Born Again




His greatest contribution to life was bestowing death. A renowned writer in his own time about to meet that which he had so zealously created, and even before drawing it he knew it was his last breath.
    He tried to move, to pound the
casket walls, but his body would not respond.
Mystically, he was raised, becoming the
center of a vast emptiness illuminated by an aura he had never before experienced. And although he was dead, he was not blind, still he could not see so vast was the emptiness.
  Mysteriously the void lifted
revealing a figure so immense that its presence filled the expanses. A resplendent ring - a halo, adorned its head. A flowing gown, purity beyond virgin white, draped the figure, giving it dimension. The figure’s hair was long, soft, and black - black as ink. Though it was not mortal, the face was that of a human. Still a face unlike any other, a face the writer realized, that could only be written. Eyes – dark, piercing, casting an ambience he never knew existed, radiating an emotion he had never before experienced.
  From beyond the giant figure a magnificent portal appeared, ever expanding the theory of infinity. Colossal golden doors were inlaid with gems and precious stones forming the tools of the writer’s craft. Sapphire and ruby studded pencils, diamond points poised to postulate. Platinum encased typewriters, keys and characters each a different jewel, waited atop ivory desks laden with bronze parchment, anticipating an author.


  Interspersed among the glittering weapons of creation were tributes, monuments awarded those scribes before him who had captured the greatest number of practitioners.
  Each coveted award cast in Britannia metal; thousands of proclamations dispensed again and again and again, powered by pulsating vanity.
  Atop the grand entryway a crystalline marquee displayed the deceased’s life endeavors; his
best sellers, and even more. Every plot he had ever conceived, every tale concocted, many nothing more than fleeting intrigues. Yet, there before him on the enormous screen, was every word he had ever written.
  As his handiwork poured forth,
reality was violated time and again. As recognizable plots stalked past, an unabated fear invaded his awareness. There was no time for explanation, only déjà vu - indicting his efforts. His fear turned to despair.
  Mercifully the marquee went empty, its brilliance extinguished, and although he was the voice, the great giant figure spoke,
“What did you read?”
“My work,” the
dead responded incredulously at the sound of his voice.
“How do you plead?”
“Plead? I don’t
“Those are your words are they not?”
“Yes,” the dead agreed, “I am a writer.”
“Writer?” questioned the voice. “Behold!” the great giant figure gestured with a menacing motion and the colossal doors opened exposing a raging inferno. Flames billowed high above the entrance until the heat became intolerable even from a distance.

The scorching atmosphere melted the radiant portal, its treasures dripping, now running forming tributaries until the gateway joined again formning the river Styx.
  The great figure motioned to a writer seated at a desk below them,
  The scene below
came into focus exposing a sight that was all too familiar: seated at the desk, a writer, head supported by his arm, fingers pulling and tearing at his scalp as his pencil raced across paper attempting to keep pace with his schemes. Alternating expressions of torment and ecstasy twisted the authors face as he fanaticized about a new reality.
  But just
like that, the paper vanished, as an unexplained force ripped him from the desk plunging him downward into a mass of entangled, struggling writers. A mass of humanity. An earthly chain, one million purveyors’ long, eons deep. From every cavity in every body jutted quills. Each quill digging letters into festered flesh attempting to write, drawing rivulets of blood that washed away scabs providing for new words.
As words were identified, enactment occurred. The results of their meanings gave more iniquitous
interpretation for yet another, which held meaning for another, continuous, the resulting cataclysms never ending.
  From the center of the tumbling masses rose nuclear clouds. Not one,
not hundreds, but thousands. Each explosion, every consequence depicted; multitudes were vaporized only to reappear with fresh quills protruding carving worn words into old flesh. The clouds of holocaust lifted high and joined, covering the expanses with a stygian hue. The figure gestured to the occupant now at the desk.


  “Who is she?” asked the dead scribe.
  “Mankind,” answered the figure and in a tone baked in irony finished, “creating reality.”
They passed through the maelstrom now made impotent by cold flames until they reached the edge of an even larger pit holding slithering, naked bodies; many toasting from rusting
goblets, others copulating, still others regurgitating streams of vile, while still others washed the bile from feces-encrusted bodies with swollen tongues. All armed with paper and pencil, all attempting to write, only to be molested by their own words.
  Horrified, the wordsmith relinquished, “I’m in Hell” he surrendered.
  “No,” corrected the great figure, “Writer’s Demise”----and a mammoth abyss appeared filled with incalculable numbers of cryptographers, pencils protruding from hands where fingers should have been, conceiving gospels at an unprecedented rate and at an even greater rate their epistles were consumed by scrutiny so intense that not even ashes remained. No one spoke; yet, prophecies reverberated colliding with eulogies from the far expanses. No impious thought was discerned in an atmosphere of expressionless incantations.
  “Writers!” roared the great giant figure,” searching for the Truth in the hollow of their dogmas.”
  Suddenly the scribe began whirling toward the masses below,
“Your time has come” sentenced the giant figure as the condemned disappeared into the first pit and the great figure wrapped the universe in an embrace heralding, “Go, and write the Truth and be free!”
  And as its echo faded a pealing bell began
to mark time. Bong,


Bong, bong.

