DEIEFIED INCARNATE

CH 4. The Deity Incarnate

In the brief whisper between the age of Metal, and the age of Deities, the was almost an Era of peace which was sabotaged by men with the hearts of beasts. “The vacuum of power can call those of good and evil alike. Idle minds invite new designs, Idle hands are the devils will.” Ferocious ambitions intervening with each other's ascension, equal waves canceling each other out. A storm can’t rage forever, the rain can only contain so much gasoline, Its Nuclear sewage spewing from delinquent behemoth clouds, like navy blue mounds that cried form deep fried war ridden skies where the liquid propane precipitation seldom took days off. At first all the plants died, but they did not stay dead for long, they were resurrected by their own defiance. They evolved to once again conquer the land, greater than before, with the lambent streams feeding their heights, peculiar defective anatomy to adapt them to the frugal sunlight of the new forever gray skies, now in paralysis, haunted by weapons of the apocalypse. The wheat seemed almost completely unchanged, its identity a symbol of mundane family life before sagas gratuitous war, a feeble placebo rural folk could cling to keep hope of a restored utopia on life support. conquering meadows painted the depths of the valleys with waves of the pale-yellow plant, that seemed brighter behind the gray skies. Cactus cannabis scavenged for real estate advantage, but the wheat was rampant and stranded its combatants in the pantheon of havoc. The wheat shackled the feet, cluttered with an entourage of symbiotic man-sized mushrooms erupting from the base, sprouting through of the perforations in the dark barbed bark of the ‘Great Titan Pines’. Their branches curved at weird round angles into their own entangled spires, with bright orange pines like scorpion porcupine spines, they were true overlords who ruled the land New Nevada that granted humans a second chance at rebuilding a civilization. But still war continued. No longer were engagements fought in great waves, nations remained intact barely, fueled by the mirage of possessing the keys to a one world order that none could seem to grasp, without having it taken by someone else before they can compose themselves into a semblance of prevailing order. It was a messy gurella war, metal golems wrestling in the mud for the crown of imperial supremacy. Even the wildlife had become less docile in response to the diminished influence of the societies of mankind. Zergs of coyote cougar syndicates, bastards of genetic assimilation, colloquially coined ‘Range Wraiths’ , sunk into a submerged prowling patrols through the veil of the wheat seas looking for an unaware meal, or some half-digested regurgitated spew to slurp up, anything to keep calories coming into their emaciated zombified carcasses or something they could drag back to their queen’s subterranean petroleum lubricated hive tunnels, where a fury of yipping piranhas would await anything unlucky enough to survive the descent. The environment was the secondary arena each nation was also contending with, resulting in elevated prestige for those who were game wardens, or animal control soldiers for more immediate threats, both were now revered as defacto agents of the national guard working in union with the military to serve their country, Odesscyrah; One of the few nations resolute enough to continue to participate in the pilgrimage to the throne of the planet, alongside it’s closest neighboring rival Afghanastasia. The bursts of wind sent waves across the surface of the wheat seas. During the days howls of the wraiths occasionally formed choirs, as the vacant meadows fetched the echos of muffled claps of distant artillery cannons like misunderstood sorceries to the creatures and humans alike to who had never seen the supernatural awe of a mechanized suit duel.

A modest 3 story farmhouse, that was ‘old as shit’ even before ‘Pa’ left, but it had character it had charisma, it was an organic structure of serene rustic beauty, the type of place people would like to grow old with. While not completely antique it does have some conventions of modern technology to make farming manageable by a skeleton crew, a mom and her two young sons. Their house was inset in a crescent outcropping of prairie, being watched over by the juggernaut great titan pines which surrounded their house on three sides. As was common with farmers to lie on the perimeters of great pines, where the more affluent remnants of modern civilization built their colonies, to better surveil threats. The farmers lived a mostly docile life despite war raging off and on in other parts of the world, business as usual, everyone knew they needed to do their part to ‘vanquish tyranny! Once and for all!’ , winning the war was a community goal even for those on the fringes of society. Even those not directly involved in the conflict, knew a loved one who was deployed in a regiment. For the ‘Fringe Farmers’ the nearest neighbor was about 2 miles away, and their nearest plutonium rod station 70 miles away at what is generously considered a city ‘Aurora Valley Creek’ just enough essentials for the mostly farming residents to feel in contact with the outside world, named after it’s never freezing river polluted with unusual florescent pollen, a bizarre debris secreted from the almighty pines during the frequent feverish rains, that made the river produce its own aurora borealis effect with the fluid glistening as if the pure sun’s rays were reflecting off it, even with predominately cloudy haze overtaking most of the year. This particular residence, belonged to Anorlana Elaine Astramanthe her husband Galbraith Roy Astramanthe, and their two sons Vance Fayre, 16 and Zaith Draque, 12.

