet pressing and giving way into the uncaring landscape. I had been in this place before. I had made my way, somehow, through its maze of seemingly impassable, twisting chaos. The blackness of the ever-present night seemed to shroud me in fright. My only light came from what few stars managed to cut through the deep layers of abyssal clouds, or the helter-skelter of dry lightning, whose static permeated cruelly through every fiber of my soul.
These are the waste-lands, the Duarns. None but the wholly forsaken, those detached from reality, dare enter this haven of nightmare and madness. Bastardized remnants of a civilization that once was litter the horizon, jutting out as little more than rusted monuments to mankind's failure and infinite stupidity. This place now belongs to every fear, every uncertainty and maddened delusion ever realized. Here they take a physical form, gnawing at the already broken space between the Worlds, wiggling and screeching.
One does not enter here without good reason. And I had good reason indeed to tread this path once again, risking so much that I had finally regained. I sought the last of the Free Houses. Located directly at the boundary of the Waking World, just beyond the reach of the Nightmare Realm. I knew where it was, more or less, but how exactly to get there, which path to take, would be the difficult part. It never is the same way twice, or ever in this harsh wilderness. The Waste-Lands are always changing. One must feel his way around, or feel the sand close in around him as he tries so desperately to scream.
The black sands of the Duarns act as a crossroads to all other places. Changing with the wind and shaped by the fury of the storms which scar its surface, only the strongest and the most patient traverse its winding roads. I close my eyes to shield them from the onslaught of the sand. I do not need sight here, for sight does nothing but further deteriorate what little senses I have available to me in these lands. I reach inward, coaxing what sleeps inside of me. I begin to take steps unconsciously as I allow my deeper senses to guide me.
I have no need to worry unless something dark obstructs my path. Rest assured, this shall happen. For now, however, the hounds and scavenging demons are out of my reach, and I out of theirs. It will be a long and perilous journey, but I must maintain. Into the night I walk on, following the gossamer pathways webbing across the Worlds. Time grows utterly still and my awareness drifts away. I slip into the oblivious trance of a Seeker, knowing only from where I came, and to where I must go.
To be continued?
The drowning, choral beating of thin, plastic wings echo in your head, blotting out the stained, worn clouds of night. A black sky stretches above in all directions, perhaps converging at some unknown point masked from sight by a fading horizon.
Silent, gaseous behemoths wander under cover of dark, marauding and pillaging sleep from crying infants, raping their young mothers and shouting insane incantations in some long forgotten tongue as their seed splashes and gags in the throats of the violently defiled.
Thick, pulsing, and rigid with a wanting for pain, they withdraw and leave the women to their nightmares. The demons disperse and take flight, shedding sweat and sweet blood, tainted with nectar of the flesh.
The small, faceted orbs of liquid begin their rapid descent to the hard, dry ground below. A small patter sounds the drums of hatred, and the minions leap to their deaths, feeding the earth with cruel intentions.
And so it thirsts. . .
And with stolen lust it is quenched, its lips part and suckle on the fresh wine, cold and stagnant.
The light of a distant sun cuts a sharp crescent in her eyes. The symphony of cold, fluid motion lulls you into lustful abandonment, its intimate rhythm accompanied by the shattering of glass; the breaking of many tortured souls.
It sounds in your ears and drips down your naked bodies, entangled in a fine meshwork of passion and intense emotion. You stab deeply within her. The walls tense, and quiver. Shuddering breath, warm and moist, kisses your neck. Moaning and clawing your back, her screams of pleasure mingle with your own. Flashes of static crackle like thunderclap and rage inside of you; the love is pure, and the lust is a welcome partner in your dance.
You lose sense of where you are, and the torrential screams of nature cease in your mind; they crash, endlessly reverberating within your skull, but they have no audible voice. Two cats grapple in insanity. They bite, tear, and mold helplessly into one. They are clay, and sink into the dark depths of your mind.
Her body embraces yours, draws you in, and tightens. Desperate hands grasp and pull you closer, hypnotizing you, blinding you, and opening your senses; her arms rise, outstretched, and pull everything into you. Primordial chemical messages explode, shock, and translate into passion.
Muscle spasms, sinew tightens, molds and reshapes, arches spine and tenses. You lay in each other's arms; writhing serpents. Your figures twisting and hugging, holding, embracing in mystical, cryptic formations, gazing deeply into one another's thoughts.
