The point of VF is to stir emotions in the heart of the reader.
Source: What is “Visionary Fiction”?
The point of VF is to stir emotions in the heart of the reader.
Source: What is “Visionary Fiction”?
I abruptly awoke outside in a daze
With horrified city residents frantically panicking amidst the town ablaze
People morphed into colts / and started to bolt / Down streets like lightening beams
But my feet remained planted firmly to the concrete
Struck by the scene
Stuck in place / Mesmerized / Beholding vicious flames and smoke stream
Skyward over burning buildings along with the echoes of
Terrorized screams of Doom
Hanging in heavy clouds above the city they loomed
As the Grim Reaper arrived promptly to harvest the Apocalypse that had bloomed
And before I knew it I found myself sprinting down crowded cracked streets
And a time wrinkle sent me a spine tingle / Letting the dying world’s facts permeate
Throughout my body / Staunch despair repressed within me then surfaced fastly
And the feeble faces of the fleeing refugees looked ghastly
Running past me now they were as…
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from MIKE EYE’S The Aqueous Transmission, a novel
IT WAS NOT LONG BEFORE THE LUSTROUS, FAMISHED CUBE OF Metatron supersonically smelt out Al Rodnam’s archetypal doppelganger waiting patiently for the archangel at the edge of Bry Dellows: a peculiar, perceptive fellow named Fletcher Munsin.
Fletcher Munsin looked exactly like the old-man-human form of Al Rodnam — was a part of his essence in fact — except he was many hundreds of years younger than the old sage.
Fletcher Munsin was not in fact the mighty mystic; he was the mighty mystic’s Shadow.
Magdalena’s orb-cube, illuminating itself with its Highest Intention, now rapidly approached the area of sky that was about thirty yards above where the defenseless Fletcher Munsin sat crouched in Contemplation. Having arrived, the orb-cube paused, hovering dazzlingly in silence within the close vicinity of its long sought-after target. The orb-cube floated in earnest, mentally salivating over the next, ever-relevant move it was then to make. The glowing form of sister souls was so excited upon seeing who they believed to be the Last Godhed on Fucked-Earth, that they completely overlooked analyzing the obvious curious anomaly of the man’s presence in quite the choice location.
Fletcher Munsin modestly observed the High Light twinkling above him as calmly as he could, fully Conscious, psyching himself up to expect anything to happen. Funny as it perhaps was, the man felt compelled to stare at the very center of the glowing Cube of Metatron that incorporated the Mother and her twelve closest, found himself face-to-face with a slowly streaming, infinitely inviting Vesica Piscis of bluish-white energy.
Shivers slithered up his spine.
And Fletcher Munsin became stricken with a strong sense of déjà vu as he continued to stare directly into the center of the blinding, sinuous, ravenous arch-angelic Metatronic orb-cube Serpentry that was eliciting a most evocative exhibition of illumination overhead.
The fake, black liquid-light crept downward into the man’s Head.
Fletcher Munsin had only become aware that he had been in a deep hypnotic trance for God-knows-how-long after the orb-cube flickered a bit above him, and then burnt out, completely disappearing before his very Eyes.
The whole environment went black.
As a dim, soft light gradually grew brighter, shining uncomfortably beside him in smudges, the man came to see that he had just somehow transported to a shadowy cavernous environment. And he was slowly gaining awareness of himself being surrounded by the moist and murky, dark cave-like setting. It was completely foreign to him; he knew that he was definitely no longer in Bry Dellows. A sharp itch stuck itself on the back of his neck and wouldn’t let go. He wouldn’t bring himself to scratch it.
Still sitting cross-legged, not having moved at all, the brave, mindful man shuddered, took a gander about, saw nothing he recognized.
Then, he heard a loud, electrified zap flash directly behind him and, having nearly jumped straight out of his skin, quickly flipped around to see what the Hell was going on. Before him, he saw a shiny, round enclosure that looked like a giant, silver egg. He cocked his Head slightly to the side, mystified. Then, just beneath the structure, a smooth set of silvery steps liquefied into existence and, just above them, Fletcher Munsin heard some sort of metal-type device clanking, seeming to slowly spin from inside the structure. And then, an elongated creaking noise became audible, and the skin of the inquisitive man crept a tad, the sound getting louder and louder as a small door slowly appeared and grinded open to reveal the most angelic, shockingly gorgeous woman the man had ever seen in his life. She literally gave out High glimmers in sharp Golden gleams that contained much more than radiating Emotion.
