The Enigmatic Monster Project

Why Is This Still A Thing?

One day aliens will finally visit us on this dismal little ball of rock. I say dismal because as the top species we have simply made it this way. The aliens won’t even bother with our leaders. They’ll just ask for the smartest people on the planet: scientists, engineers, mathematicians, artists, humanists, etcetera. If those people are still permitted to exist by the time the aliens do come …

These aliens will then point to news stories about discrimination against the gays, transgendered people, poor and sick people, veterans, women, children … They’ll point to all the stories about how racism is still prevalent, and then the stories about why white supremacy is still here (and reluctant to leave us in peace). And if you think that they’re going to gloss over the atrocities done in the name of religion, politics, war, then you’re out of your mind!

Then these aliens will ask us: “Why is this still a thing? What are alternative facts?” When our jumbled answers don’t satisfy them, they’ll ask another question.

“What is wrong you people?”

And the answer to that is simple: many of us are dumb, wicked, selfish. Also known as the asshole.

Mostly unsatisfied, the aliens will thank us for our time. “This is why we never visit you. Oh, and we’re taking your Netflix away. Byeeee!”

If Netflix is still allowed to exist by then. Humans like to ruin the good things they do have. What is our problem?

(Oh, that’s right!)

March 18th, 2012 by P.L. Cobb, written for the Enigmatic Monster Project

March 18th, 2012

It’s Sunday, and I am at the same place I always end up on this day: church.

I don’t talk to God though; I don’t give him the attention they say he deserves. All around me people whisper, saying things under their breath like ‘Jesus, please forgive me’ or ‘Help me to forgive, so that I may be forgiven.’ Somehow I’m able to sit like a statue, unmoved by the subtle heartbreak that surrounds me. Everyone here just wants to be loved.

So, what is love? How do I understand all the ways in which a person can love? Or, how about all of the ways the congregation claims I am loved: selfless, sacrificial love–but not truly free–surprise!

So, how would I describe love? Maybe as a mystery of the deep, or deeper than deep, an enigma. All the why in the world could not contain it. All the how would never explain it. No man-made gods could ever give or withhold it, but we just can’t accept that. If we could we would all possess it by now.

The sermon goes by in silence, sometimes someone coughs. I nod my head, not out of agreement with anything that the pastor is saying, but because I am starting to fall asleep. When the pastor ends his speech the congregation bows their collective head in prayer. My head lowers out of respect, but my eyes and my heart are focused on the blue carpet. I wriggle my toes just to make sure I have not fallen asleep. The collective gets up to leave, me trailing along behind them.

Another Sunday has come and passed and I am still waiting for an answer. Are my questions so difficult that even the good god above cannot answer them, or is this LOVE truly that abstract?

Lust: A Timely Topic

Lust: a timely topic for the rest of this year, not just for the month of February. In this ‘essay’, unfinished and unpolished, I have a few things to say. Some are said in rhyme.

What’s the crime?

Lust, goes well with sexual desire, but keep that from a man and you’ve just lit a fire. With every denial henceforth you’ll just be stoking the flames, raking the coals, preparing a nice hot inferno–right under your ass! And the funny thing is, you’re not to blame!*

But don’t tell him that. He’ll call you a liar.

Repressed sexuality seeks release in power, just the right size for a pair of small hands. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, but what if the grape was already sour? The apple pre-rotted?

His demands for fairness and equality sound sweet, but beneath the veil he’s not quite well in the head. Power is not enough. But what could possibly fill the void?

When is a man without a soul not like a gaping hole?

Maybe when he cuts a hole where his heart should be, and fills it full of feces, maybe then he’ll be a real boy. If there is a heart underneath that cold exterior we could kick it around like a football, treat it like a child’s toy! How drole that would be!

Who said we were any better than our fellow citizens? We’re monsters, built from children’s teeth; parading about in our human suits. You’re so close to us you should be burning.

If that, my friend, is not a show of real power, then I’ve got little else to say . . .

*As if you could force someone to feel something. If you could they wouldn’t be screaming. You would. At them. And they’d be the ones feeling sorry for themselves!



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Multiple Choice # 1

1: What happened to all of your life-long dreams?
a: My dreams became my enemy.
b: I realized that I hold a lot of self loathing.
c: The universe is vast and uncaring, so why bother?

2: How could you have given up so easily?
a: Because I didn’t, you just stopped paying attention.
b: I’m tired of this drudgery. You have no idea.
c: You didn’t care when I just did the damn thing. It’s all your fault.

