Mother Horse Eyes Part 1 (Posts 1-30)

(Note: This creepypasta was originally told through comments on Reddit. It is also super long, so it's been split up into parts)

## Mother Horse Eyes Part 1 by 9M9H9E9

1st Post / Date 04-21-2016 at 15:29:17 EDT

*a unite a stage a coup a revolution a bring a genocide a new world a*

In the MKULTRA experiments, the CIA dosed unwitting subjects with LSD to see how they would react.

What has not yet come to light is that MKULTRA was an intra-agency project.

The CIA created new departments within the CIA, and fed them steady doses of LSD, and other psychoactives to see how the departments would diverge and mutate away from normal departments.

Whole projects and hierarchies were created. With everybody involved, being more or less, unwittingly under the influence of LSD.

This is how the "restraint bed portals" and "flesh interfaces" were first created - i.e. from a heavily psycho-mutated hierarchy.

The entire thing had to be eliminated, but the technology it created has been revolutionary.

*Title: "The Strategic Hamlet Program"*

###### 2nd Post / Date 04-21-2016 at 16:04:03 EDT

In Vietnam, the U.S. government tried to pacify the country village by village using the Strategic Hamlet Program, basically creating villages where there was no or little Viet Cong influence.

They tried more extreme experiments where they completely isolated villages or groups of villages, allowing absolutely nobody to enter or exit for periods of up to four years.

In some of the villages, people simply starved to death.

In other, more self-sufficient villages, the people managed to scrape by.

It was noted that in many of the villages where this technique was tried, messianic or millenarian movements sprang up.

In 16 separate incidences, villages were able to independently invent "flesh interfaces" and "non-electrical portals", and it was surmised that these villages were being collectively dosed with LSD for long periods of time, and their intellectual mutations allowed for these 'advances'.

The flesh interfaces were eventually destroyed by the North Vietnamese Army at a terrible cost in lives.

*Title: "Nuclear Subs in the Falklands"*

###### 3rd Post / Date 04-21-2016 at 17:13:27 EDT

I'm surprised they used nuclear subs in the Falklands, considering the battle's proximity to the undersea incident zone surrounding the so-called Artigas portal.

As I understand it, the portal was opened because of experiments taking place in the CIA's Antarctic station in the early 80s, and Falklands quickly became a center for portal research.

Being underwater, the portal had an enormous incident zone, and segmented whales and other undersea debris would regularly wash up on the islands' shores.

They found one whale that had been segmented cleanly in half by an incident zone disturbance, proving a perfect cross section of the creature.

They also found hundreds of the "chitinous cruciform" creatures, certainly non-terrestrial in origin.

Anyways, if a nuclear sub had wandered into the incident zone, it could have been disastrous, but I guess they considered the risk acceptable.

*Title: "Harvest Populations"*

###### 4th Post / Date 04-21-2016 at 17:53:02 EDT

The Soviets designated large portions of the Ukraine countryside as "harvest populations."

Basically, their food and water supplies were dosed with LSD until they had achieved what the Soviets called "integration".

This meant that the local populations had independently invented flesh interfaces.

The Soviet army would then quarantine the area and try to remove the flesh interfaces for their own use.

This was usually without success and with great loss of life.

Many of the soldiers and scientists were segmented, as often happens in an incident zone. So they ended up with people missing limbs, cut in half, etc. What's interesting is that the people could live for quite some time despite segmentation.

This is what led the Soviets to believe that their missing body parts still existed albeit in some unknown place. So, one of the leading theories of the time was inter-dimensionality.

Quite mistaken.

*Title: "Dubai Incidents"*

###### 5th Post / Date 04-21-2016 at 18:20:20 EDT

Dubai probably has the highest rate of free-floating non-*interface* incidents of any major metropolitan area in the world.

In one incident, a large group of migrant workers was segmented in an underground facility.

Perfect cross-sectional segmentation along the frontal plane.

You could see their lungs working, food being digested, blood pumping on the inside of the heart, everything.

They live for almost 5 months in this condition.

Absolutely fascinating to see in person.

There was also a group of school children who were very slightly segmented, just ends of fingers and bits of the calves and such.

Hardly fatal wounds, yet they all died within 2 months.

Some showed signs of intellectual mutation.

There are no known *flesh interfaces* in Dubai.

However, it is surmised that the architecture is actually based on *interface* geometry and carries some latent *interface*-like power.

Mass segmentations remain one of the most mysterious aspects of the *interfaces*. They seem to show that the interfaces do indeed concentrate on flesh, living up to their name.

*Title: "Elizabeth Bathory"*

###### 6th Post / Date 04-21-2016 at 18:40:05 EDT

We look at Elizabeth Bathory as an example of pre-LSD "enlightenment" i.e. somebody seeming to attempt to build a flesh interface before the invention of LSD.

How can this be explained?

Perhaps she ingested some ergot or some other naturally occurring psychotropic chemical. Or perhaps her mind was simply attuned to whatever intellectual processes need to occur to invent a flesh interface.

The Book of Revelations is also considered to be a description of a flesh interface, especially the description of New Jerusalem.

My problem with this is that it is all speculative. It's like when modern psychologists diagnose historical figures.

I'm uncomfortable with this level of speculation.

I will always regard the first instance of a flesh interface to have occurred in Triblenka, 1944. The geologic disturbances, partial tunnels, so-called inter-dimensionality, and wealth of clearly segmented bodies leave no doubt of its existence. The Soviets have documented this.

*Title: "A Tantalizing Theory"*

###### 7th Post / Date 04-21-2016 at 18:52:45 EDT

Basically, when you look at the stories of Elizabeth Bathory's behavior, it seems like she is trying to build a flesh interface. But it is known that in order to invent a flesh interface, one must be under the influence of LSD for extended periods.

As LSD hadn't been invented during her life, it's probably just a coincidence.

Still a tantalizing theory, though.
*Title: "Define a Flesh Interface"*

###### 8th Post / Date 04-21-2016 at 19:09:25 EDT

Obviously I can't define a flesh interface in terms of purpose or composition or mechanism. I can only list the various phenomena which are related to them.

Chief among these is the creation of an incident zone wherein objects are spontaneously segmented i.e. parts of the objects simply disappear, yet the objects continue to behave as if the missing parts are still present.

Also, you see complex tunnels created in the earth. These have been termed "ant farms". In undersea interfaces, you get chitinous cruciform organisms.

These sui generis organisms are thought to be the result on evolutionary processes which took place in an environment other than earth.

This is speculation, but in this case, I agree with it.

Then there have been the giant metallic cylinders which appear and experience continuous spontaneous segmentation. These are usually at least 10 meters in diameter and can get much larger, and only occur in very large interfaces i.e. portals.

Beyond this, the phenomena are too various to mention, and different for each interface.
*Title: "Portals"*

###### 9th Post / Date 04-21-2016 at 22:52:46 EDT

Many people think that a portal is simply a large flesh interface.

This is true.

A portal is a large flesh interface. But it is also more than that. A portal is, as the name implies, a way of sending objects between the portal site and wherever the various locations that been found beyond the portals are located. (i.e. the so-called alien Sister Cities)

Portals are usually, but not always accompanied by the large, fluctuating metallic cylinders. The largest above-water portal that I know of occurred in Novaya Zemlya and existed for several weeks before it was destroyed by the Russians' so-called "Tsar Bomba".

In this case, the metallic cylinders were miles high and covered with features rarely seen on other cylinders: blinking lights, nodules, so-called antennae. They took on a very artifactual appearance i.e. they seem to be constructed technology rather than naturally occurring phenomena.

Are the cylinders themselves artifacts being sent through the portals? Or are they phenomena created by the flesh interfaces in the way a mushroom cloud is created by a nuclear explosion? This is unclear.

I wish I could show you guys pictures of the Novaya Zemlya cylinders. They truly were beautiful, rising miles into the clear arctic air, like great alien towers, tinged blue by the vastness of the distances involved.

Though it was certainly necessary to destroy them, and we owe the Soviets a great debt for their tireless efforts to collapse the interface, I sometimes wish they were still there.

At least then, there would be something, some evidence.
*Title: "Novaya Zemlya"*

###### 10th Post / Date 04-22-2016 at 00:12:46 EDT

In response to what the CIA had "accomplished" with their Antarctic station in Artigas, the Soviets built a larger station in Novaya Zemlya in the Arctic.

30,000 prisoners and an exceptionally pure gas concentration created a flesh interface which went through all seven stages in less than thirteen minutes and became a full fledged portal.

Within a day, the typical fluctuating metallic cylinders were visible and within 3 days they were extending miles into the sky.

