A Voyage Guided by the Hand of The Flower
Albey saw the planet, a great green orb, a truly endless wood which grew smaller and smaller until it blinked away with the stars floating in the endless black.
Albey saw the Universe, a shimmering bubble of light afloat in a vast storm of resplendent transparency, of colorless color, of that which might be seen if one peers keenly between the eyes and that which looks outward through them.
Albey saw The Void and the many universes afloat within, each but a single snowflake in a blizzard which started long ago, which shall never come to an end.
Albey saw Godspace, the interim place of judgment, the strange place of purgatory, the loving place of lessons learned and humble reincarnation, the loathsome place of lessons ignored and prideful disintegration.
Albey saw The Sandbox and all its many Grains of Sand, creation in its most perfect, limitless, and unbridled form, the infinite motion picture from which snapshots become universes and thoughts the beings living within them.
Then, Albey saw a mountain, and landed on its summit.
There was a cabin, one unlike The Lodge in mostly every way, and from its door walked a creature of hairy arms and hairy legs, of pupiled eyes and shimmering skin, of restless mind and busy hands.
“Ah, Albey the Maddest Poet,” said he, crossing the great meadow between them. “What a lovely surprise. You really musn’t be here, you know.”
“Who are you?” Albey demanded in fear, backing away from this vision of divinity. “What is this place, where has Gobon sent me?”
“Gobon?” asked the Astral God, drawing ever closer without haste in his step. “You took a voyage guided by the hand of The Flower and found yourself at the door of The Writer’s Room, Albey the Maddest Poet. No Gobon dealt the cards you hold; he merely played his hand.”
Albey was stood on two feet by forces beyond his understanding and lifted from The Mountain at the Center of Existence. The divine one rose with him, up and up and up until Albey’s unblinking eye could gaze upon it all: The Sandbox, Godspace, The Void, and even that which spirals beyond it, that great green miasma of ambiguous intention, The Garden in all its deceitful glory where The Bookmaker lies forever entombed under the force of His will and His will alone, never to escape until He inevitably does, again and again and again.
“What is all of this?” Albey shuddered, his form disassembling at the seams.
“This is Existence, my son,” said the divine father of ‘man, as far as Albey could tell. “My name is Tom Foolery, Keeper of The Sandbox; now I must say… begone…”
This has been the sixth subchapter of the fourth chapter of The Face of Fear, a novel about bigfoot written by the writer in Untitled Bigfoot Project. Here is everything you need to know about it:
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
The Hillside Commons has a Facebook page. Here’s that.
If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~