Spiders are born of the boughs of swaying willows and go on errand to weave dreams. They enter your soul and spin silently, diligently. The light of a distant sun cloaks your naked communion, bathes, soothes, and absorbs.
Verse -- A Collection of Odds and Ends -- To Be Continued....
Flowing water snakes through the charred earth and stings in the wounds of a soldier. Eyelids shyly open, fearing the intensity of the mid days light, then quickly clasp shut from its brilliance. Dry, scarring air fills a set of bruised lungs, and is exhaled in an abrupt, painful gasp. After a few moments of baking in the sun, tired, cramped arms force a near dead body to an awkward, crouched position.
Surveying the dimly glowing embers, barely visible in the days intoxicating sol, Thourighain slowly balances the weight of his tired body and stands, only to slip deeply into thought. The sweet, stinging aroma of burnt cedar wafts through the air to mingle with the stench of flesh now turned to ash. Pungeant as it may be, it does not register in this mans mind. He is far off in meditation, leaving the desolate battlefield on which he stands for realms deep within the Dreaming.
Dylath Elier, City of Air in the native tongue. Now barren of all life, save for that of the one who brought death to this place. Thousands slain in raging frenzy. How many were struck last night with his blade? Too many to remember; too insignificant a detail to recall. Thourighains thoughts drift slowly back to the present, and he finds himself making trek for the next city, wherever that may be.
Vacant eyes stare at the clamour before them. People twirl. Old men laugh. Cold mugs click in recognition of events to be honored. Misery. One must embrace it, as only the insane can do. Cluuran softly grips the cheaply made pewter spoon between ancient, delicate fingers and stirs. The vapors of the tea bring him back to better times. Shredded bits of leaf float and tumble, bobbing up and down as though they were caught in some tumultuous storm in sea, with Cluuran stirring the skies.
It hadnt always been this way. In younger days he would be free from the jeering voices which now clawed in his mind. The tea is oil. Youre stirring oil, Cluuran! Oh no, look here now, hes spilled it! Silly old beggar man, ha!. They mock him daily. Damn you. Leave me be!, the madman mutters. A barmaid abruptly leaves from whence she came, thinking Cluuran hurridly shoed her off. Damn. I wanted more tea. This ones stirred far too much.
Miniscule gremlins sprout from his gritty finger nails and frolic upon the back of his hand. They dig into soft veins with tiny talons and grinning faces. Each heartbeat sends a new spurt of blood for them to bathe in. I need a napkin
Slipping into Dream
Dreams lie. Often times they show you truths, even if those truths can never exist. One night you may dream as though you were a god, and the next moment you could painfully metamorphose into a twisted worm, spouting vomit and frightening small children in the aisles of a church.
Such dreams are common, and have been named nightmares. These, to me, are prophetic realizations which happen daily, even while I lie awake, staring into a deepening void of concentrated power; candle light playing on the walls of my sanctuary, my mind. I no longer hear the shadows whisper in the night. I walk with cats under the stars. Funny how people say such things, for even as the light of our sun casts a blearing surge of photonic streams upon us we are, indeed, under stars.
For some reason I am different from the others, save a few. I sit in perpetual thought in my little corner of reality. It is all I have left, although I hide this well from outsiders. I wonder why I have let you slide into my dreams so easily. I assume it is due to my drifting, as this is the curse of riding brief amusements and jests: they often return to the mind of he who forged them. Perhaps I reflected too deeply when you had called me a fraud. Now you see my insanity, and you are hopelessly trapped.
How can a fraud comprehend such misery and turmoil? How can a fraud possibly orchestrate such chaotic realms within his own mind? I, my friend, have mastered the subconscious. It is the ONLY consciousness I remember. I find this game amusing, do you not? You run through the maze of strewn, fibrous hatred. Yes, I do hate myself, and now you feel as I do. Run mouse! Run and find the cheese.
Early at dawn I awoke in the chilled region of Kathaar Duun. I quickly wrapped myself in a blanket, and sat in thought for some time. My guide on this trek, DehRhaun, shortly thereafter joined my company in staring. While gazing curiously at the rock formations to the far east, I softly inquired as to why the rocks appeared to be moving at steady pace southward.