The Soviets quickly realized that the portal was growing out of control. In previous instances, they had simply bombed the site from the air. But in this case, the enormous cylinders and attendant incident zone, extending to the edge of space, prevented this as well as missile strikes. There was also an exceptionally large lateral incident zone around the portal, with segmentation occurring miles out from the site.

Alarmed by the zone's uncontrolled growth and the growing underground tunnels (aka "ant farms") the Soviets worked feverishly to construct a hydrogen bomb of unprecedented power which could be detonated from outside the incident zone and still collapse the portal.

The steady rate of growth in the incident zone provided them with an exact deadline, which they managed to meet with only two hours to spare. Any later, and the bomb could not have been placed so as to collapse the interface.

In short, the world came within 2 hours being subjected to an uncontrolled flesh interface and perhaps the end of civilization as we know it.

Before the portal was collapsed, however, the Soviets had gained firsthand knowledge of one of the so-called Sister Cities. In other words, somebody had gone into the portal and come back.

*Title: "Lisa's Dream"*

###### 11th Post / Date 04-22-2016 at 02:30:44 EDT

I've always found Lisa's Dream to be a good starting place when trying to understand the psychological effects of "travel."

Lisa was a 9-year-old girl sent through the Groom Lake interface in 1975. The Groom Lake interface connects to the so-called Sister City (technically, "persistent locus") known as "The Hanging Temples".

She stayed there for 5 days of normal-time, but only 48 seconds of beyond-time, a marked discrepancy. Upon returning, she did not recall anything beyond becoming drowsy for a moment. She slept well that night, and in the morning she recounted a dream to the doctors, before dying later in the day.

A direct transcript of the audio from her interview: "It was spring, and it had been raining all day, but the rain stopped just before it was going to be sunset. So, all the clouds were purply, and the sky was really orange. And the grass was all wet with rain and there were fireflies around, like all in the sky, way up in the sky, big ones. And me and my grandma went out to these hills' way out past the edge of town, and under the hills there were people sleeping. Not in caves. They were buried under the hills. The people were asleep, but they were hugging each other. Families, like moms and dads and little kids. Just packed together, a few thousand. The hills were just blown up like balloons because they were so full of people. Like a pregnant woman's stomach. My grandma told me to lie down but I didn't want to. She laid down and got sucked into the ground. I heard her voice coming out of the ground telling me to come inside."

*Title: "Only a Matter of Time"*

###### 12th Post / Date 04-22-2016 at 14:18:21 EDT

It would be easy to say that the Soviets discovered the secret of survivable "travel" because they were more ruthless, more willing to sacrifice innocent lives. But there was really no lack of ruthlessness on the part of the CIA. It was really just a matter of approach.

The Soviets approached the mystery of the flesh interfaces the same way they approached their space program. The first humans in space (the so-called "Lost Cosmonauts" who were never officially acknowledged) were just ordinary people, culled from the gulags, with no more control over their missions than Laika the dog.

The Americans, on the other hand, started with professional men, usually from the military.

Likewise, when it was discovered that objects and even animals which entered the flesh interfaces occasionally returned unharmed, the Americans began training men to enter the interfaces.

Because they culled their men from certain military ranks, they were all of similar ages. The Soviets, however, used prisoners, who had a much wider age range, and so they were able to discover the essential correlation: the younger a person was, the more likely they were to survive "travel," and the longer they would survive after travel.

They discovered that 20-somethings were much more likely to survive, (albeit in a horribly "altered" state) than older people.

They discovered that people in their early twenties fared better than those in their late twenties. Teenagers fared even better.

So, despite all moral compunction, it was really a matter of time before they sent a child through.

And it was only after the first round of children went through that they gained any idea of what was on the "other side".
*Title: "The Village"*

###### 13th Post / Date 04-23-2016 at 02:14:11 EDT

Until we found the village, we had suspected that the detectors were just props. Just toys given to us by the CIA guys to reassure us. Nobody trusted the spooks. 3 days through the jungle, and these detectors had not detected a fucking thing. But before we even saw the first hut, the needles on all the detectors started moving in unison. If they were phony toys, it was a cool little special effect. The needles swayed back and forth, and all the little metal boxes let out this spooky "ooaaooaaaooo" sound all in unison, like a school choir. Very weird. We turned them off.

As instructed, we treated every Vietnamese as combatants, and killed them all. There wasn't any resistance though. A few had weapons, but most were unarmed. None fought back. They didn't even run. They were just sitting around, lazing in the sun, and we shot them where we found them. Grim work. And very weird. That probably spooked us out more than the detectors. It was like they were waiting to die.

After clearing the village, we didn't know what to do. So, we turned one of the detectors on and wandered around to see what was up. The detector started going nuts around one of the bigger huts in the middle of the village. We had already cleared it, but we went in again. There was a big altar inside, with candles and Buddhas and gold signs with dink writing and shit. We figured maybe one of the buddha statues was setting the detectors off, but no.

The hut was very hot and muggy. Even by the incredibly humid standards of Vietnam, it was incredibly, incredibly humid in there. Even the Buddha statues were sweating. Their faces were literally coated with drops of moisture. Everybody noticed that there was something weird going with the air. There was something off about the pressure. So, we just tossed everything. Picked all the shit up and tossed it out of the hut. Sure enough, when we picked up the big platform that held the altar, there was something under it.

It was a pit made of flesh. Maybe five feet across and going down about twenty feet before curving out of sight. When I say, "made of flesh," I mean, it looked like the inside of somebody's throat. Wet, reddish flesh-looking stuff. We had heard of them building tunnels, but this was... We really couldn't even understand what we were looking at.

It was breathing. The flesh kinda rippled and this hot air came out, and it felt and smelled just like somebody breathing right on your face. Enough to make you sick.

They told us "we would know it when we saw it."

Well, we saw it, and we knowed it.

We radioed in the coordinates and got the fuck out of there.

*Title: "Encasement"*

###### 14th Post / Date 04-23-2016 at 16:54:19 EDT

Encasement was certainly not something we were expecting. It really changed our whole perspective on what exactly was occurring. We thought that the flesh interfaces were just like pipes that went from one location to another, perhaps extradimensionally or by some other "magic." But when the first subject came back encased, we realized that... Well, I'm not sure what we realized. We realized -- for the thousandth time in our dealings with the flesh interfaces -- that we were dealing with something really beyond us. That's why I called it 'Magic.' They were so far beyond our understanding; it was basically like meddling with some kind of 'Black Magic'.

The first subject to come back encased was an 8-year-old girl we had named Jingles. We started naming the kids dogs' names to try to depersonalize them, to assuage the guilt. This was done by the recommendation of CIA psychiatrists, but it didn't work very well. We all still felt like shit. But what choice did we have? Could we just ignore the flesh interfaces and not study them? Perhaps, but you must realize that the Soviets were also studying them. That changed the whole equation. If they... Well, the ethical issues have been debated to death. What's done is done. We dropped the bomb on Hiroshima, we gave those blankets to the Indians, and we sent those kids through those portals, and now it's all just a part of history.

Anyways, we sent Jingles into flesh interface and an object returned 2 minutes later, which is a pretty long time for an interface. It was a large organic sac lined with veins, vaguely resembling a human lung, about 4 feet long. We x-rayed it and saw the skeleton inside and cut it open. Sure enough, Jingles was inside, naked and covered with blood, with no hair on her head. There was an umbilical cord attached to her bellybutton, which was attached to a sort of placenta.

We had a problem with the surgeons trying to harm her. It was later realized that her blood -- its blood -- the blood from the sac, had high concentrations of an exotic LSD analogue. It was getting absorbed through the skin. The placenta was like an LSD factory, pumping out millions of doses. This particular blend made people pretty violent, so we had to put on containment suits.

Jingles' skin was flawless, like a newborn's. No wrinkles on the back of her neck, no wrinkles on her palms except the major ones. She had the form of an 8-year-old girl but seemed a lot... newer. We did MRIs on her bone plates, and found they were still highly undeveloped, as if she was newborn. We wondered, is this really Jingles or some kind of clone? What sort of apparatus could have possibly produced this clone, and why?

After a day of observation, she awoke. We weren't sure if her mind was still there. Perhaps she had been "wiped clean." So, we waited, asking her questions. At first, her behavior was like that of an infant. Just smiling and gurgling and clasping her hands. It was pretty eerie seeing that kind of behavior from an 8-year-old. Really, it was pretty eerie looking at her at all. Her skin was so pure and glowing, she looked like an absolute angel. I... we... well, anyways...

