Message-ID: <55865asstr$1179137401@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-To: ckought69@hotmail.com Delivered-To: ckought69@hotmail.com X-Original-Path: extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!enews1 From: Vivian Darkbloom <vdkblm-OBLITERATE-SPAM!@yahoo.com> X-Original-Message-ID: <f28pl611s84@enews1.newsguy.com> Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7Bit User-Agent: KNode/0.9.0 X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Sun, 13 May 2007 21:47:34 -0700 Subject: {ASSM} Journey to Sxtlan (purple, ped) Lines: 299 Date: Mon, 14 May 2007 06:10:01 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2007/55865> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, RuiJorge WARNING !! XXX DANGER XXX !! HAZARD !! XXX WARNING !! This document is intended for the perusal of mature readers ONLY. Those lacking in literary competence may find themselves in the disturbing situation of needing to reach for a dictionary, or (heaven forbid) a thesaurus. If you do not know what a thesaurus is, please inquire of your local neighborhood girl scout. If you have never read H.P.Lovecraft, you will find yourself a bit lost at first, but don't worry: sex will ensue shortly. To more fully enjoy this story in living, breathing HTML, please visit our website at: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/vivian/www Now offering over 170,000 words of pure prurience! -------------------------------------------------------- Journey to Sxtlan by Vivian Darkbloom It is only with great reluctance that I dare reveal the outlandish details of the twisted and bizarre tale that it has fallen to me to tell, a warped and dusty decayed cobweb whose lot it has befallen me to spin, whose devilish outlines only the most credulous and tolerant reader, one with the most active imagination, who is willing to suspend all but the most tenuous laws of science and reality as we know it, and allow the tortuous turnings of the crazed narrative embedded in the mad scrawlings of my own notes, writings that I barely remember scribbling through the grotesque state to which my mind had been reduced by the series of events, the fantastical babblings brought on by fantastical occurrences no doubt induced in part by powerful hallucinogens, but notwithstanding other such factors, the particulars of which, should they become known, would shake to the very core the delicate foundations of knowledge upon which modern scientific scholarship, as well as cosmological and evolutionary theories have been based. The facts set out herein only hint at a thin echo of the terrible rantings one may encounter in that horrible infamous tome, The Sexronomicon, in which one will find the crazed ravings of the mad Arab, Haz-al-Otto Harems. Yet, as incredible, nay unbelievable, as such things may be, I cannot but set in words the recounting, if only as a warning, an etiquette of hazard audaciously plastered on the door of the church, a signpost to alert the unwary, "Proceed only at your own peril," though no doubt the terrible meanderings will turn back all but the most heady traveler, for even within the tale itself do the gentle tendrils of enticement surround and entwine the heedless adventurer, until before one knows it, one has become hopelessly entangled in the sticky, perilous vines of poisoned prognostication, only to tumble helplessly into the depths of the most terrible darkness. Brave and daring reader, you have been warned. Your chance to turn back will soon fade. Indeed, would you be well advised to return now, to set aside this recounting of such an awful tangle of dreadful occurrences, while still you are able to recover the blissful and innocent brilliance of the daytime sun as might be pleasantly enjoyed by the average gentle person, one yet unacquainted with such knotted and decadent wanderings into the realm of irrevertible shadowy confusion, one who, with the unknowing bluster, perhaps of youth or some other folly, still might believe in the impossibility of becoming irretrievably bewildered solely from the product of fancy and intellection, who could still conceive a state from which one could recover the semblance of normality, one happily unbruised by the chilling titanic danger lurking beneath the seemingly harmless visible fragment of the alphabetical iceberg, bereft of any inkling of the terrible maze lying as a sinkhole beneath the thin appearance of verbal symbols, believing blithely the impossibility that one find oneself hopelessly bewildered and alien from the mere sentences of a tale such as as might shatter all remnants of sanity, leaving only bare thin threads of logic and reason in their wake. It was such a state of youthful folly indeed, in which I found myself partaking carelessly the fruits of abandon, perched so precariously as I was atop the ivory tower of scholarly contemplation, properly matriculated and enrolled in a tidy schedule of studies in an erudite and worthy institution of higher