The Lost Gods

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The portal vibrated with an almost translucent glow, giving off a slow steady hum. The colors swirled in a dizzying array within the sphere, the blues becoming purples and the yellows becoming brown at a speed faster than the brain’s ability to comprehend. The explorer’s hands shook with pleasure, as he punched in the long remembered code. There was a faint click as the locking mechanism securing the portal within it’s containment field was powered down. The explorer’s face lit up with child-like glee, his breathing becoming erratic.

“I’ve done it. At last the world of the Gods will once more be reunited with the remnants of mankind.” The explorer’s face turned ghastly as the floor began to shake, and the walls began to crumble. Where once before their pillars stood like immovable towers.

“What’s…what’s going…on?” The explorer stuttered, his intelligent speech evading him as his brain fought to understand the scene unfolding before him.

A set of large fingers curled around the archaic symbols surrounding the portal, and behind them came an equally large set of hands followed by the arms. The arms were covered in the ancient markings of the lost civilization. The explorer hastily opened his journal to the page where he had jotted down the meaning of the set of symbols. Hurrying, his mind betraying his heart’s nervous flutter. The steady beat resounding within the quiet vacuum created by the portal. Then like a large contained amount of energy bursting through it’s barrier, there was a resounding boom. The walls shook, dislodging countless decades of dust, and grime. Another boom followed the first one closely behind, this time the entire floor shook.

The explorer unawares of what was occurring felt the tremor through the soles of his hiking boots, his knees buckled. The journal slid away from his clutching fingers, and into a bottomless fathom. The man, a countless number of valuable notes lost just moments ago, sent the man’s mind over the edge into the brinks of insanity. The scream that erupted from his throat was primal; one of longing and pain. One of the hands alerted by this sudden disturbance began to crawl on their massive finger edges. Inching towards the sobbing explorer, who was beyond hope of salvation.

The man’s last thoughts were those of being dragged back into the swirling mass of colors. Then there was an empty silence, all encompassing. His mind was aware of his body, but it was just a shell. The mind ached to get free of the body.

Silence, you mortal…

The mind recognized the speech, but could not discern the mouth from which the words sprang. They were powerful, and the tiny mind of the explorer was aware of this other mind’s presence. It was also painfully aware of the knowledge locked behind those doors, and in the corners.

You have awoken us…
Yes, awoken us…

The mind noted this new addition of minds within it’s conscious, but it was unable to discern the quality or traits of them. It was almost as if the other minds allowed the diminutive mind to note their presence but nothing more; nothing less. Then there was a small pressure like a small bug bite in the small of the mind. The pressure grew and intensified. The small mind screamed, but with no lungs from which to draw breath.

Why have you summoned us?…
Why have you awoken us from our slumber…

The mind trapped within it’s own little fortifications created by the fabrications of it’s consciousness contemplated, not entirely sure itself. The previously meaning had been lost with the transfer of the body to the mind’s gaseous form in the realm of the Ancients.

*Beep* *Beep* *BEEP*

The child rolled over beneath the thick flaxen blankets, and pressed the button on top of the digital alarm clock, before rolling groggily back over and fell back into the warm comforts of sleep. The dream had been so vivid, so realistic. It was as if he was in the shoes of that explorer, and that he was the mind.


The rain pattered against the windowpane outside of the small, one story house. The house was plain in standards of today, with a light mahogany coloring, with wooden windowpanes and a chimney that rose out of the roofing of the house. The door was thickset, and double-locked due to the neighborhood it existed in and it’s notorious past. The rain increased in speed, and fury. The clouds themselves echoed with thunder, and glowed with lightning almost as if they themselves were furious with the world.

Puddles were formed all along the streets, they grew and expanded to become small ponds. The roads became torrents of rushing water, overflowing the drains and causing bridges to be flooded over. Cars stalled, and stranded their passengers. The roofs becoming flotation devices capable of escaping the waters. The torrents uprooted trees, and turned them into battering rams and dams. The water frothed, and crashed upon itself, bridging a barrier. Almost as if setting an example for the watching mass of the human race.

“Late Breaking news from CNN. Tune in at 6:00 PM for the latest on the unexplainable storms ravaging the World. Hear from scientists, and religious philosophers alike. Both expressing their views of the dilemma.” The anchorman’s face portrayed a calm he didn’t feel, and his voice was soothing to everyone willing to listen.

The young teenager changed the channel, and was rewarded with a “Charles!”. The boy quickly apologized, and turned the channel back. It was a commercial, and so he pulled out his game boy. His fingers blurred over the controls as he made the tiny character fight other characters. He harrumphed in triumph when he beat the boss of the level. Just as he began the next level, the news returned. The boy quickly clicked the volume up a few notches ensuring his mother could hear in the kitchen.

