March 9, 2010

A piece of my story

The second issue is coming out and we worked hard to put it together, but we are all very pleased with it and we hope everyone else is too. We have many goals in mind for what is to come and plenty of ideas. Here be monsters is serving well as a creative outlet and hopefully as an idea machine.
It is entirely possible that we have never explained why we call it here be monsters. The first issue came out around Halloween and we thought, geez hope nobody thinks this is specific to Halloween... because it has nothing to do with monsters. Huh? No monsters (well... not quite, not all the time). The title has to do with that space at the edge of the map. It was the here be monsters on maps used to indicate uncharted territory... It was uncharted in so many ways and our stories are either on the borderline of reality, or even more often completely off the known-reality map... Completely fantastical, for example, mine this time takes place in Montréal. Not many more fantastical places.

Here is an piece of it:

The cold light seemed to burn away what he thought he knew like tiny bits of paper. The solid matrix of his mind had been a well-constructed puzzle when he fell asleep that night. During that night's sleep, however the last piece of the puzzle did not fall into place: rather it flew across the room of his mind and cracked off of the hardwood floor. There it lay. Still within sight. Slowly, it would seem as if that puzzle piece was the centre of his mental Rubik's cube, or was it some other more torturous puzzle box?
Everything he believed until now, or much of it, was a lie. Not a lie constructed by people, nor a conspiracy, nor a plot against him. The deceiver crept within, most parasitic. It knew him intimately. It created things from the void and erased things from plain sight. At some indeterminate point his mind had become his enemy. At that moment he could only conceive that much of what he believed was like seeing the world through the eyes of someone that many would cross the street to avoid. That morning six months ago, it was clear that lenses of another colour than truth had been bolted over his eyes. This colour was a strange orange, an ugly yellow, or green. Something dark, something sickly.
In the first days following his revelation he had found some solace in writing. He had hoped it could be used to rebuild the foundation and eventually to fashion a portcullis to separate the truth from the lies his enemy whispered and showed him.

165 days ago,
The light this morning hurts my eyes and I don't need to tell you why. If you don't know then you won't hear it from me. I know my name. Tsotev. I know my birthday, my age. Not much else over the last few days is certain. Time and memories have blurred. My vision also, from the pain in my head.
Where and what I studied is anyone's guess; where my parents, or any other family, reside is as clear to me as a steaming pile of dung. It is also just as hard to ignore. I feel like a beetle, but not a musician. Clearly, I did not study necrogenesis theory. And the memories of a scholar exploring metaphysics or the elements and manifestations of other dimensions are delusions. My memories place me in multiple academic settings, and I have a diploma on my wall. Strangely, I do not feel like I am the type to hang my diploma on my wall. I do not remember studying geopolitical economics. My brain feels like it is frozen and being chopped, and bounced about in a blender. Since my moment of lucidity, I am tormented by a light behind my eyes. Whenever I close them I see it: a small florescent point of white on ink-black silk. It is a curtain hung at the front of my skull anchored in flesh and bone.


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