After a while she started babbling, saying little phrases. In a matter of hours, she seemed to progress through the various stages of development, her sentence structure and awareness becoming more and more sophisticated. As soon as she could understand sentences, we started questioning her again. Who was she? She said her name. She knew her past. This wasn't just a blank clone. This may or may not have been the original girl, but she seemed to have the same mind as the original. So, then we asked her the question that we wanted to know, the question that had plagued us for years, the question that had led us, in the face of all humanity and morality, to send a child into a living apparatus of death.

What did you see? What's on the other side?

Her expression grew thoughtful. She was such a thoughtful, bright girl. We chose her for her intelligence. So young and bright and we just threw her... Anyways, she thought about the question, and it seemed then that we would finally get an answer, a real answer. I remember the sense of anticipation in the room. It was like nothing I've ever felt before or since. Remember, I quit the program that day, so I was never able to question another subject. Anyways, she said to us, "Inside the chamber, I started to feel drowsy. The everything changed. And... I knew what I saw. I had seen it before. I said to myself, 'This is like the room in grammy's house. The quiet room."

We asked her what she meant by this. She replied with these words -- her final words before she simply stopped living and sat there dead with her eyes still on us -- she said, "Come unto these yellow sands".

*Title: "How We Lost the War"*

###### 15th Post / Date 04-23-2016 at 19:12:19 EDT

In explaining our cruelty, which, I admit, was quite beyond scope of all humanity, I feel I must remind you of how we lost the war.

We lost the war in the cruelest way imaginable.

Island after island fell, and the enemy drew closer and closer. More and more bombs fell on our cities.

Food grew more and more scarce.

People starved.

House burned, people burned, children burned.

We were punished by our own sense of dignity, by our own inability to admit inevitable and total defeat.

It was like watching a sword slowly being sunk into your chest, millimeter by millimeter, but you refuse to cry out, refuse to whimper or beg for mercy, and there is nothing you can do but watch the metal disappear into your weeping flesh.

By the end of 1944, it was clear that both Japan and Germany were doomed, barring some divine intervention.

Yet the stories we knew from childhood told us that we had been saved by divine intervention before, when the fleets of Kublai Khan were at our shores, moving from island to island, conquering and raping, until a miraculous typhoon sent their ships to the bottom of the ocean.

Though we were modern men and trained in Western science, we still believed that there was some sacred destiny in store for the Japanese people, and we kept an eye out for something, anything which hinted of the divine.

Two intriguing pieces of news had come to us via Germany, developments which suggested that perhaps the tide of the war could turn suddenly.

Both, however, were ominous.

One was that America was developing a super-weapon, a bomb which could level entire cities, which used the latent power of the atom, unleashing very forces which held existence together.

We assured ourselves that this was American propaganda, that no such weapon actually existed, but our scientists acknowledged that it was theoretically possible.

The second piece of news was more puzzling.

It was said that a Swiss scientist had synthesized a chemical, which, like the American nuclear technology, could unleash latent forces, this time the forces of the mind.

This chemical was said to fuse the various disparate areas of the mind and allow for incredible insights. Apparently, teams working under the influence of this chemical for long periods of time were capable of inventing techniques and devices previously unheard of.

By the end of 1944, various high-ranking Germans were slipping out of Germany, like rats from a sinking ship, often trying to fund their escapes by selling various pieces of artwork, technology, intelligence, etc.

It was from one of these that we obtained an enormous supply of this wonder chemical, LSD, which was supposed to be secret even from Germany's allies. Along with the chemical, we were given a piece of news which was positively tantalizing, given the position we were in.

According to our contact, experiments with LSD had been conducted at the Treblinka extermination camp. A group of prisoners was given the drug for a period of several months and the results were so impressive that somehow the prisoners were able to convince the camp leaders to take the drug as well.

Soon the entire camp hierarchy was taking the drug and working together on a new device that was some sort of "destructive radar" which could bring down planes as easily as ordinary radar found them.

It was said to be powerful enough to slice bombers right in half.

Of course, we found this piece of news hard to believe.

Nazi death camp commanders working side by side with Jewish prisoners to invent a magical radar? It was utterly fantastical.

Our good sense told us to ignore it.

And yet... How could we?

The Americans had already taken back the Philippines... Soon they would take Iwo Jima... Then Okinawa... Then all the home islands.

We were facing the end of the Japanese as a free race.

Perhaps the end of all Japanese existence.

The Germans would have it easy compared to us.

Many Americans were German in origin. There was a blood affinity between the countries.

This did not exist for us.

The Americans would burn our cities and rape our woman and enslave us, make us servants, like their 'niguro'.

We would be cross bred with the whites until we had become some degenerate half-castes.

Japanese culture would crumble.

The stories of our childhoods would be forgotten.

We were watching a sword disappear into our hearts, and we were desperate for some kind of divine intervention.

So, in late 1944, a glass jar of LSD crystals, enough for several million doses, was taken aboard a submarine and slipped under the cover of the sea back to the home islands.

We were looking for divine grace.

What we found was a Hell beyond our darkest dreams of destruction.

*Title: Author self-post - "Hello Friends"*

Author/Narrator, u/\_9MOTHER9HORSE9EYES9, self post in subreddit now locked. I placed it here in timeline
Hello, friends.

Thank you for your interest in my posts. I want to apologize to the community at large for posting them to threads whose relationship to their content is, at best, tangential. I simply had nowhere else to post my "information" where anybody would read it. Previously, I was operating a website wherein my information laid out in a rather straightforward manner. I was quite convinced that the undeniable "truth" of this information would attract attention on its own accord. I was quite sure that somehow this grand truth would shine out as a beacon and resonate with receptive people and quickly become widespread. As I recall, my best month brought about 400 visitors and a total of four non-spam comments. 75% of these recommended psychiatric intervention.

So here we find ourselves. I am attempting to use the techniques of fiction and suspense to hopefully generation interest in this information. Your subreddit furthers this aim, and I sincerely thank you for creating it.

I should clarify that this information is not fiction. Nor is it true. It is a mix of things which happened and things which almost happened. Things which were and things which could have been. You must understand that the present moment in which we exist is simply a nexus from which trillions of possible pasts and possible futures branch out. The important thing to realize is that these unreal pasts and unrealized futures are related to each other. By examining what might have been, we can come to understand what might come to be.

I am writing about what has never been, and what must never be.

Unfortunately, our generation has been given a special burden. We are doomed, as the apocryphal Chinese curse has it, to live in interesting times. Soon, technological advances in the field of information technology and bioengineering will fundamentally reshape human existence. There are a number of possible outcomes, and I believe that most of them will result in the human race entering unending era of absolute slavery.

As a free species, we have seen totalitarianism before, and we have destroyed it. But when it arises again, aided by advanced information and biological technology, it will have a new and unprecedented ability to envelop the entire earth and place humanity in an unalterable state of total mental and physical slavery that will last for uncounted millennia until the earth becomes uninhabitable .

Not only do I believe that this outcome is possible, I believe that it is overwhelmingly likely. Out of all the trillions of possible futures arrayed before us, 99.9999% of them result in this outcome. As Christ said, "Wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But narrow is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it."

We must find and enter the narrow gate, but it will not be easy. It order to find it, we must sort through the many possible pasts to find the few possible futures which result in a humanity free to live and die as humans, and not as an unholy agglomeration of mindless flesh. Unfortunately, as we fight against the forces of slavery and death, it will be precisely our instincts towards the preservation of freedom and life that will lead us to destruction. In short, we live in precarious times.

I want to make clear that while this post shows clear and appalling signs of megalomania, I am actually aware that I am not a prophet or an expert. I am 30-something American male without the benefit of a college education or a stable job. Sadly, I have spent most of my life drunk. My posts will contain a number of historical errors, both intentional and unintentional, as well as bad spelling, bad grammar, and laughably overwrought prose. Readers with a proper education will easily see through my attempts erudition. In short, I have no proper formal qualifications for the task I have set out for myself.

But I have personally experienced the intellectual mutations of which I write. Through repeated self-experimentation, I have fractured the time-state of my brain, and now it exists in an ever-shifting state between various pasts which didn't happen. As such, I have been given what I believe is special insight into our possible futures. They are dark. The shadows of past atrocities pass and overlap with the shadows of future atrocities.

Time is short. Recently, I have been beset with a persistent creativity that seems to grow stronger as the days go by. I fear this state is unsustainable. Perhaps eventually this productive mania will turn into an unproductive psychosis. And soon, on a larger scale, mankind's productivity will turn into its own sort of psychosis.