The tall, slender, dark woman began slowly, gracefully making her way down the little liquidy, silvery steps beneath the opening of the carefully positioned craft, over-exaggerating each step she took with a sort of theatrical melo-dramatization that seemed almost unnecessary, but still vital to the ultimate fatal attraction between the two important humanoid entities whose vision beams were starting to latch on to One another’s. The woman had unbelievably tall, suave stems, and they were clearly visible to the man through the translucent golden dress that was draped elegantly over her perfectly tone, amazingly attractive Hard Body.
Unbeknownst to him during these enticing theatrics carefully exhibited by the Mother, Fletcher Munsin had again fallen into a deep trance.
As the luscious lady approached the queasy Fletcher Munsin, she bore the gleam of God within her big, bulging glass beads of deceit.
Then, the dazed man instantly got even more excited as more beautiful similarly-looking women all adorned in similarly-silvery dresses started hatching from the big silver egg from whence the soft essence of the Mighty Mother had just spilled itself out in jaw-dropping liquescence like a larger-than-expected penile ejaculation spewing itself uncontrollably in a surplus of exaltation.
Except it was just the beginning for this Mother. Not the end.
The silvery sirens who had followed Mother Magdalena out of the silvery pod—there were twelve in all—danced about briefly in unison ever-so-gracefully, mindfully forming a circle around the golden Mother, perplexing the shit out of Fletcher Munsin.
After their jaunting jig, they immediately militantly commenced sitting cross-legged down upon the ground while Magdalena remained standing in the center. The sultry, silver seductresses all started chanting one of their ritualistic mantras that sounded exceptionally strident for the likes of these gorgeous, similarly-looking women.
Slightly startling Fletcher Munsin, the twelve taunters ceased their chanting just as abruptly as they had started, and scurried off back into the giant silver egg, One by One, the captivated man alertly Eyeing their long shiny dresses draping over their bulbous backsides as they filed neatly back up the liquidy silver steps and into the silver pod.
Then, Magdalena started singing the most saintly sonnets as she slowly stepped backwards, bit by bit, smoothly curving and coiling her whole body like perfect sine waves, epitomizing the most enticing belly-dance maneuvers that could be exemplified as she continued to back up bit by bit toward the silvery steps of the space pod behind Her. “You go girl!” she shouted to herself vainly as she slammed her hard body around. “You know I fuckin’ work it, boyyy!” she exclaimed overzealously.
This most tantalizing exhibition was Mother Magdalena’s fully enchanting snake-charmer for Godheds.
It took ages to perfect. And it worked unerringly every time she eventually located this One of the veiled gurus, albeit not when taking one of those frustrating, super-vigilant journeys along her mega-monotonous planetary psychelectromagnetic gridlines, however, a network that had been fucked until late.
Fletcher Munsin unthinkingly followed Mother Magdalena into her silver space-pod.
Almost unable to contain her excitement over his capture, it was now the aching Mother’s plan to transport Fletcher Munsin to the Andromeda Biodome with the intention of performing the ultimate and legendary sanctified ritual therein, Tantrically conceiving the Star of her own Horror Show herself — the ever-precious Mandorla. After that, she now thought to herself, licking her puffy lips, she would viciously slay the pitiful man in joyous rapture before piloting her egg-space-pod-cube-conjugant back to Earth with her Alpha sisters to check in on the other Hankerhawks and Loombugs of her tribes during this critical moment in time.
The End was fast approaching now. There was an irritating pain in Magdalena’s gut that she considered faintly pleasant.
In due time, the silver space-pod approached the Andromeda Biodome, and, transmuting instantaneously back into its liquid-light orb-cube form, penetrated straight through the cosmic ectoplasm and silvery platinum-sheathed titanium alloy of the massive structure as a few semi-etheric, mindless Gilded Grunts trudged on by, carrying huge bushels of something slung over their backs.
