The Postmodernist

Do you see my Dionysian impulse

that I embrace wholeheartedly,

while rejecting my sovereign autonomy?

Do you understand my repulse

of progress and novelty,

and ideological distinction and economy?


Do you not see my rejection

towards beliefs of modernity,

while finding a friable identity.

With a drug-induced erection

and processed food in my tummy,


I am –


An unemployed entrepreneur,

Caffeine-addicted, gaming accruer,

Wine, beer and liquor connoisseur,

Ignorant genius that smells like manure,


That lives in the basement of my third mummy.




Here is Episode 5 of Tundris Mor found on Infinia! Check out all updates this week. Please feel free to share this story and others! Thanks!

Originally posted on Infinia:

“Each of us has a dark side that is hidden from others. We cannot rid ourselves of it. We cannot help others rid themselves of it. Darkness cannot drive out darkness.” ~Ethor Raig

In the history of the world, no Ispolini had gone into the Deep and returned. The Deep was a perilous place. The Deep was an unforgiving place. The Deep was forever feared.

Send him to the Deep.

Jastrab’s words rang in Krikos’ ears and sunk into his conscious mind. The words of his sentencing skipped across Krikos’ skull like a stone across an endless expanse of water. He could no longer find the strength to face any of the Ispolini. He could not meet the eyes of those that had nurtured him and given him guidance.

His head hung as though it had been sundered from his neck. He felt alone with the condemnation of the Elders…

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A Slave’s Liberation

Vrorgard stepped into the wide coliseum with the shabby sword limply held in his hand. His lips were chapped and the wounds of yesterday were already scabbing.  He groaned in agony, attempting to stand upright.

The sounds of the masses resounded against his eardrums. The familiar din was deafening.

He had only taken three steps into the arena before he found himself biting his inner cheek to draw attention away from his swollen, bare feet. The sands were scorching and his soles were cut and brimming with pus and infection. He had accumulated the Rot from his cell mate, the bastard, who had died the week prior. It was as though the Sun God mocked his Fate, heavily breathing fire upon his sole/soul.

The slaves were given very little for these barbarous displays of brashness. Before the Ga’tol Guard had taken him prisoner, slaughtering his father and stealing away his betrothed, Vrorgard had lived in mediocre luxury. At this moment, his life was not fit for the hogs. If he were not slaughtered, he would die from the Rot. Having little control of Fate left a man like Vrorgard desperate.

“Citizens of Ga’tol,” exclaimed the Crier from the lofty retreat above the arena, “Prepare for a display of nerve and gallantry never before witnessed in the Dome. Today, this fearless slave, with nothing to lose and nothing to gain, will fend off three starved lions from the forests of Vashual!”

The Sun God really did hate him. Vrorgard could only think that he must have been a rain cloud in a previous life.

He fingered the hilt of his weapon and stared past the Crier. His eyes locked on the Emperor of Ga’tol that drank his wine, wiped crumbs from his purplish robes, and stroked the blonde locks of the woman at his side. His name was not important to Vrorgard. A man did not need to know another man’s name to be covetous. Life was a masquerade filled with inequality, injury, and injustice.

Vrorgard curled his lip. His heart was filled with fury, his mind with bile.

The squall that erupted from the warrior’s lips was deafening. Lightning flashed in his eyes. Thunder echoed in his breath. The gale rushed from his lungs as though it had never been heard and needed to sound throughout the world at once. Even the Sun God could not ignore the wrath of Vrorgard’s internal storm.

And then the sword in Vrorgard’s hand plummeted through his own chest. His fingers loosened as he swayed. He stood there momentarily, nearly as surprised by his own action as the silenced crowd. His blood flowed down his bare chest to his aching feet.

It was warm, warmer than the sand.

The Sun God could have his vassals. The Crier could have its audience. The Emperor could have his grandiose life. Vrorgard would have his freedom.



Here is the 4th installment of the story of Krikos and Maruda. The sentencing for his actions is in the hands of the Council of Almdalir.

Originally posted on Infinia:

“To be worthy of life you must die for something also worthy.” ~Darko Kel

Krikos kneeled against the smooth cave floor. His knees were as red as his swollen hands that were held tightly by the many Ispolini guard. There were two on either side of him. The four did not give any hint of loosening their grip. Twenty more lined the circular room in preparation for his anticipated revolt.

Krikos did not move, standing as still as the stone columns that were strategically left in the room to maintain the ceiling.

He averted his eyes from each and every Ispolini in the room. He was surrounded by those that he had once called friend and brethren. He especially kept his eyes from the judging faces of the proceeding Council. There were seven stone seats that held the Elders of the Ispolini. One seat was empty.

There was no barrier…

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How has this red pen found its way into my hand?

Scribbling and writing where black ink should land

Words fill the paper like ink dripping from a quill

My mind swarms in chaos, but my body is at a standstill

Except for my fingers sliding up the smooth edges of my pen

That hurriedly writes the words that my mind recognizes as sin

It is as though two men are trapped within my scarred soul

Possible, it cannot be, for two men to survive as one whole


Darkness then is blotched across the weary paper

The bloodstained ink has disappeared like a lucid vapor

Such hatred is inborn within ink colored thoroughly black

It ricochets in my body, and I begin to feel my soul crack

Twisting futilely in circles trying to withstand the strain

I have misplaced pleasant sounds to shrill screams of pain

One half of me strangling the other driven by complete madness

The other taking it in stride, overwhelmed by a great sadness


I take a step back as though for my eyes have been deceived

Never will I quite understand all that I have previously believed

I cower in the brightness, praying it will protect me from unholy chasms

The closer to God I become, the more temptation appears as phantasms

I fear that I will lose the focus as fragility fringes upon my fate

Fortune cannot be granted to a fool whose watch is an hour too late

So, I lay down in softened grasses staring at an eclipse, a clever molding

Then with great regret, began to question why this life is worth holding


Again black hatred streams like tar-stained tears down my cruel face

Through the shadows I continue to find purpose for my pompous place

Through time, memories bring forth a lesson in order to rightly remind

The world, planned by a spiritual hand, is not for making answers easy to find

My two halves say that speculation over the meaning of their existence is rife

The realization that the black ink, so natural in color, defines their life

As well, this same color will surely lead them to their undaunted death

Because those blinded by this ink cannot see the darkness in its breath