3: Why do you always leave work unfinished?
a: You are my enemy, but you are not my life-long dream.
b: I am a heathen–we heathens always leave work undone.
c: This place has swallowed my soul. It has swallowed me whole.

4: Where were you when you lost that fire?
a: I’ve been dead for countless eons.
b: In a small, backwards place, filled with many small, backwards people.
c: Far, far away from you. As it should have been, now and always.



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Sloth & Apathy

sloth |slôTH, släTH, slōTH|

noun

1 reluctance to work or make an effort; laziness: he should overcome his natural sloth and complacency.

2 a slow-moving tropical American mammal that hangs upside down from the branches of trees using its long limbs and hooked claws.

apathy |ˈapəTHē|

noun

lack of interest, enthusiasm, or concern: widespread apathy among students.

The Old Year is Dead, But . . .

It all started last year, when they shot a mighty beast,

The overlords of the media had a hearty feast,

And that was all the West seemed to care about, while children were slaughtered

But news like that doesn’t bring you a profit,

Now does it?

So their truth was watered-down, forgotten . . .

Then there’s the matter of the US election.

Our smug liberal faces received a mighty thwack.

When the unthinkable happened, and now there’s no turning back . . .

The moral of that story: some things are better left to natural selection . . .

The old year is dead, but it left much to be desired.

It’s 2017, and we’re so damn tired.

We want change, but are too apathetic to achieve it.

I want 2016 back, but I’m too lazy to retrieve it.

 

Sorry About Your Dad, written by P.L Cobb with art by Jake Zaccaria

Self Reflection #1

Please answer each question to the best of your ability. Honesty is optional.

Honesty is sometimes a curse. Survival is your prerogative.

1: Who were you the day before?

2: Is this statement true or false: At the beginning of each day you are a different person.
Explain why this statement may be true or false in essay form.

Bonus Question: What type of person do you think I am? I mean, who in their right mind would think to ask these kinds of questions.

Sin

sin |sin|

noun

an immoral act considered to be a transgression against divine law: a sin in the eyes of God | the human capacity for sin.

The Enigmatic Monster Project

Pop Quiz #1

Please answer each question however you like. Metaphysical answers will receive double the marks.

1: What are the seven laws of Necromancy?

2: How does one go about assembling a golem. Give detailed steps.

3: Where are the nine monoliths located in trans-dimensional earth 5?

4: When is a duck not a duck?

To Our Mercurial Saviour

To Our Mercurial Saviour

The liquid drops.

Shifts in heat and pressure tantalize your delicate senses. Titillating sensations run up and down your appendages, and you shiver.

Heat rises and falls, teasing you, mesmerizing you like a hooded cobra. In a show of aggression it bares its fangs, hissing. The bones in your ears vibrate; inside your skull it sounds like miners chiseling away at the foundations of your soul. Digging holes in your sanity.

You shake your body, desperate to make the noise stop, desperate to stop all sensations. It is useless. In doing so you succeed in increasing the frequency of the sounds. Tapping turns into a shrill trilling, causing your eyes to water. Water infuses itself with the oils from your thick hide, and your eyes begin to sting. It’s as if the cobra has spit its venom into your face.

The liquid begins to rise–that’s how it feels to you. An intense pressure begins to bare down on you, crushing you, ripping your skin and snapping your bones.

You suddenly realize that you are angry. You are annoyed. The emotions that were once nameless are now terrorizing you, threatening your very existence. The pressure is building up; you stand, precarious, seeking release, moving. Each movement creates friction. Friction creates heat. A tightness surrounds you, and you realize that you are trapped within something. Or tied to it.

And then you remember. A grand plan, your masterpiece. Below lies your creation, this meticulous masterpiece. Your order out of chaos. Order and chaos bring to mind your plan. To purge the universe with a flaming sword. Then the death of a god. And rebirth.

Without hesitation, you unleash what has been growing inside of you for millennia. A rush of new feelings fill you until you are brimming with joy. You’ve never known the exquisiteness of orgasm until now.

Even as your body is falling apart, you are at peace. A once magnificent form regresses back into formless dust, and a vast consciousness dies.

We, the creatures you had vowed to save, regress back to a primordial state, then to the very stardust we were made with. As our hearts and souls become one, it suddenly dawns on us that we did not save ourselves.

You were us.

Oh, to be as mercurial, and precocious as you are–God!

Did you not send us the heretics and the blasphemers? And did we not cut them down, even as they slept, like the criminals we were?