A great deal of these Gilded Grunts had apparently ‘spent’ eons making a ‘non-living’, plodding back and forth to the tune of tedium, to and from the biodome, their slave labor providing transport of the sacred Space-grain to the wretched stables of the defiled, demented hogs upon the disgustipated female tribal communities upon Fucked-Earth. According to Mother Magdalena, Head Hawk of the tribes and “Eternal Heart in the Body of all Human Beings,” as dubbed by Solaria, the prime objective of this wretched workforce was to perpetuate the so-called pitiful prolongation and paltry perseverance of the Mother’s “post-human” Earth-bound hybrid monstrosities. The purported function of the Andromeda Biodome as a colonized community for the continuation of the Earth races was, and is, a bogus designation, part of a fictionalized dogmatic manipulation of the Hankerhawk tribes to further indoctrinate their Loombugs into false conviction, as to be more easily controlled.
There’s nothing a Hankerhawk desires greater than to be in control.
Like clockwork this mundane process of the Grunts persisted, generation after generation, and now appeared, through the Eyes of the passing Hawk sisters, to be hard work in full effect. No slackin’ at any time from this breed.
Fletcher Munsin couldn’t see them. Not because they weren’t there, but because he just simply wasn’t able to see them at this time. Since the special Grain did not yet exist at this point in time, the Grunts’ holographic imprints seemed to flicker on and off to the present Conscious Observer, reappearing and disappearing here and there, remaining active in a flashline sequence of an alternate combination of cycles per second.
From the exact moment the alluring Cube of Metatron containing Fletcher Munsin actually penetrated the Andromeda Biodome, absolutely every existing entity on every level within that scale of the precise location began to be stimulated with undulating waves of intense energies of euphoria. The precise location of the outpost was in fact the very thing that was directly assisting the subsistence of Earth’s post-apocalyptic survival, though not in the manner typically purported; all it took to trigger the Andromeda Biodome’s relevance was an intimate fusion with the very source that had been drawn to it, after which of course would customarily transpire the ritualistic, Highly sanctified seduction of a One “Fletcher Munsin.” Al Rodnam, Fletcher Munsin’s doppelganger, had telepathically Once told Fletcher Munsin that their joint, sole purpose in life was to serve as sacrifice for the conception of Mandorla. Incarnation after incarnation. He said he had heard those words from Lachrylon himself.
Once or twice upon a time, when the cosmos were in the Highest of Spirits, a medium-sized, rather thick and meaty serpent, dark-green in color and strangely familiar, had revealed the consecrated coordinates of the Divine location.
“Construct an outerspace base station at this precise location,” the serpent had told her with a twinkle, “and your future dilemmas will have never existed.”
It would be Mother Magdalena, alas ultimately trapped in time, who would indeed know a thing or two about this precise location.
The mindful Mother became aware, Once recovered from this amnesia, that the very occurrence of her collective revelation of the Sacred space coordinates, throughout the ages and toward the very end of each age, always sparked the real fact of the matter that had to do with the Andromeda Biodome. This, here and now, was the very moment along the way in the strangely decaying false procession of the equinoxes wherein the Mother and her twelve closest are Divinely revealed the True Purpose of the biodome, which everyone in all the tribes would come to forget down the line.
The Mother and her Twelve closest altogether simultaneously received a metaphysical depiction of the blueprints of the Andromeda Biodome, and then, immediately afterward, were each momentarily wired with intuitive flashing images of a horrid-looking baby creature, hairy and messy from head to toe, covered in blood. The thirteen women altogether gasped, and it was only Magdalena who then intuitively knew immediately what the biodome was originally intended to function as. This is how the Mother first found out that the Andromeda Biodome would be the hallowed grounds of the prophetic sacred seduction, as well as the ultimate source of Space-Grain.
It was the precise location of the base station, along with One other condition, that would render it suitable for growing exclusively Space-Grain. That One other condition, of course, was what would cause the Space-Grain to grow in the first place — that the biodome was required to be the place of One single, special circumstance: the conception of the despicable, albeit indispensable, silent Mandorla.
That single, special circumstance was about to commence.
Inside the dome, the orb-cube now decelerated a bit as it approached the precise piece of turf it felt inwardly drawn to, and hovered for a moment above the abandoned barren soil before blotting out the entire dome for just a fraction of a second with its un-Heavenly flash of Light, transforming back into the silver egg.
Mother Magdalena guided the pod downward, lowering it to just above the surface of the dome’s turf and hovered there, vibrating at a frequency to which she Imagined herself to sound like during any smooth, determined deliberation of her utmost vain exquisiteness.
RETURN TO DARK ESOTERIKA.COM TO READ IN DETAIL THE VERY SPECIFICS OF THE CONCEPTION OF MANDORLA. -MIKE EYE
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