Not rocks., DehRhaun interrupted. Then what? Are you inferring that dead stone has will enough to move itself? No., he remarked, then sat down closer to the edge of the cliffs and set coal to his pipe. A set of chapped lips pawed at the willow mouthpiece and his ruddy cheeks inflated. Always liked crafting rings., he said with a slight grin. What, the smoke? You are quite vague this morning, Rhaun. Tell me more of the rocks
His smiling face melted away, as did his mind. It seemed as though the man was wandering through empty promises, bathing in stars, and calculating the thoughts of nature. His eyes intently fixated on the shifting monuments ahead of us, he began to explain.
The Dwarves, my kind, say that the rocks are as old as the Drac nearly. Possibly older even. He shook the frost from his furred boots and curled his legs under in a curious fashion. Removing the pipe from his mouth so that I could better understand him, he continued We live in rock, you know. We craft it, mold it, and suit it to our every intention. Homes, armory stores, caves. We are the most adept at this art. Fine castles they make, do they not?, he gestured with the cracked end of his pipe to the distant mountains. Pausing a few more moments to intake a fresh dose of pipe weed, it seemed as though he was hesitant to continue; almost nervous, in fact.
Thee, uh, the rocksyes? The towering things, aye. Youve perhaps heard of the Elves, no? Of course. They believe that all life is in endless cycle. When any creature dies, its essence is again absorbed into the earth. We are one with the earth, and all are anchored to it. This is my belief, as well., I answered. Well, anyway. Rock is earth, the core foundation of it. Rock is not of the earth, but rock forges it. Since the dawning times earth has been in sway as it always will be. It is the swaying of the earth that draws the rock to dance.
So the rock is alive? I was quite interested to know No. The rock is not alive. The rocks dance to the earths embrace of returning spirit.
And thus the conversation went on until mid noon when we packed our bags and departed. About two hours later on trek I noticed a faint smell of pyre in the air. Rhaun, what is it you are smoking? Aye? Ive finished my pipe not half an hour ago. See?, he held up his pipe for me to examine. Running out of fresh pipe weed, I am as well!, the Dwarf proceded to complain. Continuing onward Rhaun eventually did admit an increasing strength of this oder in the air. Soon thereafter we stumbled upon the source of such stench.
A large clearing in the woods was evident, smoke rising still from its borders. Dylath Elier, both our voices echoed its name. A cold pin struck in my heart, injecting a firey toxin which burned viciously through my veins. My home
In a blind fit of anger I raised my fist and swiftly guided it downard. Bang! The echoing crash of the thin, glossy cutting board sent a shockwave accross the whole kitchen, sending spoons and various other bits of silverware tumbling. Damn it, listen to me! No, no, you listen. Stop, stop, shut up! Shut the fuck up! You dont care about me! You dont give a shityou dont fucking care! You think Im messed up, her sneering face was right up in mine. I couldnt hear a word she was saying. I wanted to hit her, bash her arms in, knock her arm out of its socketanything to make her understand.
I pushed my body into hers, blocking her from the phone. She wants to call the cops. Let go of the phone, let go let go let go let go, my voice penetrated, smacked, and reverberated through the house. Youre not calling anyone. Get outgo away. Leave me alone. Stop it! I could swear she was taking me for a joke. Her own son. I grabbed the handset out of her hand and threw it to the ground. I pushed her away and lost it. Again.
Her arm was already bruising from the hatred boiling up inside of me. I wanted it to topple me over. I wanted to completely go insane right thereshow her she was wrong. You think you care? You think some fucking pill is going to help me? Im crazy! Im fucked up! You dont love me, you dont care! Dont talk to mom like that!, my sister interjected. Wrong time to butt in. Im pissed. I run for her and thrust my fist to her shoulder with all my might. She moves out of the way just in time. I swear, I wish I had a kniferight next to the kitchen anyway. Ill cut myself, slit my veins in front of them. Then theyll know. The voices will stop, then. Theyll all stop, all of them. The teasing, rough, pounding commentation will finally end.
I suddenly slip back into reality not knowing where I was. In the kitchen. Yeah. Why are you so upset?, I calmly, but viciously interrogated my mother. I dont know anymore. I dont understand you!, she sobbed.
Writing in the mirror
Thourighain looks into the shield of his felled comrade. Now shattered, its glinting splinters could not offer protection from something as weak as a rat. His gaze fixes intently on the splayed pattern of the mirror. It is customary to honor the mirror bearer at death with typical ceremony. Thourighain laughs at the thought; he is not a very ceremonial person.
