Orphaned: Verse II


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It has been some time since I faced the future with such overwhelming trepidation. For years I have been muzzled like a mutt, not conscious that the gag stuffed in my mouth has been placed there by my own hand alone. I’ve been on the crest of a wave for the past three months since relocating my voice so eventually I guess my luck was eventually bound to change. It has been quite a week, aside from my infatuation towards Marcus Miller and those who jaggedly tore his umbilical, I’ve been frantically attempting to keep up with the increasing conglomeration of films appealing for scrutiny as Keeper’s work is never done.

Matt Farnsworth_Diane_Foster

I have been so inspired by the sincere hospitality of Brother Matt and Sister Diane that, where before, typing a solitary word felt like rowing downstream in duck soup, it has all come effortlessly. As a scribe I am learning much from our interactions; the words flow freely from the Crimson Quill on a bad day but, right now, I’ve got a flourishing river of grue to assist in bleeding it effectively. I am a steadfast believer now, Marcus has got exclusive access to my innermost thoughts and my own judgement day is relentless in its advancement which casts something of a shadow over proceedings.

Monday 3rd June 2013. 9.00am


I’m getting twitchy now. The moment of damnation draws closer with each passing sleep and my recess periods have now become protracted stays of execution. One day soon I shall come face to face with my most intrinsic nightmare and the mere thought alone sends delicious chills down my spinal conduit. His intentions have been made clear from the offset so I am aware of the likely conclusion. But as frightening as that sounds, I still feel drawn toward the light like a gormless moth. It is as though any will is not my own and something tells me that this punishing puppet master is pulling every single bloody string.


Last night I took the forbidden pilgrimage into The Orphan Killer again and things are looking no more encouraging after watching Miller cut to the chase once more. However, something about the way he held aloft that weapon felt different this time, as though he possessed renewed purpose. His offensive seemed as if intended for me. I’m on his radar now, should have kept my head down but I considered it necessary to take another peek around the wall. Curiosity is well known for having killed the cat but, like the pitiful human I am, the penny dropped far too late and now I’m on an express elevator straight down to the very depths of hell. I have to say, there are other places I would rather have taken communion but I do feel as though it is my destiny and I’m expecting to suffer harshly for following my gut feeling.


There is no separation between my dreams anymore, either subconscious and waking. The only illuminations come from northbound and the road back has become obstructed. I still venture forward as my fresh allies should ensure my safe passage but at some point I will need to bid them farewell as I’m due to make the final lap of my wayfaring to the one locale where home advantage means I could be shit out of providence. Why that prison of sacrilege, couldn’t we have just met for a frappucino at Starbucks? I feel exposed and the beaming L.A. rays rob me of any palpable sense of concealment. I guess I just need to gulp back that metallic bile that is fashioning in the back of my gullet, place one wary foot in front of the other, and take whatever cruel chastisement has been preordained.


The air around me seems stifling now and that odious stench of death is only intensifying with every subsequent stride. First stop is Mike Hunt; he seems like a stand up guy and on the right side of law enforcement so if I listen intently to any tuition I can at least afford myself a fighting chance of seeing another glorious L.A. dawn. I have so many posers for Mike, but I must choose wisely as Marcus is fully aware of my forthcoming excursion and will, no doubt, have something to say about it. Unfortunately for me, he seems to be particularly partial to vocalizing using his filthy machete and I am fearful that it will be decidedly one-way dialogue for the most part.


Audrey is currently recuperating, her recent ordeal has taken its toll and I’m told she’s resting up before her big brother’s return. I would do well to take any advice from her as she is of the same cruel bloodline as her sibling and can give me the low down in what to look out for or when to duck. She intrigues my dark soul; her mettle is proven and her endurance suggests I can mentally forearm before my final decree from the most irritable and unruly of perpetrators. For now it is back to the confines of my desktop as I need to refocus but the time is almost upon me. As I return to the relative refuge of my dwelling, not a solitary thing has altered, and familiarity brings my pulse back to somewhere near normality. But my nucleus nigh on ruptures within my ribcage as I peer down to see a discarded skipping rope strewn across the floor.


Click here to read Verse III

Pray for my soul I beg of you,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

First Knight of TOK
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Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Revised Edition 2015)


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