“Welcome back to CNN, where we are going to bring you the latest news in the unexplainable storms ravaging the World. We have our news correspondent Dan visiting with Dr. Richard Nandenburg of the United Weather Station. Its all yours Dan.”

The camera zooms in on the face of a man of around twenty odd years or so, and an elderly English gentleman wearing slacks, shirt, and tie. The camera pans out revealing the faces of both. The interviewer clicks on his microphone, and begins his interview.

Dan: So Dr, mind explaining your views on the predicament?

DR. Richard: Not at all.
Dan: So, any ideas on what could be causing these storms that seem to rage with the fury of an hurricane?

DR Richard: I have a theory that it deals with the oceanic currents.

Dan: Care to explain? I’m sure that I’m not the only one slightly confused.

DR Richard: I’d love to sir, you see that the world’s weather patterns are ruled by an oceanic current. What I mean by oceanic current, is that it’s in the Earth’s mantle. Meaning it’s not visible to the average human, it requires special equipment to view it. Some of our earlier philosopher’s deduced, and experimented. Proving that there does exist an oceanic current. You understand that hot air rises, and cold air sinks? (Dan nods, and the two disappear to display a map of the Earth with two arrows.) The same concept applies here. Cold water currents sink to the southern pole (Animated blue arrow drops down towards Antarctica.) where it is heated, and rises to the northern pole. (Animated blue arrow does a semi-circle, becoming red and rises.) The process repeats. Do you understand thus far?

Dan: Yes, I believe so. I appreciate your explaining it. Continue.

DR Richard: With pleasure. So we, my colleagues, and myself believe that someone may have tampered with the oceanic current. Causing a disturbance in the natural balance of the world’s weather pattern. (Shows irregular animated arrow patterns that interweave in confusing patterns).

Dan: There you have it from the scientific minds, I’m Dan Monders. Back to you Tyler.

“Thank you Dan,” The television then showed the anchor sitting behind his desk, and was then split into two separate views. In one was the anchor, and in the other was another correspondent.

“Hello Tyler!” The young news woman smiled, and ran a hand nervously through her luscious blonde hair. “Hello Diane. Let’s now hear it from the religious-oriented.” Tyler replied and was replaced by Diane sitting in a cushioned lounge chair. Across from Diane sat an elderly figure who was slightly stooped, and whose face was hidden by the hood of his robes.

Diane: I’m sitting here with the Master of the Vatican Church in the Vatican City. Hello Sir Gregory.

Gregory: Hello child. How may I be of service today?

Diane: Such kindness; -but, I’m here to ask your opinion on the weather.

Gregory: Child…this is the day my order has been waiting for…for more than five thousand years. Do you understand this, child?

Diane: No, but I can guess-

Gregory: No! You can’t child. (Voice becomes slightly filled with venom, and his marble blue eyes gleam from beneath the dark shadows of the hood.) But I will explain. The world as we know, no. Wait. We must go back even farther. At the beginning of time, the universe did not exist. All that was, was a large vastness of black space, no light, no stars. Nothing. But the universe was not empty, no. There existed vast intelligent beings beyond our understanding, or comprehension. These beings we attempted to label. We labeled them Gods, but they were much more than that. They created the universe on a whim. For these Gods desired someone to worship them and their power. So they created Earth, and then man. But the first man died of starvation. The Gods were angered, and the second time they created man, they offered him some of their food. The man spoke, and displayed his distaste of their food. Thus the food was solved, but then man was thirsty, and so the Gods created vast expanses of water so that man could never be thirsty again. The process continued until we have today’s world, and I believe-

Lightning flared outside, and illuminated the darkened interior of the house. The child lifted his head from beneath the cover he was hiding beneath, and looked at the now blank screen of the television. “Mooommm,” The words were dripping with fear, and terror. His body shook with the fear his mind echoed.

“Yes, baby?” Then his mother was there. Cradling him, and whispering in his ear. She held him tightly, afraid to let go. The boy was so frail now that his father had passed on. Well passed on isn’t the proper word. A more proper word to describe the occurrence is disappeared. The boy whimpered, and tears dripped on to the skin of the boy’s mother. She cradled him more tightly to her bosom, and began to rock. The nightmares were getting worse, and these blasted storms were not helping.

“I’m okay now mom.” The boy said, wiping the tears from his eyes. There was an iron resolve in his voice, and a determined sparkle in his eyes.

“That’s my boy.” The mom replied, releasing her tightening grip on the teenage boy. The boy raised himself into a more comfortable sitting position. The mother smiled at the child’s determination, and willpower. He resembled his father in more than just appearance. The boy’s father had the same adventurous and determined mind. The mother ruffled the boy’s hair, and noting that he would be ok turned her attention to the darkened interior of the house.