The shield is a symbol of the Guild. When making any attack for vengeance, the mirror bearer runs at the head of the formation. The first thing the enemy sees is their own reflection, as if to say We are here for you. You have wronged us, and it is you who shall die. Pity that this enemy did not keep to customs. Poor Uelyn, like his shield, now lay broken into a thousand pieces. A puzzle once created in perfection, now jagged fragments which could not possibly be fitted together again. With no tears shed for the dead, the lone survivors mind wanders off to distant planes.
A vision appears to him, masked in the disfigured visage of a mirror. The words are twisted, broken, and reversed
After some concentration the words slowly become familiar to him
Seek Eldeth Nier. There you shall find the Oracle. That which you have used to build your path is catching up to you. Death follows you, barks, and clicks at your heals. It smells you, Thourighain, and it anxiously awaits your return.
Journey to the End
From the top of a small, stone tower a watchman spies a lone figure on the road. It walks with persistence, even though the mid days heat is overwhelming. A determined shadow, bent solely on reaching the confines of the town ahead. After some moments the gaurd calls out, Hello there, friend. What carries you to this place?
I am seeking Eldeth Nier. I am unfamiliar with these parts. I had thought perhaps to learn something before I starved to death on open path. The gaurd notes the frail form before him. Not an incredibly strong man, but formidable enough an opponent, it seemed. Gray eyes fell on the hilt of the strangers sword. He was obviously not of these parts. Thourighains hand quickly clasped that which the watchman was so interested in, causing those storm hung eyes to retreat. I am from far off. A soldier of chance, one might say., the watchman was hesitant, but had no other truth to accept. The oak gates creaked open with a wretched groan, and both stepped into the city.
Welcome to Thian. Short name, large city. Well, large by our standards. We dont normally get travelers this way. Might I ask what errand youre on?, the watchman grinned, hoping to extract some information about the mysterious visitor. You might., he walked without wavering pace, determined, and somehow confused. Thourighain was quite adept at the art of deceiving others, but today was not the day for such things.
Well, my names Saalis, if you had been wondering. I apologize for being so shy before, but it is my duty to make sure things are safe around here. I admit you look a devious character. So, I might ask, as you said. Where are you coming from exactly? A slight breeze came winding through the empty pit of day, cool and vaguely refreshing, it seemed to hover endlessly about Thourighain. As usual, he paid no mind to anything trivial happening around him. He had become accustomed to the elements, and they had apparently taken a liking to him.
I am from far away, as I said. I dont much like to speak of that which I run from. I prefer to leave the past behind me. Very well., Saalis responded, Heres the tavern. That is, if youre interested. Might find something going on in there. Ive got to tend to the gates. Yes, thank you. Saalis watched the man head towards the main entrance of the building. Same determined step. Unwavering and resolute in mind, he seemed untouched by reality.
We Deserve to be Free
We deserve to be free
To plant our seeds
To feed our needs
To grow from spores
the sacrament that feeds
the realizations that allow us to follow
our own needs
These set-in-stone federal laws
cut us to our knees
We've been delegated to
a lower working class:
Working for our masters
turning flowers to nectar
We work tirelessly
yet we are but specters
The government cares not
for those who work tirelessly
We who have not,
we produce a fine product:
free of rot
They manacle us in chains:
we who have little
And the products of our slavery
they still belittle
Work more, you swine!
What you produce is MINE
But what if we could,
And maybe we should,
take all of our work
and put it to good
To open the eyes
of the ones we despise
Force them to see
Make them realize
That the counterculture
can be good
bring peace, stability,
and wealth to our
A tireless battle
They herd us like cattle
They treat us like chattel
And even so...
I still believe...
what we know
will facilitate a greater need
Society governs that we adhere
to its standards and march to its
A regimented pattern
of predictable steps
guiding the rhythm of our feet
I cast aside conformity
shun such laws
make haste retreat
I plug my ears
I close my eyes
I look within
only to meet
endless and fruitful
I follow my heart,
a drum that is truthful
I drown out the norms,
I follow my soul
to a place that is warm
I accept my individuality
embrace the oddness
natural to me
So an outlander I become
freed from a world
so cold and numb
and belittle me
Yet they do not realize:
They are slaves
I am free.
(More to come, in due time.)
Edited by Sidestreet, 25 August 2014 - 04:34 AM.
merging poems from other thread