Billions of years ago, the so-called primordial soup arranged itself into a self-replicating form which multiplied and flourished and divaricated into countless species. From our vantage point in the present, this singular moment of origin has become lost in the mists of time. Equally obscure to us is the future singularity towards which we are heading: the end point, in which all the countless species are once again reintegrated to a new and singular form, a new abomination.

We are on the verge, all of us.

Times are dire.

We are about to be gathered again into the arms of the Mother, to become one flesh with her.

The Mother who gathers lost children.

The Mother I have seen in dark spaces since I was a little child.

Back when I called her "the mother with horse eyes."

We are about to meet her again.

We are about to be unborn.

*Title: "Magical Space Pussy"*

###### 16th Post / Date 04-24-2016 at 15:49:32 EDT

When you're hanging out with a tribe of Nazi acid-heads, "magical space pussy" doesn't even register on the weird-o-meter.

I mean, they talked about so much weird shit, and so much of it was total bullshit, that I didn't pay any fucking attention to it. It was the sixties. Talking about magical space pussies was like asking somebody how their day went.

It was just conversation to me.

But to them it wasn't.

That was a strange time in my life. I had spent the last six months going from commune to commune, just checking them out.

They were all bullshit.

Every one of them was just some guy on a power trip and a bunch of women who grown up with bad fathers hanging on his every word, hoping he would solve all their problems.

That's the only way the commune system worked.

The guy got control of the women, and the women attracted a few guys to do the manual labor, but in the end it was basically just a new system of pimping.

I mean, I'm from Brooklyn.

I've seen pimping.

These chicks had tried to escape society and just gotten themselves pimped out.

It was tragic.

But too tragic for me to give a shit about it.

So I went out to Death Valley.

Why did I go there?

Why does anybody?

Because it has a cool name.

If it was called Some Scorpions and Bunch of Fucking Rocks, which is what it actually is, nobody would go.

I had decided I was done with counter-culture, I was done with the regular culture.

I was done with all.

I would go where nobody would bother me and just try to figure myself out. Get a little peace and quiet. A month later, the Manson family moved in next door.

For a while it was just a nice little guy named Paul and some girls living a few miles from my little shack.

Seemed harmless.

Then the whole family came in. Charlie too.

They had already committed the murders at this point. It was big news, but nobody knew who did it. I surely didn't connect it to this band of weirdos next door. They seemed too stupid to pull off anything newsworthy. Just another bullshit commune.

Once Charlie got there, the family seemed to spend most of their driving their dune buggies around, pretending to be the fucking Afrika Korps.

I mean, Charlie would put on a helmet with a swastika and lead them in maneuvers. I had never met racist nazi hippies before, but there's a first time for everything. Some of them even talked about "Uncle Adolf" and how he knew the score, how he should have won the war.

I was a mechanic in the army, so I helped them out with the buggies and got to know them a little.

Slowly, their little philosophy trickled down to me.

They thought America was on the verge of an apocalyptic race war. Blacks on white. Helter Skelter. The Watts riots in every city.

That part actually seemed pretty plausible.

I mean, you have to understand, in 1969, the country had been getting weirder and weirder, more and more violent every year.

Nobody was quite sure when it would end. Nobody knew that in the 70s the counterculture would just kinda peter out into a bunch of fucking James Taylor albums.

They said that they had come to the desert to find a hideout so they would be safe while the Helter Skelter race war was going on.

They said that somewhere out in the desert, there was "Bottomless Pit" full of wonders and treasures.

In the Bible, Revelation speaks of the Tree of Life, which bears twelve kinds of fruit, one for every month. They said this tree was growing inside the Bottomless Pit, and would give them all the food they wanted while they waited out the war.

When it was over, they said, they would emerge and Charlie would rule the world as the new Christ.

So that part was a little less plausible.

And then I started hearing about the magical space vagina.

I had become friends with Paul, who was actually a nice guy who just wanted to fuck the girls and get stoned and didn't really get into the whole nazi thing.

He said that they were searching for the entrance to the Bottomless Pit. He said that entrance would be made of flesh growing out of the rocks, like a giant pussy so big you could stroll right in.

I told him he thought about pussy way too much.

But he was serious.

He said that the technology to turn rocks into flesh was from outer space, and its secrets had been taught to Charlie by Uncle Adolph.

Until then, I had thought that Uncle Adolph was their name for Hitler.

Slowly, as I learned more, I started to realize that they were talking about somebody who was still alive.

Somebody they actually knew.

They told me he was coming soon.

*Title: "Euphoria and Terror"*

###### 17th Post / Date 04-24-2016 at 19:55:20 EDT

This kind of psychological mirroring was exploited in the design of the *flesh interfaces*.

When a human body is embedded in an interface, the independent (i.e. non-human) interface glands produce massive amounts of LSD which cause intellectual mutations (i.e. time-fracturing along several dozen axes).

Meanwhile, independent hormone regulators produce a emotional oscillation between two states:

1. euphoria
2. terror

Thus we have the typical sound of an interface: alternating waves of giggling and screaming that move through the interface population, running along the length of the interface as the hormones travel along the independent conduits.

These successive waves of giggling and screaming create a steady rhythm that washes over the traveler as they move through the interface.

Natural empathetic responses (mirroring) prepare the traveler's body for the process of "embrace."

*Title: "New Mommy"*

###### 18th Post / Date 04-24-2016 at 21:38:12 EDT

When I was little, they took mommy away and put me with a new mommy in a smelly dark house.

They said she was a real person, but I knew she wasn't.

They had made her.

Her face was made from pieces of animal.

* pig cheeks
* hairy goat jaw
* old horse eyes

They sewed her together badly, and the seams were crusty.

I hated her.

Real mommy called me from underground.

I opened the attic window at sundown and let the spring breeze flow in.

I heard her song floating in on the cool air, soft singing from the grave.

*Title: "Embrace"*

###### 19th Post / Date 04-25-2016 at 20:07:30 EDT

Watching the flesh interface process known as "embrace" is kinda like watching those Japanese subway groping videos.

That was honestly the first thing I thought of when I watched it, but of course, I wasn't going to put that in the official report.

You ever seen those videos?

Oh, you wouldn't admit it if you had, right?

It's a whole genre over there. Not the most progressive stuff in terms of gender equality, but compelling, nonetheless.

The videos start with a woman standing in the subway, minding her own business, when some guy starts feeling her up. She protests demurely and attempts to deflect his roaming hands. He persists.

Other men on the subway, perhaps sensing her weakness, join in with the groping. A sort of group madness takes over the subway occupants.

The men are transformed from ordinary travelers into a agglomerated mass of arms and hands and fingers, grabbing every part of the woman's body.

The woman's attempts at protecting her personal space are always absurdly ineffectual, and soon she is divested of her clothing.

Depending on the video's sub-genre, a variety of acts ensue, most of which surely violate local transportation statutes.

"Embrace" is kind of like that.

That, combined with a school of piranha stripping a live cow of its flesh.

*Title: "The Island"*

###### 20th Post / Date 04-26 2016 at 03:40:58 EDT

Lying in the hold, listening to the bombardment, there is no sleep. The booming of the guns travels through the shivering metal of the ship. Hour after hour, without end, the arsenal of democracy rains down on the tiny island.

What could it be like for the Japs huddled in their bunkers? Surrounded. Doomed. Do they know they have no hope? Do they expect death? Do they wish for it?

Death. The island is death. Waiting for them. Ancient. Waiting since before they were born. Thousands of young men have crossed vast oceans to come to her, following paths they could have never foreseen. Thousands of young lives will converge on her shores. Converge and end.

After three days of round-the-clock bombardment, a clear and bright morning. Whispers through the hold about problems with the shells. Many of them never exploded, disappeared in the air. There have been stories of bombers being cut in half. Of bomb crews emerging limbless from their planes. What is on the island? Some new kind of weapon? Something the Japanese have been saving until now? Just talk. The men feel the death out there, waiting on the island.

The landing vehicles ride through the waves, and the Marines climb out onto beaches of ash, an alien surface, crumbling under their boots. There is no fire. No sound but the motors and the clinking of gear and the sergeants shouting, urging them on. No movement from the interior. Then screams. Bloody stumps. Men cut in half. But still no fire. How is there no fire? More men screaming. Groups of men on the ground, howling, bright red lumps where limbs had been. How? No sign of the Japs. No fire. No shells.

More vehicles land. The beaches become a crowded, screaming nightmare. There is something here, something beyond their understanding. Invisible. Killing at will. Is it the island itself?