Gently raising herself from her position next to the boy, she walked into the kitchen. She felt along the wall until she felt the reaffirming handle of the flashlight she kept for cases like this. She clicked it on, and an intense beam illuminated the interior of the kitchen revealing where she had left off when interrupted by the power failure. She began to rummage in drawers, until she smiled in triumph at having found what she desired. She set the desired object on the counter, and then began the tedious search for a match. She found one sitting atop the refrigerator, and struck it against the matches’ box. There was a hiss, and then the match ignited further illuminating the gaunt features of the widowed mother.

She walked back over to the counter where the candle sat like a resilient statue. She held the flame of the match against the wick of the candle, until the candle’s wick caught and flared into existence. The flame on the match was then extinguished against the counter. She picked up the candle, and walked back into the family room to find her son once more working at the controls of his game. She chuckled quietly at the boy’s determination to keep his mother proud. Most other mothers would be angered that she allowed her to child to enjoy the joys of youth and that he was carefree. But the boy only had his mother. The wind howled, and roared it’s fury against the glass.

The mother shivered, and quickly walked into her bedroom where she proceeded to grab some of the thick comforters she used to keep herself warm at night, now that her husband was gone. She carried the comforter back into the living room, and laid it over the teenage boy who with a humph of indignation refused to take it, and merely pushed it to the side. The mother walked back into the kitchen, and continued to work on dinner using what she had available. Luckily for the two of them, their family was slightly old-fashioned and ran on a gas stove.

She then began the laborious task of dicing the vegetables without decent lighting which would have had hundreds of safety advisors hounding her about. But she didn’t care, not that she wouldn’t have heeded their advice. It just most likely wouldn’t have been exactly when they wanted her to. Her mind was ruled with countless other preceding thoughts, and memories. Some of them good, some of them painful, and some of them she just desired to drown away. She could hear the sound of the television flickering back to life, and smiled. Shortly, and she began a mental countdown in her head of when the lights would come back on.

The lights flickered, and then became steady as the power ran through their circuits once more. She laughed at how close she was, and she wondered if she would be any good as a psychic. Laughing turned to humming, as she put all the vegetables. Which were now cut into nice, manageable portions into a large black pot that sat on the gas stove with water boiling. She then began to put the vegetables into the stew, carefully putting them in a certain portion at a time so that the ingredients could mix together properly. She didn’t get famous for her stew without taking precautions. The stew then began to froth impatiently, as she added in spices, and herbs. The aroma wafting from the stew was delicious, and she smiled. Just like she remembered. She dipped a spoon into the stew, and lifted a small portion up to her lips to taste.

Sighing she, stirred the pot while whistling a tune she heard her father sing to her as a child. The lyrics went a little something like so;

Hush child, listen to the wind,
Desire thy breath, as she mend,
Walk with me, this lonely road,
Sing with me, this lovely ode,

O! Listen now, child of the wind,
Flow now, around the bend,
Fear not, your lies,
I have broken, your ties,

Travel now, the lost path,
Have now, thy angered wrath,
Fear not, the lies,
I have broken, your ties,

Bend, and mended you are,
Torn and broken, your star,
Falling, the wind in your hair,
Breathing, the fresh air,

Roaring, the ocean current,
Silence, the wind’s lament,
Time, my only measure,
Your heart, my only treasure

The child having heard the tune, whistled it silently to himself. He didn’t know the words, nor did he care to ask his mother. He merely enjoyed the pleasant feeling that it stirred deep inside of him, as he listened patiently for the tune to end. Hearing silence, he resumed his current attention. The game boy was once more in his hands, and the warm comforter was wrapped tightly around his body containing his warmth. His fingers were even faster than before, and his eyes traced their movements without thought or conscious notation.

The stew continued to boil, and cook until with a faint whistle the water had thoroughly cooked the vegetables, and the few pieces of meat she added in for flavor purposes. She then proceeded to ladle the stew out into two large bowls, that sat patiently on the countertop. When the bowl’s were three-quarters full she called for Charles. Charles like an obedient puppy wandered into the dining room, and sat down at one end of the table, where in a normal family the head figure of the family would seat himself or herself as a sign of superiority, resembling that of Kings.

“Charles, help set the table.” Charles got up from his seat, grumbling and complaining about the unfairness of the world, and how it resented the fact that he existed. But he was startled to see that his mother was already ahead of the game, she had the silverware resting atop the porcelain plates. Charles smiled, and was glad to see that his mother returned the smile.

“Thank you dear.” His mother replied, wiping her dirty hands on her apron, and then untying the straps that kept it around her abdomen. She picked up the two bowls, and followed Charles into the dining area, where she proceeded to set a bowl on each plate. Then when the table had been properly set, she turned to her son, and smiling asked him if he had anything he desired to mention that he was thankful for.