all else, beyond penalties assessed for the calamities created through his words, far more than quills digging abhorrent messages into his flesh; surpassing even his endless pursuit of themes offering salvation, more maddening than his pathetic existence, was the incessant tolling of the bell, Bong, bong, bong.
With each toll he was exchanged through the human chain becoming fresh parchment savagely shredded by the multitudes in search of their own deliverance. Bong... again, he became a new link in the same chain, wielding quills, scratching, clawing, searching, Bong... now molested, Bong. . . on into the ages, Bong, bong, bong...
  And then a magnanimous interruption occurred. The bell no longer toiled and the content of the silence was the ambience from before.
  He was
seated at the center of the vast universe engulfed in an overwhelming tranquility. Now time was his to do as he would, and as he came together hope sprang eternal. Gazing upon his body he saw millions, maybe billions, of letters and symbols gouged into his being to the depths that words were his very existence. The more he saw, the more incongruous was the thesaurus he had become.
  Time was
unheeded as he searched long and hard for clues held within his being. Eventually he was reduced to searching larger letters for smaller words concealing messages. But none of it made sense, for every story had already been told. Through exhaustion he closed his eyes and bleak visions invaded the darkness of his mind as words pantomimed autopsies exposing unimaginable alliances within traditions producing even greater misery conflicting even harsher concessions. New traditions made more vulgar with each rotation of time. And he saw what he had to write.
  Opening his eyes he took pencil in hand and in an attempt to transform the hopeless
he began his
outline. In every available space, between letters, words, above and below sentences, in every margin, he wrote. But each word, demoralized by conflicting faiths, became lost in rhetoric, arid time now heeded, his every attempt to pen the Truth became the pealing bell. Every word was frustrated and lost in the black hole of denial. His fear increased exponentially as his words became indistinguishable from all the others.
  Words creating new
meanings to philosophies produced more mysterious kinships, filling even more the barren spaces now diminished to near solid lead. With every word now frustrated, he wrote faster drawing him ever father away from his hypotheses. Despair displaced his anguish when his torment was resolved by the commanding voice of the great giant figure, “Write the Truth.”
  He was purged
from the desk and cast into the centrifuge of the second pit as the pealing bell announced his recidivism, Bong...bong…bong...
  Engulfed in words of pain and suffering, sentences of greed and hate, paragraphs of despair, destruction and death, he spiraled downward into depression until at the last moment before capitulation, the toll jettisoned him to the pinnacle of the despotic athenaeum where he could begin anew, Bong... Write that is, until his effort became no more than synonyms for all past illusions, Bong... nothing more than desensitizing synods rationalizing immortality, justifying terror, Bong... It was when his epic approached conformity spinning him deeper and deeper into the depths of delusion the bell tolled terminating all previous theorems, rescuing him to write the Truth, Bong... relentless, Bong...endless, Bong, bong, bong...
through the eons he came to understand that words of conformity drew him closer to the realization that thoughts were exempt from prosecution. Only the written word convicted the author sentencing him back into the centrifuge seeking repentance. As an apprentice studying to become a journeyman, it came to pass that he honed his craft to the degree that his secret thoughts, long rejected and never written was all that was left him, Bong, bong, bong…
  He wrote of
humanity and his time at the pinnacle increased. He wrote of harmony and the pealing bell decreased. Thoughts no longer resigned took breath and with hurricane force breached the wails of babble and in that moment the centrifuge stilled and his spirit was lifted to the center of the universe once again. He closed his eyes in solemn genuflection for the ambience was greater than before.
  The bell no longer tolled, leaving him to search the inner sanctum of his mind and he took up a pencil. Wandering the shelves selecting words of compassion and tolerance, sentences came so rapidly that the mounting pages of his manuscript emasculated the message until his work became indefensible, diluting his argument until it became unintelligible.
  Still he wrote. The Truth
but a syllable away, the nub of the last pencil wore to nothing, and he was ripped from his position and repelled below, “The Truth,” calmed the giant figure as the writer disappeared into the third pit and the toll took up again, Bong, bong, bong...

  Immersed in a sea of imminent creators, pencils protruding from hands where fingers should have been, wrote oracles that were baptized in the font of deceit. So feverishly did they prophesize that the lead from their pencils blackened the atmosphere with toxic
beliefs in malevolent gods. A pall so dense that only the razor like slashes of broken
and shattered dreams lit the chaos. Mesmerizing reverberations of expressionless incarnations propagandized the veil, filling eternity with the strains of lies, Bong, bong, bong...
through time thoughts thought through thoroughly tempering the tormenting tale tempting the toll, he wrote. With eight pencils as one he wrote words of harmony and humanity, honor and happiness. He wrote of hope and homage and his words took chord reverberating throughout replacing the incantations with anthems of accord and the light made brighter from bolts of imploding antiquities penetrated the doom revealing the Truth.
  In that moment he was taken up in the arms of the great giant figure and presented to the universe, “Go!” commanded the archangel releasing the author from all bonds, “and write the truth.”
And the
earth stood still for just a time as the Truth descended upon mankind.
squealed the radiant mother as the umbilical cord was severed and the newborn placed at her breast, “Look” she delighted as the infant suckled, drumming mother’s chest with eight tiny fingers, “our baby is going to be a writer.” Drawing the child ever closer to her bosom the echo of her joy infiltrated the masses for nothing is more powerful than a writer whose time has come. PEACE…PEACE…PEACE....



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