A few men manage to advance up the steep beaches and across the rocks, but soon they are cut apart as well. Other men follow and advance farther. They have been trained to advance. Take the beach. Forward. Always forward. Slowly, the men find their way farther and farther into the island interior. Through horrible trial and error, they begin to understand. They don't speak of their discovery. They don't believe it. But their overwhelming will to go forward and their overwhelming fear of death teach them what their minds cannot accept, teach them a lesson about the island.

They notice tracks through the ash and rock where there is no grass. These tracks are not foot trails, but deep tracks carved at strange angles, striated like dry streams, places where it seems the ground is simply missing. They realize they must avoid these tracks. If they step onto them or let any part of themselves pass over them, that part will disappear, whether it is their fingers or feet or limbs or even their heads. Sometimes parts of their bodies disappear even when they don't cross the tracks, and they realize that there are unseen tracks through the air, invisible boundaries they must not cross.

If they lose a part of their bodies, the blood does not flow, but there is pain, pain beyond flames or knives or bullets. Pain unbearable. Unholy. Inhuman. There are screams all around them, of men who have accidentally run afoul of the invisible power.

There is no time to understand this, to reason it out. They simply adapt. Moving carefully, holding out blades of wild grass or shirts or gear, probing, waiting for part of the object to disappear, then stopping, testing for a way forward. Sometimes they find it. Sometimes they are forced to turn back.

In less than an hour, they have forgotten entirely about the artillery and snipers and bayonets. There are no soldiers. Only entrances to empty bunkers, abandoned pieces of artillery, some cut in half, but no enemy. They are playing a new game now, taught to them by some unseen teacher, playing it with total concentration.

Playing and winning.

The Marine wounded, with their strange unbleeding wounds, are taken away. Their screams fade. Orders from command are unchanged. Take the island. So, they move forward. Up. Towards Mt. Suribachi. The mountain is shaped like a bowl. A dead volcano. They approach by various paths, each man following another, taking a narrow path of safety. Makeshift markers are set up to show their boundaries.

A Marine turns and sees, floating like a butterfly, a severed human arm. It turns and floats away and disappears altogether. Minutes later, a disembodied pair of legs scrambles past. The Marines curse and speculate and even giggle but keep moving forward. There is no time to understand. They expected to spend weeks taking the island. Now it seems that could have it in a couple hours.

A shot rings out, the first shot since the confusion of the landing. A Marine is firing at the mountain. Others peer through their binoculars and spy a man sitting on the rim of the mountain. Simply sitting. Alone. Just a vague shape. Snipers are called in and they fire on him, but the island's air seems to swallow the bullets. The man is untouched.

They press forward. The deadly tracks wind around them, growing more numerous. Some of the men find themselves at dead ends. One Marine slips and disappears entirely without so much as a shout. They come to the foot of the mountain. It is small but rugged and steep, and the lone man sits over them, looking down on them.

They hear the sounds now, coming from the other side of the ridge, coming from within the giant bowl of the mountain. Human voices. Many of them. Thousands. The sounds of laughter, giggling and cackling and howling laughter. Like a wonderful party where somebody is telling a hilarious story. The Marines listen to it dumbfounded. Slowly the laughter fades, and there is a new sound, a strange rushing roar that quickly breaks apart into discrete sounds: screams, shouts, gasps, weeping, terror. The sound rises and rises, and the Marines shudder. This too fades and the laughter returns. And so, these two sounds trade places over and over, fading in and out above the sound of the waves.

A Marine trains his binoculars on the mountain again. The man is still sitting there. Japanese. Wearing a uniform. His head is floating several feet above his body. The body is in several pieces with lines of sunshine between them. His face, sweat dripping over the smooth eyelids, shows no emotion. Slowly, he raises his hand, as if wave to them, and his fingers float away from his palm.

###### *Title: Author self-post - "Ah, the Simple Nemesis"*

Author Self Post / Date 4-26-2016 at 17:20:45 EDT

*Ah, The Simple Nemesis*

When novelist Philip K. Dick was 42 years old, his fourth wife left him. Lonely and devastated, he opened his home to whoever wanted to stay there. This being San Francisco in 1971, the house quickly became filled with drug users. Dick himself was heavily abusing amphetamines, eating pills by the literal handful and forgoing sleep for days. The mood in the house quickly became paranoid, and at one point, multiple occupants were sleeping with guns under their pillows. The house was broken into, and Dick suspected government involvement, thinking he had gotten too close to some kind of secret in one of his novels. He moved away shortly after.

But his time at the house hadn't been all paranoia and firearms. There were also many good times. Dick was a mesmerizing conversationalist, with an easy command of facts and theories about art, religion, philosophy, and numerous esoteric subjects. He and his new friends, usually kids in their early twenties, would rap for hours and days about everything under the sun. He grew close to many of them. Many of them were runaways or otherwise clinging to the margins of society. After the break-in, Dick went to rehab and quit speed, but as time went on, many of his friends fell victim to the drugs.

In the epilogue to *A Scanner Darkly*, a fictionalized account of this time, he wrote:

> This has been a novel about some people who were punished entirely too much for what they did. They wanted to have a good time, but they were like children playing in the street; they could see one after another of them being killed -- run over, maimed, destroyed -- but they continued to play anyhow. We really all were very happy for a while, sitting around not toiling but just bullshitting and playing, but it was for such a terrible brief time, and then the punishment was beyond belief: even when we could see it, we could not believe it. For a while I myself was one of these children playing in the street; I was, like the rest of them, trying to play instead of being grown up, and I was punished. We were forced to stop by things dreadful.
>
>

In the grip of withdrawal, I read that epilogue many times. Read it and wept. I remember, after a week-long binge, lying in my bed, weeping, nightmares crowding my mind, my hands shaking, the mental suffering unbearable, thinking to myself, "Should I really be punished like this? What have I done that was so horrible? Was it so wrong to drink? To want to feel comfortable? To want to feel OK? To want to forget about things for a while? Was it so horribly wrong? Such a crime, that I should go through this mind-crucifying torment?"

But it wasn't really a matter of right and wrong.

It was simply a matter of cause and effect.

My brain had adapted to the inhibitory effects of alcohol, and once the alcohol had been removed, it had entered a state of hyperactivity. The adaptation had become a maladaptation. That was all. There was nothing out there administering this suffering as a punishment. My only 'crime' had been knowing that this would happen and drinking anyways.

I had been a child playing in the street.

Dick wrote in his epilogue,

> "In Greek drama they were beginning, as a society, to discover science, which means causal law. Here in this novel there is Nemesis: not fate, because any one of us could have chosen to stop playing in the street."
>
>

There was no magical fate causing my suffering. Just the impersonal cruelty of causal law.

That was my only Nemesis. Perhaps one day, they will invent a substance which prevents the neuro-adaptation to alcohol, and we will be able to drink forever, like the Greek God Dionysus. We will drink and dance and laugh, and there will be no nightmares.

We will be made children again, and we will play forever on a street where there are no cars.

Until then, there will be suffering beyond belief.

*Title: "They crawl up the mountain"*

###### 21st Post / Date 04-26-2016 at 23:43:33 EDT

They crawl up the mountain, bare hands on the sharp volcanic rocks. The sun beats down on them. It is a grueling test. The island has a secret that it doesn't want to reveal.

They draw close to the man at the top of the mountain, keeping their guns trained on him. He has no weapon. His body is fragmented like an image in a broken mirror, various pieces floating without connection, the brightness of the sky shining between them, the blood of his insides bright red. His head is like a balloon floating several feet over the rest of him.

"Hello, America," the head calls, breaking into a sickly smile. The whites of the eyes are clustered with red hemorrhages. Sweat rolls down the face.

The Marines don't know how to respond. They ask if he's armed. The question strikes one of them as funny and he giggles. A tide of giggling comes from the other side of the ridge, behind the fragmented man. The giggling turns to screaming.

"What's going on here? You alone?" A Marine asks.

The man doesn't seem to understand. One of the Marines tries his basic Japanese. The man makes a sour face. "No Nippon... Korea... Korea person," the man says, and a disembodied hand points to a nearby fragment of his chest. "나는...I... Christian... 예수," the man says. He pulls a necklace out of his shirt. On the end of it is a small metal cross. A tiny suffering Jesus gleams in the sun.

The Marine tries English again. "What's happening here?"

"마귀가 여기 왔어." - "The devil, came here."

"What?"

"군인들이 대문을 건축했어. 그 아이의 명령으로." - "The soldiers had built a gate. The child with the command."

"I don't understand."