It was a mundane noon in late June, the ‘dry’ season, or less wet season for growing non fungi altered crops. Where the rain usually was lighter or brief in mornings and subsided by mid-day. A middle aged woman clothed in pajama bottoms and a shirt that looked like it might be on its third use for the week, creaked down the wooden stair case with absolutely no sense of urgency “The work wasn’t going anywhere…” she assumed, as her boys didn’t often clean things without constant reminding, not that they were lazy, just preoccupied with hunting and other more adventurous outdoor tasks usually, but she relied on them to do their daily chores while they’re dad was away. She was late getting up, but she couldn’t handle the tyranny of clocks, if she was tired, she slept, if she was wired, she kept plugging along, one part mechanic, one part custodian, one part mom, and that was how she liked it. She staggered down the wooden staircase like a moaning zombie in search of caffeine, around the corner to the open concept kitchen which was adjacent to the stairs but lodged deeper back. A window above the sink in the L shaped kitchen cove bleed in the vampire friendly cool light. She began her daily ritual, pouring coffee beans into the grinder at the top of the coffee maker, and checking to make sure it still had enough water to fulfil its duty. “Another machine that I need to keep running” she thought, wondering why the coffee was not yet brewing. As she pressed the brew button a couple times to no success. “Dammit, I thought I fixed this thing already! Why can nothing ever stay fixed?!” She said filling her head with a brief profane hatred for all technology ever conspired, but she had become conditioned to venting to herself, she was in charge of the household, she was good at moderating around her kids because setting a good example was more important than giving in to her frustrations, usually. She had indeed already fixed the coffee machine, but she had forgotten to plug it back into the kitchen outlet after working on it the garage the day before. Upon realizing this she was mad at herself but also happily relived, that she had not hallucinated fixing the coffee brewer. Her daily solace reflection time could be achieved. She reached for her cigarette pack that she kept by the coffee pot, with her cybernetic prosthetic arm that was completely mechanical looking except for her human looking ring finger with her gold wedding band. She had to hide her cigarettes indoors to keep herself from smoking them all day, she had to heavily police herself, as she had gotten out of hand in the past sometimes. It seems cigarettes go well with everything, except human health. They were her irrational love interest, and it seems mechanics are especially drawn to them, giving themselves a reason to take a break, as if they themselves have become some exhaust producing machine. “Is it fucking Sunday again already?! Shit!” She seemed to remember as her brain fog began to clear amidst the unusually suspicious tranquility that was normally a bombardment of ruckus from her boys every morning, unless… “Ughhhhh how am I supposed to set a good example when I don’t follow my own rules?! those boys are weasels if you don’t keep an eye on them for one minute.” She thought, knowing the boys had been scheming since the day before, to skip church that morning, waiting to see if she’d forget to wake them up if she got too pulled into a late-night project to even wake herself up. “How did this happen two weeks in a row?! the days just bloody bleed together sometimes!” She told herself knowing exactly why it happened, she liked to stay busy, very busy, as busy as possible, while her husband was away. Anything was better than thinking about what might be going on in the war, which had shoddy battlefield footage in the media at best, and if it was good coverage, it would only amplify her anxiety. But church was good, it was her only non-business contact with other adults, which felt almost crucial to her sanity, even if the flock of detective crones loved to hoot about her irregular attendance. A faint residue of a ritual that reminded her of a time before her husband had been conscripted for what felt like an eternity, back when they all used to go together as a family. But those were a phantom fever dream of a time, back when her life felt truly rich, and her community had brighter sense of vitality. She lit her cigarette and took a few drags from it hovering over the sink, gazing out the window as the pale light revealed the symbiotic geography of her determination ridden face that was almost competing with her beauty. Staring into the open cove of wheat that thinned out as it crept toward the wall of the forest behind her house, she admired in the subtle beauty of their own quaint little oasis, which now felt more like some unrealistic incomplete simulation without her best friend there to share it with. “Is this what depression feels like? But what is ‘depression but lingering sadness?” She wondered, conspiring with her own grievances with the state of reality. “It will be okay I guess; I’ve got to stay strong for them. Can’t let them see me like this” she said to herself, only half convinced, fearful that her sadness would somehow be contagious to her children if she let it out or let them catch a glimpse of her barricaded emotions. She inhaled the rest of her cigarette in more vigorous bursts as the cool light washed over her bloodshot silver blue eyes that she refused to let tears escape from, as she relished the sanctity of her alone time, while her emotional cloaking device slowly recharged during its unscrupulous intermission. She summoned her mind back into her body as she snapped back