learning as might befit a youth of my intellectual stature and curiosity. For the sake of those who might be indiscreetly intruded by the eager fact-seeker, the name of the institution of which I speak will remain shrouded in concealment. We may refer to it simply as "Miskatonic." But let us just say that it was a lesser known academy, but nonetheless of significant repute, nestled in the placid country setting of a small town, sufficiently distant from the rough-and-tumble currents of coarse civilisation, yet not bereft of cultural events such as might be provided by the earnest performances of fellow students arduously engaged in polishing such hoary classics as might benefit embarkation on a career in music or theatrics, in the theatre or auditorium situated along two edges of the rectangular courtyard surrounded by Roman-style pillars, bordering the plaza within which dwelt the sinister yet seemingly random tile mosaic in black and white. Had I fathomed the depths to which I could fall from such a sheer height at which I found myself, perhaps I would not have strayed so close to the edge. Yet, it was precisely to that edge that I found myself drawn. It was the vertigo itself that served as an inescapable lure. Often I was accompanied in such ventures by my friend and companion Clifford, my friend whose name led to much hilarity from his compatriots. As, in contradiction to the image one might get from the popular series of small black and yellow books found on wire racks in University bookstores, he seldom took notes at all, and was often found in lecture classes without so much as a scrap of paper. He had a broad and expansive personality, with an uncanny ability to recall every detail of an hours-long lecture. Likewise, when he sat down to write, he would type entirely from memory. This ritual was generally preceeded by a period of several hours during which he sat silently in front of the typewriter, visualizing the shape and texture of the ideas and vocabulary spread across each page that would emerge. It was one evening when we found ourselves lounging together in the twilight on the steps overlooking the quad, in that very magical moment during which the worlds of light and dark exchange places, the sky all lit with the indescribable pinkish orange of sunset. "It's an edge just like this one that one might fall into the gap between our reality and the next," he said, sipping his wine. I laughed. "Do you suppose? Would it work the same way if I turned out the light in my room? I could make it flicker, just to enhance the occurrences of such gaps." He looked at me with great solemnity, as if my words had trod profanely over some grand honorable truth. He held up his glass of wine. "Do you ever wonder whether this brew of fermented grapes, the waste product of yeast, might be leading us astray. Might be deadening our minds instead of awakening them?" "Yeast shit," I jested. "I don't know. Let me try." I chugged the whole rest of my glass, and enjoyed the always-surprising rush of euphoria. "Gee," I said. "I can't tell if it's leading me astray or not. My mind is too deadened from the brew of grapes." "I have met a medicine woman," he continued solemnly. Two girls strolled in a diagonal across the lawn, chattering and laughing at some frivolity. I did not know their names, but found myself noticing their shapely beauty, the toss of their long hair, the pale shades of skin revealed by low-cut blouses, the mysterious shadows within their cleavage, the full roundness of their breasts, the delicious hint of young nipples pressed against taut fabric. They saw me noticing, I'm sure, and acknowledged as they often seem to do by smiling with more silliness and studiously ignoring me as they strolled on by. "The old woman gave me these," said Clifford quietly, opening his hand to reveal several round cactii, vaguely resembling giant tweed coat buttons, each having the appearance of a collection of tiny shriveled little green mammaries. My eyes widened. "Are those. . .?" He nodded seriously. "The sacred medicine of expanding consciousness, of true awareness. That seed of rebellion forbidden by the fascistic governmental authorities, who would not want us to uncover the Key to the Secrets of Reality and Beyond." "Peyote," I whispered. "We'll meet in twenty four hours on this spot," he said. "We each must be entirely sober. And once we have consumed the sacramental bread of knowledge, accompanied by a glass of the essential purity of sparkling spring water, we must each venture out on our own journey, guided by our own spirit." His bass voice emanated from the bowels of a darkness whose magnetic pull of gravity portended the termination of all academically light-hearted inanities to which I was accustomed, to which I might become alien once acquainted with the velvety black secrets of true reality. "Groovy," I said, lighting up a joint, and punching the `play' button on my portable cassette player, settling back into the