A wide smile splits the Korean man's face, and he lets out a loud laugh, and the smile flees, and suddenly he is weeping. His emotions seem to follow the giggles and screams that come from inside the mountain. The Marines feel it too: the strange urge to laugh followed by a harrowing fear.

The sound beyond the ridge rises, the screams becoming higher and louder. A wave of maniac giggling joins the screaming so that both sounds fill the air at once. A electric feeling touches the skin on the Marines' arms. They find their minds filling with strange, dark thoughts.

Somewhere in a castle in Japan lies a mad God Emperor who has sent his men across the ocean to defend his glorious empire with their blood. On the other side of the world lies the great humming factory called America, the heart of an empire of commerce, which once forced Japan to join the world in trade. Machines and flesh now flow along tendril-like courses, delivering goods and death, ensnaring the globe.

The sun goes dark, like a light switch turning off. The Marines instinctively duck, then look up and gasp. Above them, extending miles into the sky, is an enormous metallic cylinder, filling the sky, blocking out the sun. It spins slowly above them, pieces of it flickering and disappearing like the image in a broken movie projector. In a day filled with madness, they find themselves confronted with something wholly beyond their capacity for surprise. They simply mutter soft curses and get closer to the ground. The earth seems to tremble with the sound of the screaming and laughing, which swirls like a storm all around them.

Somewhere near the beach, a Marine pats another Marine on the back, interrupting his stunned gawking, and shouts something into his ear. The second Marines pats the man in front of him, and the message goes up the line like this until it reaches the Marines talking to the fractured man.

*Pull back*.

They are to withdraw from the island.

The men do not question the order for a moment. They turn and crawl away from the Korean.

Below them, the ashen island flashes with pieces of sunlight that manage to slip through the flickering cylinder. When they are almost at the foot of the mountain again, the man stands up and shouts something over the hideous screaming. The Marines cannot hear it and would not understand it anyways.

"마귀가 예수를 데리고 산으로 가서 천하 만국과 그 영광을 보여. 가로되 만일 내게 엎드려 경배하면 이 모든 것을 네게 주리라." - "The devil took Jesus went to the mountain to show him all the kingdoms of the world glory. If you fall down and worship me, saying, I will give it all to you."

*Title: "Michael Jackson"*

###### 22nd Post / Date 04-27-2016 at 01:01:00 EDT

Many people believe that Michael Jackson died due to propofol.

Not so.

He was murdered.

He had actually been taking propofol nightly since around 1980, not in order to make himself sleep, but to suppress REM sleep. After several months of REM sleep suppression, the user becomes "receptive," in other words, they enter the same state achieved by prolonged continuous immersion in aerosol LSD.

The brain can physically restructure itself simply through thought. By reordering thought, one can physically reorder the brain. LSD or long-term propofol use makes the brain's neuro-structure "malleable". High-energy rays from outer space are able to penetrate the body, and these can lead to random mutations and cancers. And sometimes, they lead to changes that are not random at all. Changes which have been intentionally programmed. Changes designed to bring about civilization-level transformations.

Michael Jackson was unaware of all of this. He merely knew that propofol allowed him to enter sort of waking dream state of heightened creativity. The side effects were horrifying paranoia and obsession, but he felt that he was strong enough to endure these side effects. The success of Thriller seemed to vindicate his theories about propofol, and unfortunately, he was damned by his own success.

So how did he die?

Through the lyrics of "Another Part of Me" and the vegetable part of "Wanna Be Startin' Something," it was quite clear that he had become "receptive" and neuro-altered in line with Master Design 9. But he was considered to be minimal threat and even perhaps and asset until his mounting financial problems made him a liability.

He was terminated, though I'm not sure of the exact means.

*Title: "Magical Space Pussy 2"*

###### 23rd Post / Date 04-27-2016 at 14:52:27 EDT

I suppose it's time to tell you what was inside the magical space pussy. You can believe me or not. What do I care? I'm the guy who's been inside the magical space pussy. My life has been pretty much downhill since then. I mean, fuck Neil Armstrong. What did he see? A bunch of gray rocks? Big fucking deal. I saw a chooch growing out of the side of a canyon. Top that, NASA! You Tang-drinking cocksuckers!

Anyways... where was I? Ah, yes, Uncle Adolf. So I was living in Death Valley, hanging out with the Manson Family, and Charlie kept mentioning this guy, "Uncle Adolph," and I figured he's talking about Hitler because he's sort of into this white supremacy thing. But then I started realizing that he's talking about a guy who's still alive. Then one day, the guy showed up.

They asked me to come over to their cabin, and this old guy was sitting there: white hair, deep tan, lined face, pale eyes. He introduced himself as Adolf, and he's got a German accent. He made no secret of the fact that he was an ex-Nazi. This made me nervous. That's kinda something you keep under your hat. He said he found Charlie at Berkeley, that Charlie was "perfect for my purpose." I asked what his purpose was. He said, "testing."

I kinda shrugged because I didn't really give a shit about his little coy answer, and I got up to leave when this mongoloid motherfucker they called Clem punched me straight in the face, and suddenly I was on my ass. There were a couple girls there, and they jumped on me and held me down and tied my hands behind my back. If I had known what they had done to Sharon Tate, I would've been unspeakably terrified, but as it was, I was merely really, really scared.

They tossed me into the back of the dune buggy and drove out into the desert. It was midday, and the sky was just one giant glare. We drove for over an hour, and eventually they got me out and hauled me down into this deep sandy arroyo, and they started marching me down it. They had put wooden stakes into the ground at various points, and when we came to them, they seemed to be really careful to always stay in between the stakes. Later, they had chains tied between the stakes, and we all had to go under the chains like some kind of obstacle course. I didn't know what to make of it. I had a lot to process at the time.

I started to notice that the rock walls of the arroyo were... abnormal. There were strange striations through the rock and what looked liked the cross sections of giant insect tunnels. I had never seen rocks like that. The whole thing was just... very alien.

Then I started to hear the screaming. Up ahead, I could hear people's voices, thousands of voices, all of them screaming and howling at once. Slowly, incredibly, the screaming changed into a kind of laughter, an insane laughter, giggles and chuckles and titters. I wondered if it was in my head, if I was so scared that my mind had cracked or if they had dosed me with LSD or something.

Finally, we went around a bend in the arroyo and, well, there it was. They said it would be a pussy, and I guess it kind of looked like one. Maybe after some kind of drastic dildo mishap. It was just... flesh. Wrinkled, lobed, flabby flesh, growing out of the rock like mold or something. It had hair and pores and freckles. Some of it was pale, some of it was black. It was taller than me, and in the center there was an opening. Pink and wet, like a pussy.

The kraut told me he wanted to see its "level of development." He took a revolver from one of the girls and pointed it at my face and told me to walk inside. It was either get shot or go into the big mangled pussy. It was honestly a tough choice. There was something completely fucked up, completely not right about that thing. Something in my bones told me not to go into it. Not to go near it. To just take the bullet in the head. But I figured maybe I could go in just a little bit and then wait for them to leave and get the hell out of there. Not a great plan, but the best I could come up with.

So I went in. The entrance was just barely wide enough to slip into. All I could see was glistening pink flesh ahead. There was this sound like laughter and then screaming and then laughter that was coming from deep inside. The walls were blood warm on my shoulders, and the smell was... well, what you might expect. Not great. Let's just say it was not great.

I pushed forward and the walls kind of gave way and found myself moving through this slimy, suffocating flesh, and I'm starting to panic because my hands are still tied behind my back, and I'm feeling like I'm about to choke on this stuff, and the walls are moving, like pulsating. I feel like I'm being digested. Then, suddenly, I'm pushed through into this kind of chamber.

Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire. The chamber was... just a nightmare. I mean, I never... I've just never seen that. It was unholy. There were faces and heads and legs all kind of fused together. The walls were just all these crawling limbs and these terrified faces and fusions of teeth and cheeks and hair and fingers coming out of knees and just... they... all those people! Were they still people? Had they ever been people? Had they been made a part of that thing?

I started to scream. Everything around me was screaming, all the mouths on the walls were screaming, and I was screaming too. Then I was laughing, and I felt hands and mouths all over my body and they were tickling me, touching me all over. Then I was screaming again. I had to get out of there. I had to get out of the nightmare. I started pushing back towards the entrance, but the hands were all over me. I felt something bite into my hip. A mouth was biting me. I screamed at the sharp pain and moved away from it. I started to think that maybe I could get one of the mouths to bite through my ropes, and then I would at least have my hands free.