to reality, then she remembered “At least I accomplished a lot yesterday, and that maybe I’m just being tired and going through one of my moody phases.” Even though her ‘moody phases’ came once or twice every day, like a demon possessing her any time she left a crack open to her vault of feelings, like some sort of plague of black haunted smoke plumes billowing up from under a door to the blackest part of hell, where Lucifer goes to relax. She had become accustomed to having these visits invade her, almost like a friend she once knew becoming reacquainted, some perverse placebo impostor of love, a vampire demon with brilliant saffron eyes that glow with of as much sorrow as hers , that look like the sun’s rays shining into on them, even when there was no sunshine not filtered by clouds, and there was no sunshine in a windowless room. The type of demon even the strongest willed people might invite into their bedroom by accident. She drifted over towards the couch that was the same cove water blue color as the pre-war ocean before it’s radioactivification converted it to a supernaturally dark foliage green color for the rest of the foreseeable future. She sat facing her hulking tank of television set, that looked like a rusty brass quagmired chimera of scrap tractor parts assimilated it what could pass for a steam powered aircraft. But this set was top of the line for last year's model, that her husband got her before his induction back into the military crusades, that could somehow mystically intercept news broadcasts and sitcoms depicting wholesome family values of an idealized society. The TV sat with its back against the same wall as the front door, so she could at times survey the doorway from at a glance, to make sure her sons were home before the conglomerated reign of nightfall. She sipped her cup of coffee while coiling one of her legs on the couch into a more relaxed position, as she awkwardly reached for her remote on the end table with her nonadjacent free hand that wasn’t clutching her morning coffee mug like it was a hostage that might somehow sprout limbs and bolt out of the nearest exit like some tiny impostor kool-aide mascot. The black colorless glass TV screen turned on and filled with light, surprisingly without needing to pull the choke cable several times. “Well, if I missed church service I might as well see what’s going on, on TV” The fuzzy image of some church leader’s face filled the set as he was talking mid-sentence answering the unknown question that was asked by the talk show host. “Well, you know how hard it is coping with fame Jessie!” Said the guest star, who was an older man who was probably 50 but looked 60 with antiquated looking glasses and an uneven thistle of white stubble all over his face like barbed dandelions. This was the “Jessie Wright: Coffee at Noon” mid-day talk show, that Anorlana was regrettably more familiar with than she would like to be. “Oh yes! I know exactly how hard it can be! Going to the grocery store has become it’s ow stealth mission, people turn into professional football players when they want an autograph, I guess. So, this your third book already Mr. Narcman?” Curtis Narcman. “Yeah, yeah it is!” Said the man in a more zoomed out shot showing more than just his face, his blisterous sweat glossed mass that barley still had any resemblance of a human body, as some vertical accordion machine one pike with an X shaped base with wheels on it was connected by a hose to the back of the metal shackle around his neck sat next to him pumping air into his lungs. He sat on a couch almost taking up the entire area meant to seat three people. located adjacent to Jessie’s bigger comfortable individual chair, the type seen in a therapist office or a library. “So, And I know the fans are dying to know, can you give us some insight as to what inspired you to write such an epic, and where you want to take this this story in the future?” Pried Jessie , a man who could pass for Henry Cavill wearing a trench coat cardigan hybrid with a crater shaped collar and some sort of large shoulder pauldron woven into the fabric giving him a mix of contemporary futurist fashion mixed with preposterous masculinity which was the look of a modern men with the budget for high taste, as he leaned forward in his chair resting his chin on his palm in anticipation. “Sure, sure, you know I can’t keep a secret without dropping a few hints! Well all my fans are well aware of my first entry in the saga, ‘Jeffery Dahmer: And the Spell Slinger’s Scimitars’ , the story is laced with the trapping of my own life, coming from a nontraditional family being raised by four dads, It’s about a boy magician whose parents were killed in a forest fire, that gets accepted to a non-Co-ed boarding school for all boy orphans to become sorcerers, and his difficulties of coming to age discovering his heterosexuality in a homosexual world while simultaneously battling a ‘The half Lizard Wizard’ who continually attempts to steal his virginity and his own moral convictions of eternal celibacy. It’s a page turner for sure! I don’t want to give away too much, but in the latest edition of the story, let’s just say the main charterer ‘falls in with the wrong crowd’” The audience releases a loud gasp at this reveal followed by a low cheer and a brief applause as Curtis acknowledged the audience with a goofy beyond jovial facial expression of excitement. “And that’s exactly what this country needs in such uncertain times, a strong message for the youths to resonate with, giving them a role model to inspire them, and I love love love, how patriotic he is! How he is willing to go to war for what he believes and is willing to sacrifice his life and his friends lives for