sensuous distorted guitar of Jimi Hendrix. What a delightful device! Which delivered music on demand at any time and place. Such was my enjoyment of it that I could scarcely imagine life without. Cliff threw me a glance of sordid disdain as I handed him the smoking missile of smouldering herbal escape, starry comets of intense psychedelic energy flying from the glowing red ember. His brief flaming glare made me smile only more. Reminiscent, no doubt, of the time when we had been strolling along the garden mall of the small local downtown area, I lost in the heavy metal musical wanderings served to me through the ingenious device of headphones, allowing me to ignore all auditory stimulii around me by playing as the soundtrack to the movie in which I found myself an actor, when Cliff tugged at my sleeve, urging me to stop. Curious as to what focal point of attention had drawn his gaze, I discovered a bearded wanderer in a threadbare black suit situated neatly on a small wooden stool, striking with decorative mallets in the shape of the small letter `d' at an odd instrument with sets of metal strings stretched sideways across it. Impatiently, I had pulled out a single earpiece to hear what Cliff had to say. "What is it?" I demanded. It was at that moment that he had shot me the first of the sordid glances I would come to understand as his annoyance at my constant addiction to the earphone-delivered musical world of portable stereophonic cassette music. "Would you turn off the damn tape player and listen to the human being in front of you, creating beautiful harmonies through the sole effort of living spirit and the desire for artistic expression?" Still with my music blaring in one ear, I asked: "What do you call that weird thing he's playing, anyway?" "A hammered dulcimer," came the reply. "Would you shut off your damn machine and listen?" I considered deeply, for maybe a half a millisecond. "Can't interrupt `The Wind Cries Mary,'" I shrugged, popping the missing earpiece back in. He said something more, but I replied "I can't hear you!" and he soon gave up. Nonetheless, he made me stand there for about fifteen minutes watching this doofy guy playing some weird instrument, and I could even hear it through the headphones, ruining the silence of the breaks between songs. Back in the wine-drenched fading twilight, I watched Cliff looking away, stoically putting up with my headphone-and-rotting- grape-induced reverie. Honestly, the guy could learn to lighten up now and then. ____________________________________________________________ And so it was that, the next evening, and ice-cold sober, aside from the rushing onset of nefarious hallucinogenic machinations, I found myself alone in the hellish blue late-night light of the full moon, listening to the disturbingly loud din of crickets gaily chirruping, studying the seemingly random black-and-white patterns in the rectangular tile mosaic in the quadrangle between theatre and auditorium, seeing colors where none had ever been seen before. It was to this seemingly meaningless pattern that I had now found myself drawn. This was the edge, whose vertigo worked at my subconscious yearnings with the tantalizing lure of the perilous unknown. To stare into the bottomless abyss beyond, as we often would from time to time, lying on the topmost platform at the edge of the spiral stairwell, safely secure from falling, but exploring the inescapable yet irrational human sense of vertigo, head thrust between the balusters, contemplating the endless tumble into the depths of a world which light had never seen. Frantically, importunately I pored over the mysterious tilework, and wondered what sinister poltergeist messages one might encounter in the frigid crashing snow of this semblance of a frozen and abandoned television set, with black and white molecules dancing in seemingly random patterns between the colorful particles of sparkling drug-induced nerve decay, as my mind reeled alarmingly out of control from the intensely damaging chemistry of synaptic solvents. Nervously trying to calm down, I fumbled clumsily with matches in the nearly imperceptible breeze, finally striking up sufficient flame to ignite a fatly rolled hashish-laced indica joint of which I inhaled deeply the relaxingly soothing dense intoxicating vapors. It was at that moment that the young girl, who must have been but a mere seven years old, came sprinting and somersaulting across the courtyard, leaving colorful swirling tracers and trailers in her wake as she tumbled and spun dancing in an erratic zigzag diagonal across my field of vision. _______________________________________________________ For more stories, please visit our site: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/vivian/www -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>| | FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> | |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}| +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+