We live in you, and you die in us. And now are we not one?

It is finished.

Now our great death shall forever attest to your greatness, oh Goddess. Let this be our last, melodious song to our mercurial saviour.

Blessed be!

As our consciousness disperses, we prepare ourselves for a dreamless sleep, secure in the knowledge that we will reform once again. After nameless millennia, when this wretched universe has died, we shall re-emerge as gods–and our realms shall be known as Hel.

Your Choice . . .

Liquid love,

or poison?

Take your pick.

Just be sure to make up your mind,

be quick–

this is an offer which cannot last, and will be gone quick.

Gone before you’ve drawn a conclusion

for this fine illusion

(of mine).

ashkenaz

Good Morning World

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Good Morning World

What happened? Daylight savings!

Now we all have to go to bed earlier to avoid the creatures of the night. And sleep for one less hour. And wake up earlier . . . There will still be snow till April or May.

So, in the end, this means nothing.

With love,

Theo Monster

Theo_icon

Two Dimensional Toasters

The day is almost at an end, and I am late. Like so many times before we’ll pretend it never happened (this lateness). Today consisted of me tackling with the goblins and the clowns (of my mind).

It’s no secret that I love the movie: Killer Klowns from Outerspace. The thought of them making a remake/sequel fills my heart with so much joy it is about to burst (from so much pain). Personally I think that if they do make a remake they need to have one handsome killer klown. Just one. It would be perfect because the other klowns are so wonderfully ugly (it almost hurts me to think just how ugly). The pretty one could be the brunt of some sort of twisted joke, I’m sure.

Plus, just one pretty one? Out of hundreds of ugly ones? Is there someone who would not find that funny?

See?

As for the goblins . . . Well, they stole my toaster today. I’m not sure how but they stuck it into the wall. It’s almost like a painting now. Surprisingly it still works, as they’ve been teasing me all day by making toast. I’m most sure what they did, but they are somehow living as two dimensional beings in this three dimensional world. Insanity.

Whatever.

Theo_icon

Yesterday’s Cold Front

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Yesterday’s Cold Front

Yesterday was so cold, everything had been cloaked in frost. The trees looked like they were drooping, which got me to thinking: how would a tree feel? If I were a tree, or turned into one by some fluke, my life would become a nightmare. Imagine things crawling on you, boring through your skin, or just ripping it off?

I can see love struck idiots carving their names into me–I don’t want your names carved into me, I do not care! Now I shall contract a fungus. You’re too kind. Thanks.

I try being agreeable as a human, and sometimes other humans take that for granted. Somehow that agreeableness gives them the excuse to dehumanize me, to ignore my personhood. Seldom do other humans truly want other humans acting like humans (alive, flawed, and emotional). As a tree I would be a slave to the elements, bending and swaying till I grow old and rot. I would have no say.

As I’d rot I’d still be alive. Begging for someone to put me out of my misery . . . Then and only then would anyone care about my well-being. They’d say: let’s help this tree, and then only prolong my misery.

Yesterday’s cold front would have been the day I truly broke, as whatever bodily fluids would have been leached out to the surface. Or they would have frozen, expanding till I snapped.

Since I am not a tree, I am thankful that I haven’t.

ashkenaz

 

A Most Sluggish Sunday

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A Most Sluggish Sunday

Lately I’ve been feeling drained. It could be the weather; multiple sources have claimed to be depressed, myself included. It could be a lack of nutrients–something purely physical, fixable, understandable. Or it could be something else?

I say that tentatively.

Hear me out: last night I ran a marathon in my dreams. Nothing special, you likely did the same thing. I dreamt of murderous guardians, ancient creatures that wore red cloaks. At will they could become invisible. They stood guard over a particular cave, carrying long scimitars.

I watched one kill a man. At first there was just the man, a piece of scimitar sticking out of his head. Then the creature slowly appeared in the cavern.

And I woke up.

So, what does it mean? Did I not sleep well because of my dream? Was it happening in real life, on some other plane? Or did I have that dream because I was not sleeping well?

Is my apartment filled with the type of muse that feeds off of your energy in exchange for inspiration?

This is speculation for the fun of it. If there are living muses they’re not fulfilling their end of the bargain. Either way, enjoy your Sunday!

Cheers!

ashkenaz

The Red Thing . . .

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The Red Thing . . .

I took this photo years ago. Naturally, I would have no recollection of the red thing. I couldn’t tell you if it was really supposed to be in the picture.

And there you have it: your mystery of the week.

What is the red thing?