his country. But I guess we won’t know until you finish the whole series.” Exclaimed Jessie with hyperbolic levels of platitudes. “Yes, and that is my only regret, in life Jessie that I’m imprisoned in a body that is not fit for military service, and that I can only give myself to the church and my writing and not my country. So, I guess in that way I’m living vicariously through my characters.” Said Curtis with glum look that he could barely morph his gelatinous face into expressing. “I too feel your pain, I know a few people in my life who died valorously in the blaze of combat, and my life seems boring by comparison, so that’s why I’m all about encouraging people to do what I wish I could do with my life and serve the country. God knows that's what Odesscyrians need right now, if fire in their hearts to win this long running war, which I know we are on the precipice of accomplishing. So I take that as my own silver lining, that I can use my platform to unite our people to overcome the tedious nature of this war and show that through patriotism all things are possible. And that’s why I think your book resonates with so many people, and is so important right now in these times.” Said Jessie with a sniffle as the camera zoomed in on his face with his eyes reddening and welling with tears, one of which managed escape and drip down his cheek. “I Know Jessie!, It’s our love that compels us to keep doing our duty, our love of our country, our patriotism! My family motto has always been “life, liberty, and the proliferation of patriotism!” Said Narcman with his eyes also filling themselves with inspiration fueled tears, as he worked himself up disrupting his own breathing , causing his nearby umbilical machine to pump twice as fast to fill the gas giant with air. “Well said my friend It’s been a pleasure having you on! And that seems like an excellent message to leave the audience to linger on, and buy his new book, ‘Jeffery Dahmer: and the Half-Patriot Prince’ available at all literature retailers!” Said Jessie after having his debilitating sadness miraculously cured as he stood up holding a physical copy of the book to show to the audience. Narcman pushed himself off the couch engaging some sort of moon gravity device allowing him move whimsically across the stage. The audience showered them with a clamoring applause as Jessie walked over to Narcman and a gave him a kiss on the cheek followed by a generously lingering hug even if though he could barley fit arms around half of the man’s -equator. She sat half mesmerized by the level of theatrics they’ve invested into their daytime show, theatrics, she used to buy into when her life was near perfect. “How can they put this mindless drivel on T.V. anymore? War is death and when it isn’t it’s a thief, stealing precious moments of people’s lives. The war was supposed to be over by now, how long can we continue like this? Until all capable fighters are dead? I’m sure the politicians, would find a way fight each other with words, litigation duels” she imagined preposterously, but in this era everything preposterousness seemed like prophecy. The mortgage on hope was a steady stream of euphoria delusions injected by any outlet that could inject tempting idealized propaganda into those who refused to fathom a possible future of futility, desperation, and national defeat. “My husband has been gone four years, minus the few vacation months he gets, which feel surreal and too brief, like short narcotic eclipses of reality, and even after his Initial 4 years , we had him back for 2 years. We tried to wait out the war before he would re-enlist, but it never came, I told him we didn’t need the money that much, we could make do for awhile longer but he kept saying ‘We don’t need the money, but our country does need a future’ as if he could see the end of the war somehow, a glimpse down the end of the tunnel. I didn’t believe anything anyone told me anymore, I just wanted my husband back, my whole family, but I believed in him, and he was unfortunately very good at his job as a titan suit pilot, they needed him, now!, and they were willing to double his pay.” Anorlana sat meditating on how she got to this point, but it never made sense. “Why did I let him go? Again?! Am I stupid? ,or too brave thinking I could handle all this anxiety alone?” But we as humans always seek challenges we think we can overcome, like taking tests we know we’ve studied for, or an ascent to the peaks of Everest, and “I’ve done it before” She told herself. But this time felt different as if her anxieties we multiplying, and her reveries no longer under her control, a beast she once held dominion over, now had dominion over her. When her husband was deployed, she too had enlisted for another tour of anxietous wonderings in thoughts of treacherous uncertainty somehow compiling into more grim machinations of purgatory, or some eternal, half sorrowed husbandless world. She was able to stave off the thoughts most of the time, sedating them by bludgeoning them back into the recesses of her mind with any latest distraction she could come across. She got up with a long upward stretch raising her human and robotic arm as high as they could reach, making the face of a yawning lion as she arose from her morning hypnosis after getting her dose of morning T.V. for the day, just enough propaganda filtered reality to provoke her spite powered body into doing something productive. “Lets see how the plants are doing today.” She thought walking to the farther end of the living room past the couch over to the recreational sun room, which was converted into a long extended greenhouse for more sensitive personal crops.

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