Journey To Inspiration

3: It Will Come Back Someday.

A legion of pristine beings, finessely remodeled after some vision commenced by the X-Men, was bounded in the hearty resume of the canvas. They were not of Kaisers, Paladins, soldiers, martyrs, or even mythical legendary extraordinaires.

One of them tacted his apparel with a black domino mask plastered on his white eyes, a metal space suit configured with wires latching his upper torso and succumbing an end to a machine clasped at the back of his suit and primal-like hands and feet.

Another one had his eyes in the tracery of most of the rest, also conjured with a facade masked with a black domino mask, but wore a black and white striped prison suit with a sewn skull on his chest and ebony gloves took the form of his hands.

A lady of a glowing aura smoldered the canvas with much an allure of narcisstic infidelity to much of what everything else has to abnegate. She had no mask, but her pulchritudinous estate was so picturesque to that of a goddess--a deity. Her cranberry colored gaze illuminated the whole fortress confined in the canvas.

A cloud fostered in fog opened up, and in it's cadence, unmasked the appearance of a barefooted being in tight black apparel and in a domino mask similar to the others before him. He was of a very arcane and cryptical type as so was the aura around him.

A mandatory fable personified in a young 10-year old with the condemned spell being stuck in the strings of time made this youthful malformation so obscenely small, yet he was as a good age of 30 years older than anyone else smacked on the canvas.

Then a finessely sculpted statue possessing olive green tentacles was adequately established in the background of the panorama. He also possessed a mask, but not of the ones the others had. His mask concealed half of his face as so did the rest of his costume.

Two women were remarkably sketched; one was a spirits delving in the aura of the more solidly bounded figure, which was just a prosaic humanoid.

The spirit incinerating it's Way out of the other possessed a body of a violin and held a similar figure except it was manifested by vines and branches.


"Wait...you're telling me, that you've been having these eerie dreams last night, and you can't seem to cope well with them..." Allison said, still facing her sketch as she finAlly finished adding opulent and synchromaticAlly discreet texture to the wings of the Falcon.

Gerard's eyes widened at Allison's adequately established sketch. He marveled at her work, and could never say something done by Allison was anything ugly or symmetricAlly opposite from the option of something ugly, or horrendously petrifying.

“I’ll never gain back my drawing adequacy…” He groaned, staring at the ceiling encasing him in some dome that made him feel claustrophobic to even the high, ancient atrocities confined by his sadness.

Allison grimaced at her friend, “Well, Gee, usually, when I have Artist’s block, I just draw random things. Your dreams, for instance, can help you gain back your drawing expertise. You just see what happens in every aspect of their adventures. That’s how you get the best of yourself out.”

Gerard, complacent with his friend’s suggestion, lay his head back onto the pillow, and slowly let all the wardens of his fears dissolve, and the blooms of blessed oblations and dreams overcome him…

Sweating so profusely, the egotistic Kraken instigated on ordaining the momentum of the speeding vehicle. The solitary lights downcast by the urban city condemned hues and gradients of an assorted array of colors onto his eyes. But the beauty of the city’s ivory tainted solemn light did not surpass him. Much activity was effused into the spat between the vigilante and the mad murderess that in her simplification of innocent gypsy apparel was truly a mad woman concealed.

“I swear! I drowned him in the bathtub! He should be dead!” Gaped one of the murderess’s promulgators.

“It doesn’t matter! He won’t hold on for long!” The mastermind of the whole fiasco grabbed the vehicle and took the wheel, careening it to any square inch of the whole urban estate.

The vehicle dodged edifices, imposing lampposts, street benches, people crossing the streets, and several screeching policemen in the espionage of capturing her and enlisting the mad woman and her henchmen into the alms of jail. But in his aim to brace himself for the ride of his life, the Kraken smote his dagger onto the roof of the vehicle.

“He doesn’t breathe, you idiots—but he bleeds!” The gypsy travesty mimicked a screeching blade on an old mural of glass as the car went into hyper drive, sending the vehicle to head straight for downhill in a violent aftermath.

The epitaph of the city lights pounded onto the Kraken’s face, like assaulting blood-delivering waves sour enough to concuss your limbs and complexion. And in mirroring the same pain, so did the undying intimacy of having to monarch against the anarchy of having to make an ordeal with a crazed woman in big earrings and tassels fit for belly dancers.

Also in her conspiracy, the madwoman captured a little girl afraid beyond her wildest occurrences. Her blue eyes digressing fear in every akimbo of the car’s momentum. “I want to go home! I’m scared!” Tears pricked at her eyelashes, flattering the sanguine sanity of instigated protection.

To this, the parsimonious lady snapped, “You’ll go home when your father pays the ransom…” Her chestnut eyes exhibiting the walls of persistence and apathy, closing in onto the little girl as if they caused her fear to be the disposure of claustrophobia. In saying this, she convened a green orb flickering with warps of lightning and ultraviolet ribbons of neon hues and gradients synonymous to pandemonium and a mural of chaos.

“Now shut up,” She digressed, “You wouldn’t want this to accidentally slip out of my hands…”

As the Kraken defenestrated himself from the outer environment of the vehicle to shatter the glass windows of the car, the little girl shrieked in horror as the gypsy lady yelled, “SLAM THE BREAKS!!!”

This action then ordained to the Kraken and her henchmen flying from the vehicle in agile execution and an aleatory of despondent aviation, plunging into the asphalt cement of the city streets, condemning the attentive of everyone around them. They went in a bombarded élan and pummeled their faces toward the joules of the ground, leaving into an epitaph of broken bones and deformed malformations in the jaw line.

The chauffer skidded to the mirage trekking toward the location of the occurrence, also averting the two passengers in the backseat. “Madame…?”

Breathing in uncharted palpitations, she replied, “Our cards will speak of his fate for our hero, the Kraken…The Ghost with One Eye…what will the tarot bring?” She scoffed, as if she could surpass the savoir-fare of her rival. Flustering through her parchment of cards, she took out… “The card is death.”

To this, her chauffer suppressed an unsuspecting cannonade with a caliber gun, shattering windows, glass furniture, paraphernalia, and killing people in its bullet’s grasp. No humane being could ever outsmart the marksmanship of the chauffer and his gun…except when a pistol bombarded an insufferable attack of sadistic, merciless alms. “Hand over the girl.”

In the discontinuity of his appalling voice, the woman saw the Kraken concededly presenting his silhouette before her, standing like an imposing statue stated on the car roof. “I don’t have a lot of patience with gypsies.”

To this chuckling offense which sought to pester the madwoman, the gypsy screamed, “THEN THE DEVIL IS FOR YOU!


Gerard suddenly awoke to a fueling shock. A spate of venom diminishing every tight corpuscle bounded in his spirit was smoldering every static warp, which went though him, and cannonading every bit of him and executing wounds. Hopefully his cessations would clear up…his mind wouldn’t wander to opaque obscurity. He’ll just have to wait until he gets healed.
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