(Points for creativity 🙂 )

ashkenaz

Sunday, Sunday

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Sunday, Sunday

Sundays are sometimes not-so-sunny. Today for instance–it’s gloomy, dreary. It’s also January. When spring comes we’ll be so happy . . . Maybe. Spring has its own quirks I suppose, an equal amount of doom and gloom. Everything will stink. Things will become wet, muddy, dirty, grimy. Rivers will swell, and basements will flood.

We’ll still be happy when spring comes, but now one must wonder if it’s really the change which gives us momentary bliss?

We hope you like blooming maples. 

(This is a horror blog! –Ashkenaz)

ashkenaz

The Ego

The Ego

The soul, the heart, the spirit, the body. Humans have this habit of defining everything, splitting it, separating it. Tearing things apart without any knowledge of how to put them together again is dangerous business. Putting things together again without any knowledge of how they went together in the first place, or why they went together, is twice as bad.

Some say that the ego is really another word for the soul. With every distraction and otherwise, humanity has gained a very dangerous ability. The ability to tear their souls away. When the soul has no body though, one must wonder where it would go? There must be a place somewhere, or something. One would assume that.

In truth the soul only has one place to go: the shadow. One’s ego becomes one’s ghost.
If you’ve ever felt that you were watched, followed, it is the you you tore away from a long time ago. The ego is your only friend in the dark places of the world. It’s the only thing that does not seek to devour you. How can the ego eat itself? That goes against basic instinct.

Shadows are a world on their own. They are vast, fickle and fast-changing landscapes for their denizens. The ego rules over them as supreme being, separating them from you.
With all the things the ego does for you, one must beg the question: is it truly separate from you? Did you really tear yourself away from it? Or is it an extension of yourself? If that’s the case, then everything mentioned before has turned itself upside down, inside out. Which means that there isn’t a conclusion to this after all.

These are just notions and nothing more.

ashkenaz

Looking Up

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Looking Up

They say that top predators never look up. Perhaps this will become our evolutionary downfall. Or would it be the downfall of the subconscious? Or do top predators just have that big of an ego? It’s hard not to look up when you’re in the forest, especially if you’re in an unknown part of it. The same goes for uncharted territories, such as big cities. Once you’re familiar, nothing ceases to amaze you.

So, does this mean that predators share something in common–the inability to be amazed, or could you just call this boredom?

ashkenaz

About the Silence

About the Silence

Episode 4 of the Voice, in which the voice talks about the silence, and its related benefits depending on your living situation. Hmmm, how thoughtful? We fear the voice is beginning to make too much sense, however . . .

coopid

The Eve

This is not a time. It is a thing.

The Eve

Why is it always a thing? It’s as if there weren’t enough problems in the world for us to face. Why not add one more? Who’s going to care anyways? So I will shrug my shoulders, pull an apathetic face, and add another burden for you all to bear.

(Feel free to call me cruel.)

This is the burden of knowledge; knowledge is power they say, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Am I not right? Knowing is half the battle, but at the same time, the more you know about something the less wonderful it becomes. Sometimes. I learned a long time ago that there are more grey areas than countries. Sometimes.

When something new comes into being, it is always a perversion of what already is. I’m not speaking about ideas, things being made, or even the natural world. This touches upon the unnatural world. That is, I should say, the world that defies logic.

When something new comes into being, it is the Eve. The eve of something old, something new, something borrowed . . . Something skewed.

But something alive, something which exists against all odds!

Think of it: the first-born mother of the latest aberration. Just repeat that. The first-born mother of the latest aberration. It sounds like song lyrics, no?

(She’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes!)

My point is that if you happen to come across one, catalogue it for me. You would make me a very happy creature!

With love,

Ashkenaz

ashkenaz

 

Questions Of Life

In which Ashkenaz has no idea.

Questions Of Life

I’ve heard that there was a proposed blog post about something–something about book reviews, or something of the ilk, but this thing called laundry came up.

What is this laundry that you mortals do? And why can’t you ever make it go away? Can you not just get rid of said laundry?

And why is Thursday called Thursday?

ashkenaz

The Anatomy of the Absence of Light

The Anatomy of the Absence of Light

Episode 3 of The Voice.

(In which things continue to make sense.)

Background noise, and the sound of the Voice (me, myself, and the silence) here to tell you about the anatomy of the absence of light (also known as darkness, evening, midnight, etcetera–take your pick).

Make no mistake, this is not what you would like to think.

Of course, we could be wrong, right?

ashkenaz