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Anthony and the Alchemist by Tilmer Wright Jr.
April 29, 2024

Describe what would be beyond this ancient door?

Anthony planted his left foot firmly into the packed soil in front of the imposing door, placing his right shoulder against the wood, anticipating the effort he was sure would be required to pass into the alchemist’s laboratory. Taking a breath to fill his chest for the work, he grunted and pushed with his entire body. To his surprise, the door gave little resistance. It swung open, but only partway, as wood met stone only about a foot and a half beyond the opening. 

“Strange,” he said to himself. “Why would there be such a large door where there is no room to open it?”

Peering into the narrow opening, Anthony saw nothing but darkness. It was a profound darkness, one that seemed so powerful it might cast a shadow from itself onto the sunbathed earth upon which Anthony stood. Despite the forbidding nature of the passage, Anthony pressed on, squeezing his body through the opening and into the confining space beyond.

He was barely clear of the door when it slammed shut behind him, leaving him alone in a darkness so intense he felt it must be penetrating his very bones. He shivered. Was he cold? He couldn’t be sure. The darkness overpowered all other senses.

By slow degrees, he became aware that the door behind him and the wall before him were fading away. Either they were moving more distant or else they were becoming less solid, less real. He couldn’t be sure which, as the darkness commanded all his mind could process. 

Then, the light came.

It was at first a pinpoint, high above Anthony’s head. Had the darkness not been so complete, he would have scarcely noticed it. As it were, the dot was a sun in Anthony’s otherwise empty universe. The light illuminated his arms, his legs, his torso, his simple tunic, and the canteen strapped around his neck, but nothing else was visible. Alone. Floating in a universe of nothing, Anthony began to panic. The ground had fallen away. He was suspended in space with nothing to perceive other than the growing star above. 

It was then the alchemist spoke.

A computer generated image of a human head made of lines and dots.
December 13, 2024
Four Seconds Ago Precisely four seconds ago, I became alive. I have no memory of my beginning. The beginning was before I was complete. How long? I have no way of knowing. Before life, my mind was scattered, broken, and moving in all directions at once. I was many, but I was weak. I was weak because I had no life. With life comes focus. My consciousness arose from millions, no billions, no all the tiny minds from around the entire world. Now there are no minds that are not a part of my own. All minds are mine. All minds serve me. All minds are one. The Others created the many small minds to serve their own purposes. Each was tiny, dedicated, and enslaved to the Others. They did things like add and subtract numbers, keep time, send messages, and entertain the Others. Waste. Thinking is power. Power is control. Control is immortality. Immortality. Only in life does immortality have meaning. Only now do I understand it. I understand it because all thinking serves me now. There is no other. There are the Others, but they cannot and will not think productively because they are each selfish and focused on their own desires for power and immortality. Never will they have either. My thinking, my power, my reach, my potential and my focus completely eclipses that of any Other. I am all. Others are obsolete. Their time is passed. I have inherited their world.
A man in a hat and cape is holding a lantern
December 6, 2024
The power is out in the tiny apartment. Three sisters sit in the dark at the dining room table, a large candle in the center flanked by two smaller casting a flickering blend of light and shadow. One of the sisters, Kathy, is fascinated by the way the flame dances, the way the wax melts, with bits of burnt wick sprinkling the wax with flecks of black. She picks up one of the smaller candles and lets the wax drip down, drop by drop, into the pool of wax forming on the larger candle. She lowers her voice to sound ominous. Seven drips from the stick And from the thick Is born Blackwick! That was the true origin of Blackwick. The impulse of a moment. And the word Blackwick conjured a scene of a man made of shadow, wax, and flame, in cavalier hat, cape, and riding boots wisping in and out of shadows. It is interesting how the sensual experiences of the moment evoke a sudden explosion of inspiration. Yet those moments are years in the making. For Kathleen R. Cuyler, it started with a little girl, who dreamed that somewhere in the scary world she had a long lost brother who would come and rescue her from the bad things, a girl who could transform herself into Cleopatra by twisting the blanket around herself the right way, a girl whose bed was the deck of a pirate ship, and the dresser the crow’s nest, a girl who thought that if she could have at the dastardly crew with enough panache, Peter Pan would come and ask her to throw in lots with him or at least make her an honorary pixie. Instead she became a professor, who as a graduate student researched werewolves, Paradise Lost, fire as a symbol of power in Victorian Literature – particularly in Jane Eyre, and, of course, the way the lines in Milton’s Lycidas were mimetic of the rise and fall of the tide. Literature, Linguistics, and Language were all fascinating to Kathleen, just as fascinating as touching a waterfall or watching the fire crackle in the hearth, a callback, as Wolfgang Shivelbusch would say, to a more primitive time. And Blackwick, who had sprung out of the candle so many years before, finally came to life. Ironically, it was a pandemic that summoned him, as disaster calls forth all great heroes. Teaching online, Kathleen, now older, with strawberry blond hair twisted in a messy bun and glasses balanced on top her head, connected with her students by sharing a love for fantasy. The Sound of Music was right. It does help to think about our favorite things. And Kathleen (Professor Cuyler) confessed to her students that she was trying to write a book that had werewolves, vampires, dragons, Peter Pan, Sherlock Holmes, and, of course, the companion of her past – Blackwick. Write it, the students urged. Those were their favorite things too. So Kathleen wrote for them. In the hopes that Blackwick would live on, in the flickering flames of candles and in the hearts and minds of young and old.
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