I struggled to turn around and move the ropes toward the mouth, but just when I got it in position, the mouth bit right into my finger instead. The pain was incredible, but I was giggling, just laughing and laughing. The mouth pulled the flesh from my finger like it was a chicken wing. Another mouth bit into my shoulder. I was chuckling away at this point. The hands were grabbing me, pulling on me, pulling me apart, tearing my arms right out of their sockets. Fingers were digging in between my ribs. I was slathered with blood and screaming, screaming as the fingers dug into my eyes.

Well, I guess that this point you're probably wondering how I, your intrepid narrator, managed to escape the Bottomless Pit, how I managed to survive to tell you this tale. I simply didn't. I never escaped the Bottomless Pit. I am the Bottomless Pit. Hahaha. I am the Tree of Life.

*Title: "The North Korean Situation"*

###### 24th Post / Date 04-27-2016 at 18:30:51 EDT

The North Korean situation 1980s was unique, as most North Korean situations are. They built something he haven't seen before or since: an independent *flesh interface* of enormous size and power, but within a contained incident zone and no metallic cylinders. We detected it via the cosmic ray information signature which was concentrated on a secure, shielded facility outside the Hwasong prison camp.

This was a huge underground facility which they had been constructing for over a decade. We anticipated that they would construct a portal-level interface and were fully prepared to bomb it before became uncontained. What we didn't expect is that it would achieve Level VII cosmic transmission rates without all the other normal signs of full-fledged portal. We considered bombing it anyways, or using our Brilliant Pebbles kinetic orbital strike system, but instead we managed to get two agents into the facility to take a look at it.

They achieved high-level security clearance and found that the Koreans were using the *flesh interface* as an information processing facility. This was quite novel, as we had always considered it to be potential weapons system. Our curiosity was truly piqued. Clearly the Norks knew something we didn't. Unfortunately, our agents weren't able to access the enormous "mainframe chamber" which actually housed the interface. All they knew was that it was in a huge chamber full of temperature-regulated water.

We instructed them to breach the chamber and get a look at it, then send us the data by satellite. We knew full well that it would probably cost them their lives, but we pumped them up with a lot of "do it for the planet" rhetoric. So one night they put on dive suits and went into the chamber.

It was basically like a huge lake contained within a massive, darkened steel box. Imagine a flooded warehouse with endless rows of dim ceiling lights shining down on rippling black water. They jumped into the water, and pretty quickly they picked up some pretty interesting audio signals with varying frequencies -- a kind of squeaking, mewling sound.

They recognized the sound for what it was right away but had a hard time believing it.

Whale songs.

The chamber contained several adult humpback whales.

*Title: "How do I explain mother?"*

###### 25th Post / Date 04-28-2016 at 02:45:24 EDT

How do I explain mother? What was she?

Βαβυλὼν ἡ μεγάλη, ἡ μήτηρ τῶν πορνῶν καὶ τῶν βδελυγμάτων τῆς γῆς.

Translation of Greek to English: Great Babylon, the mother of prostitutes and the abominations of the earth.

I used to lie in my bed, the blinds pulled against the summer sunlight, listening to the sounds of other kids playing outside. I lay there for hours, not sleeping, wondering who had made mother.

She was made from all different sorts of animal parts. One of her feet was big, heavy hoof. The other was a tiny little kitty cat paw. I could hear her clumping around downstairs. Her smell, the smell of cigarettes and disease, was everywhere in the house, pooling in the darkness.

Slowly, night would come, and I would imagine floating out of my window, floating up into the deep starry blue, looking down at all the houses shrinking into tiny boxes, the clean breeze blowing on my face.

Oh, how I would cry in my little bed.

I was very young when mother first came. I had another mommy before her, a good one, who wore pearls and had a voice like music. Then one day, I got sick, a fever. I was crying all day, and it went on for weeks.

I guess my first mommy couldn't take it anymore. One night, she left forever. When I came down for breakfast the next morning, this new thing was waiting for me in the kitchen.

At least, I think that's what happened.

Mother never talked. She just snorted and made horse sounds.

Awful.

Her parts were sewn together with yarn, and there were patches of wet burlap. I didn't see her eyes until she had been there almost a year.

Have you ever seen horse eyes up close?

They're like goat's eyes.

They have a sideways pupil.

I would come home after school, and there would be kids sitting at the breakfast table. She gave them medicine so they did whatever she wanted them to. It made them just sit there, staring and shaking. Then she would take them down in the basement and make them into things.

She tried to make me do it too, but I didn't want to.

I realized she was afraid of the Bible.

I realized it had power.

Blood power.

When I read it to her, her different pieces would shudder and pull apart, and she would howl like a wolf, and blood would run from her segments.

The Bible brought transmissions from the cross that floated in the red summer sky.

Everything in time is arranged around the epicenter wherein the nail drove into Christ's hand. Lines of possibilities radiate outward from it.

Kingdoms rise and fall, men grow and die like flowers in a field.

τὸ θηρίον ὃ εἶδες ἦν καὶ οὐκ ἔστιν, καὶ μέλλει ἀναβαίνειν

Greek to English: The beast you saw was, and CDR Estin, and Future anavainein

Revelation 17:8 -The beast that you saw was, and is not, and is about to come up out of the abyss and go to destruction.

*Title: "Breached the Underwater Chamber"*

###### 26th Post / Date 04-28-2016 at 16:00:16 EDT

So, two of our agents had breached the underwater chamber containing the North Korean *flesh interface* and found nothing but several humpback whales.

Now this was a head-scratcher.

We knew it was a *flesh interface* because it was receiving information-rich rays coming from outer space, yet how could it be taking the form of humpback whales? All previous interfaces had taken on a decidedly less conventional form.

Well, the our agents decided to get a closer look.

There were three whales, two adults and a calf. They appeared normal in every respect, though it was difficult to get a close look at them. They seemed to be in quite a bit of distress, though the agents were not biologists and had a limited understanding of what whale distress looks like.

The agents noticed some very loud low-frequency percussive sounds coming from the bottom of the chamber, which was entirely hidden in darkness. So they headed towards the bottom, a distance of several stories. There, they shined their lights around and made a fairly alarming discovery: bones.

Enormous curving rib bones and jaw bones and vertebrae.

They were apparently whale bones.

They also noticed a large, circular gate on the floor of the chamber, which was closed at the time.

At this point, one of the agents began to panic.

He had come to the conclusion that the whales were not the interface itself, but were merely 'food' for the interface, which was perhaps being held in another chamber below this one.

There were some problems with this theory: why use whales, a fairly rare and very difficult animal to corral, when they could just use a large amount of smaller fish?

Well, it's all just speculation.

The agents quickly swam out of the chamber and never found out what was behind the gate, if anything. Later gave us some very valuable information on the facility's information processing capabilities, which were staggering and quite appalling to imagine in the hands of a regime such as the DPRK.

Since there was no incident zone and segmentation wasn't an issue, we were able to solve the problem quite neatly by releasing a nerve agent into the water chamber. The cosmic ray download stopped shortly thereafter, indicating success, though it did result in the loss of both agents and a major loss of life at the facility overall.

Anyways, that was our first encounter with a MBIS (Massive Biological Information System) and a near-encounter with what we could later come call a "Skin Ship".

Its destruction has allowed for the continued validity of prime-number based encryption systems, though some of the secrets uncovered by the DPRK during that time have forced us into the unpleasant position of supporting the regime.

Blackmail, basically.

*Title: "I Dreamt I Was a Dog"*

###### 27th Post / Date 04-28-2016 at 21:21:34 EDT

Last night I dreamt I was a dog.

I lived on a small family farm somewhere on the American frontier, back in the time of plow mules and butter churns. It was one of those long dreams that feels like an entire lifetime. I remember the end of the dream with an awful clarity, but the beginning seems like something that happened many years ago.

The first images are vivid but disjointed. I recall the shape of my master walking against the sunlight overhead. The smell of his leather boots. The shadows at the edge of the forest. A little pig-tailed girl hugging me. Fresh mud in the spring. Warm floorboards in the winter. Everything had a peaceful storybook quality to it, except one thing.

Sometimes late at night, I heard singing. It came from outside, out there in the far distance, from somewhere in the deep forest beyond the boundaries of my world. Some nights it was one voice, but usually it was many, singing a strange, aching song. It sounded like a haunted crying. When I was little, I had whimpered and cried like this to my mother. But who was crying out there in the night? What kind of dark mother was listening?

When I first heard the singing, I was filled with a blood dread. The hair on my back bristled, and I growled and barked at the darkness. Even after the night finally went silent, I trotted around for hours in vigilant anger. Later, as I heard it more often, I learned to accept it with a sullen unease. Of course, this singing was the sound of wolves howling, but I didn't know this in the dream. In the dream, I'd never seen a wolf in my life.