“Yes. I do believe I do.” As was common with most children, both young and older. They had things that they were thankful for, but sometimes it was hard to admit those certain things in front of an audience. Especially since they knew that it was what a mother or father desired to hear, and therefore, felt the need to further delay admitting it. “I’m thankful for the food that rests on our table, I’m thankful for the home that I reside in instead of the dirty streets. I’m thankful for the bed available to me.”
The mother nodded agreeably. She too was thankful for much the same things; however, few they may be. But sometimes the fewer the items one owns, the better life looks on them in the future. Life sometimes shows it’s gratitude to those who deserve it in the future in many ways we do not understand. She smiled, revealing her molars which gleamed brightly from behind thick, red lips. Her teeth gleamed from out of the darkened, haunted face. She seemed to smile, while the rest of her body decayed and died. No, she was already dead, she had died when he husband had left, and not returned. She slammed her fist on the table, knocking over her glass which poured it’s contents over the table.

Charles, startled by the sudden outburst from his mother, coughed nervously. His mother looked up, and tears leaked freely from her eyes. Charles, nervous now, got up from his seat, and walked towards his mother’s seat. His mother rose quickly, and embraced Charles tightly. She whispered soothingly, when the real person seeking comfort was herself. Charles, understanding this, cupped his mother’s chin in his hand. He lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his own determined emerald gaze.

His mother, drawing strength, and willpower from her own child’s gaze smiled faintly. Her face framed in the light of the chandelier that hung above their heads. She was proud of her son, in much an understanding way, that any mother would be proud of her child if he showed the determination that she desired or expected of the man in the family. Maybe, she thought quietly to herself, he will become what she had lacked before, a man that would provide for the family.

In the midst of the family’s embrace, the doorbell rang. The two hugging members, separated and stared at each other in bewilderment. Who could be visiting them at this time of day? The better question would be, who is traveling in this weather?


The doorbell rang again startling the two from their breif thralls of bewilderment. The two continued to glance slack-jawed until the mother shook off her puzzled expression to answer the door as any passionate and caring neighbor would do. She paused briefly to grasp a flashlight, flicking the switch subconsciously to see around the piled boxes in the hallway. She tripped over one, and let out a mild curse. She covered her mouth in surprise, and promised to apologize to Charles if he heard. The doorbell rang again, and she yelled a “I’m coming!” urgently down the hall. As if they plan on going anywhere, she chastised herself.

Arriving at the door, she turned the handle slowly. The shadow in the doorway stepped away from the swinging door to allow it to open fully. The flashlight beam illuminated the shadow, and the mom’s momentary bewilderment turned into outright astonishment. She dropped the flashlight, and the soft clank was lost in the mother’s turmoil of a mind. The figure reached down, and picked up the flashlight. Smiling, the figure stepped completely nto the faint illumination of the hallway.

“Hello Diane.” The man’s tone was loving, and carried a large sense of heartfelt joy.

“Tristan..” The words were nothing more than a sigh, but they carried with them the weeks of worry and turmoil she had faced when their boy asked when dad was coming home.

“Mom.” Charles stuck his head around the corner of the hallway, his eyes widened similar to his mothers’ before he was charging at Tristan. He jumped, and the two collided in a hug. Charles wrapped his arms and legs around his father. Tristan smiled, and ruffled the boy’s hair. He motioned for them to move back into the living room where they could talk more freely. Diane nodded, and followed him and sat with her legs crossed on the couch. Tristan eased the now sleeping form of Charles from his body, being careful not to awaken the young teenager. He smiled, and kissed the boy’s forehead. The boy as if sensing the love squirmed, and sighed.

“Honey-” She had barely whispered the first word before he had crossed the room. She had forgotten how quickly he could move, and how silently. His dark, chocolate gaze locked with hers and then she was absorbed in a sense of overwhelming pleasure as his lips sought hers. She resisted at first, the questions demanding her immediate attention. He backed away, and then he smiled. She moved first this time, and the two continued to catch up on their lost love until she could bar the questions from her thoughts no longer.

“Tristan,” she tried patiently, prying his lips away with two fingers. “We need to talk.”

He nodded in compliance, and she motioned towards the kitchen table. While he eased himself into one of the wooden chairs, she placed a pot of water on the stove to boil before returning to sit adjacent to him. He looked exhausted, and she reached across the table to reassure him with her touch. He grasped her hand with tenacity until she let a gasp of pain escape her lips. He released his vice-like grip to one of more tender and care. “Where should I start?” He asked plainly, his eyes distant.

The moment was broken by the sound of bubbling water, and she rushed over to place the tea bags into the pot, and turned off the stove top. She waited a few minutes, and then poured him and herself a cup of tea, taking care to add a couple spoons of sugar to both. Stirring the tea, she found herself whispering contentedly. The pain that had been constricting her heart and lungs had eased considerably, and she found herself sorry for ever hating Tristan. There had to be some reason or cause for his extended absence from her.

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