One winter, I began to see them prowling in the woods. To me, they were ghost dogs, shadows sneaking between trees, eyes glinting in the twilight. I growled and barked at them, but didn't pursue. For several months, they never encroached on my world.

They finally came on a late winter's evening. The sun had sunk into an orange glow beyond the edge of the world. The family was in the cabin, and I was out trotting through the snow, anxious to get back to them because I knew food would be coming soon. Then, atop a small hill by the apple tree -- an apparition. My body snapped to attention, and I growled, the hairs on my back standing on end. It was a wolf, just a stone's throw from me, its silvery coat half-lit in the dying light of day.

It came toward me in a sleek, soundless jaunt. I barked and snapped at the air. It slowed and stopped just beyond my lunging distance. Now, crazed with fear and anger, I saw that it was a large female, healthy, well-fed, with a gorgeous coat -- misty gray, the color of snow seen at a winter's distance. Its smell was alien, confusing, but laced with a clear and potent confidence, a supreme assuredness. Indeed, it did not seem to be afraid of me at all, nor did it threaten. Its mouth hung slack, and steam issued from its muzzle in steady, happy puffs. This calmed me for a moment and in the next moment redoubled my anger. I growled from the deepest, most murderous part of my dog self.

It spoke to me. Its mouth didn't move, and there was no sound, but by the logic of the dream, it spoke to me a clear, dignified voice.

"Hello, child."

I snarled at it. It took another step forward, and its eyes caught the last of the sunlight, glowing in a fantastic array of yellows. Those eyes, rimmed in jet black like mascara, projected a powerful allure, an otherworldly glamour.

''You bark and snarl. But look at my face. Am I not of your kind?" it asked.

I could not answer. I could only growl softly.

"Is my face not like your mother's? Do you remember her?"

The sudden scent of distant memory came to me, and I felt a pang of loneliness. I had not seen my mother or any other dog since I was small. Since I had come to the farm, my only family had been the people I lived with (and a few of the more tolerant pigs). I searched now for dim, fragrant memories of my mother. I felt her huge, bristled muzzle licking at my face. I saw her giant, sweeping legs as I followed them through high fields. She had seemed taller than a horse then. I remembered the softness of her teats, feeding from them with my brothers and sisters. What had become of my family? I had spent every day with them, and then one day... all gone.

The wolf paced back and forth now, keeping a small distance from me, its eyes ranging over the farm. Again I saw some strange, haunting glamour in them, something that glittered with secret, distant power.

"The people in that house, they're not your family. We are. We share ancient blood," it said, its voice deep and resounding with the rhythm of wisdom. My master had a voice like this, but it didn't have the total authority of this alpha female's.

I saw with alarm two dark shapes come over the hill by the apple tree. More wolves, moving silent with heads lowered. I barked at them.

"You hate us and love them. But do they love you? What are you to them? Aren't you the lowest of the low? Always getting the last of the food, the smallest scraps? Imagine living differently. Imagine taking your own food. Killing. Drinking lifeblood. Being master over others."

The two other wolves slunk down the hill. The skin on my back tightened again, but the strange hypnotic power of the alpha wolf held me still. "You could leave this house and come with us. We range the forests. We've seen rivers wider than this whole valley. Mountains that go up into the clouds. Lakes with no end but the end of the world. Places with no houses or men at all. You could be with us. We could be your brothers and sisters."

The other two wolves came closer. They were unmistakably females, both young and well muscled. Their confidence was not as absolute as the alpha wolf's, but they showed no fear as they came to me. I smelled on them a strange longing, a deep winter's desire for warmth.

The alpha wolf stepped closer, close enough that her steaming breath tickled my nose. Her eyes danced with cold burning light, and she spoke in a voice that made my blood hum.

"Outside your life waits everything you've never known," she said. "There are worlds, child. There are ecstasies."

I then recognized the allure that lit her eyes, the unspeakable longing that glimmered in their depths. It had seemed this whole time to be some fantastic, alien desire, reaching out to me from a distant world. Perhaps it truly was. But more simply than this, it was hunger.

Plain hunger.

That ancient, unsleeping hunger, older than the first furred thing that ever gave rise to the races of dogs and wolves and men. Hunger had brought this wolf across rivers and mountains and endless frozen plains to meet me in that moment. I can still see her face, the final image of the dream before the other wolves tore into me and I died and I awoke -- her face with eyes that spoke of open loneliness, her face, so noble and gentle and motherly, her face, as beautiful and ancient as the stars.

*Title: "Bleeds and Sweats and Pees LSD"*

###### 28th Post / Date 04-29-2016 at 03:20:07 EDT

What do you do when a child who bleeds and sweats and pees LSD suddenly goes missing? We conducted a massive search. As massive as we could manage. Almost every "mentally elevated" CIA department was involved. We didn't trust anybody else. We never trusted anybody else. Shit, we didn't even trust ourselves, considering that it was one of our own who had taken the child.

We searched for about two months, but never really turned up any leads. Since every other "returned" child had died within a few days of being freed from their amniotic sac, we scaled the search down pretty quickly. It's one thing to search for somebody like Bin Laden, when everybody knows you're looking for him. It's another thing to search for somebody you had just worked quite hard to erase from official existence so you would be free to perform tests on her. We felt that the search itself was more of a security risk than the missing child, since she was almost certainly dead.

There was also a feeling that maybe it was for the best. Maybe she would survive. Maybe she would have a happy life. Maybe it was best not to know her fate.

But then, about 7 years later, we learned what happened.

If you'll allow me to wax philosophical for a moment, I'd like to quote a poem by Aeschylus that I've actually never read: "Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God." While I'm no literary scholar, I believe this means, "Learning can hurt sometimes."

So she had survived. Her genes came up in our program to collect a global genetic snapshot (a total boondoggle, btw). So where was she? In some Russian laboratory? Living out in the jungle, being worshipped as a god by some doomsday cult like Johnny Htoo? Floating through space in a bubble to Jupiter and beyond?

Estonia. She was found in Estonia in a Swedish speaking village on the island of Hiiumaa. She was living a normal life. Apparently the issue with the bio-LSD had resolved itself after detachment from the placenta, otherwise, anybody who got a kiss from her would have found themselves going on a very strange journey. She was about 13 years old at this point and had survived travel far longer than any other child. This meant she was an asset we absolutely had to obtain. She contained the secret to survivable travel, something that had eluded us for years.

It would have been convenient if she was living a life of abuse and drudgery in some orphanage somewhere. We could have simply considered her a victim of fortune. But she was actually living in a quaint little village on the edge of a beautiful forest with an old couple who had been given some phony story by our former agent. It was a nice life. Quiet. Maybe a little boring. But a nice one.

We took her in the middle of the night back to our facility in Colorado.

In the end, she wasn't a victim of fortune.

She was a victim of us.

*Title: "That's Interesting"*

###### 29th Post / Date 04-29-2016 at 17:45:34 EDT

That's interesting.

When I was working for the CIA, we found that animals could often survive travel through the *flesh interfaces* much better than humans could.

We regularly had success sending dogs and cats through.

Somebody hit upon the idea of sending some *Gracula religiosa* (hill myna) through the interface, because they are adept at imitating sounds.

This was the next best thing to sending a tape recorder (the interfaces did not accept non-living objects. We worked on grafting a tape recorder to a turtle, but this was unsuccessful on several levels.)

We sent the birds through, and they returned unencased but covered with the typical fluids.

Those of us who subscribed the the alien theory had high hopes that they would record alien speech. Instead (or indeed) they came back imitating a strange flute-like "speech music".

The music was quite interesting, though having all the birds sing at once created distinctly unpleasant effect.

Somebody in the department ended up killing all the birds, though we never found out who.

*Title: "Incinerated"*

###### 30th Post / Date 04-30-2016 at 04:04:24 EDT

After the orbital arrays incinerated the city, they dropped our platoon in to take a look around.

We had seen it before. An endless graveyard. Everything ashes. Ash buildings. Ash people

For six days, we trudged through the dead city before finding the first sign of life.

On the edge of the blast zone, before frozen winter fields, a small flowering bush.

Perhaps the heat of the bombardment had tricked it into blooming early.

We all looked at it for a silent moment and quickly moved on.

We were young and tired and just miles from the rendezvous.

Yet sometimes at night that silent moment returns.

And I see them fluttering again.

In the cold uncaring wind.

Doomed flowers.

Soft and pale.

Mother Horse Eyes Part 2

Mother Horse Eyes Part 3

Mother Horse Eyes Finale