Sombre Carnivàle Démoniaque June 10th ~ Writing Event!

You are invited to take part in an incredible event. Come witness the magic and the mystery of the Sombre Carnivàle Démoniaque. This is a special Satan and Sons/Suns event that only takes place once a year! From June 6th - June 16th!! We invite you to claim your ticket and join us on a whimsical journey of creepy delights and celebrations!
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Akelta
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Writing Journey
The Clown Graveyard of Madness



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This is a creative Writing event. It is one of imaginative exploration and fantastical release. Unleash your creative desires and surrender your will to the darkness of the Carnival. During this exercise you will be called to share a story from the depth of your soul. A story that rises from the deep and presents itself to you. There is only one criteria for entering this event and that is the story must be at least 500 words long. Aside from that, your imagination is your guide and you can write about anything that comes to your mind. This is a story that is shared with the darkness of the soul.



You find yourself walking, you are walking away from the Carnival, you have no idea where you are going and you have no idea what is calling you. The world around you is shifting. It is getting darker and it is getting more surreal and sinister. There is a low-lying fog that covers the ground. The shadows seem to swallow the sun and there is only a deep blue hue in the sky. You wonder if it is night but there is still a slight remnant of the brightness of the sun. You continue walking down the path. The myst is growing and there is a foreboding feeling in the air.

You approach the ends of a graveyard. It is vast and long. There are graves stretched out before you. They seem to be endless. You wonder if you have slipped into another world as the energy of this place is so different form that of the Carnival. It is sombre and sullen.

In the distance you see a figure up ahead and you heed the sound of metal hitting dirt. There is someone up ahead digging. Curiosity getting the better of you, you begin to inch forward. You are curious and want to see who is this figure and what are they doing. Are they trying to hid something, or are they digging something up? These are the question that you seek to answer.

You inch closer and you see him. Siioow the Jester of the Carnival. He is wearing a black and white clown outfit. His hands are dirty and his clothes a bit disheveled. He has been working hard to dig. You try to get close enough to see what is found in the hole and suddenly you hear his voice.

I've been expecting you.

You jump and look up, your eyes meet his, you are not sure whether to run away or stay. It is almost like he has hypnotized you with his eyes and you are frozen in place.

He grins looking at you. That mischievous, dire grin. You are frozen in place. He knows though why you are here, he knows why you have come.

This he starts…

This is where all clowns go to die! He states boldly.

This is a place of darkness, where the stories and comical chronicles of one's life.. stop

All mortals die and it is such a shame, such a shame, for the knowledge and stories that they take with them. It is robbed from the world. It is robbed from them. Their experiences and their mark on the world..... Come, sit with me, we will revive the past and listen to a tale that once was forgotten to the world.

His grin gets wider as a black orb manifests from him. It illuminates the area in pure darkness. You are still frozen in place watching and captivated by the display before you. The dark orb begins to pulse as light shoots from it. The light blasts into the ground as Siioow smirks. He knows what is going to happen for he has done this before.

Suddenly from the Earth, a hand emerges and your ears are graced with a mournful wail. Your eyes go wide as from the ground emerges a Zombie. A zombie of a dead clown. The sounds from his mouth are anguished and forlorn and he carries himself in a sombre way. Having been once the centre of joy and happiness, he has now been lost to the world and lost to time. Siioow though remembers him. He researches and remembers the great ones, the ones who still had stories to share and performances to reveal. He looks at you.

The story of the Clown is not always happy. They have anger, they have sadness, they just have the ability to always find the joy and the comedy in the situation. They make light of life so that others can laugh and feel the joy. It is a rewarding if heartbreaking job.

Come sit. he motions you… Come sit and we will hear the story this one has to share. Let us hear his words and honour him one last time as he shares a story from his soul.

You suddenly feel your limbs release. You have a choice right now… do you run back to the Carnival, or do you sit with this demonic Clown to hear a tale from this reanimated Zombie…. The choice is yours…




What story was revealed to you. Write the story the Zombie clown has shared with you and paste it below!!



Participate in this exercise and be entered into a draw to win... Chaos Clown L
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"L is a Chaos Clown who encompasses the extremes. He uses them to share stories and reveal deep truths.  At the end of the day the Clown is one who reveals truths, they make people laugh and release them from pains and troubles.  He is a clown of chaos, often turning the world upside-down to reveal the deep hilarious truth.  Life should be fun, it should be funny and it should offer ample opportunities for laughter.  Laughter and humour is all around us it just takes a clown to release it and reveal it.  He turns the world upside-downland, usually finding himself or those around him in the most hilarious of situations.  They all make incredible stories.  

Laugher is healing, laugher is powerful, laughter is uniting, laughter is dividing. It is a cornucopia of chaos and a sublime manifestation of the secrets we hide.  Comedy should be unconfined, it should be wild and free.  He lets it take him.  He is a clown who specializes is the comedy of the situation, the comedy of every day life and revealing the chaos that is so often disguised as the mundane.  So many people spent so much energy trying to show everyone how normal and composed they are, when really they are the ones that need a pie in the face the most.  When you spend so much time and energy trying to hide what is naturally there you only rob yourself of hilarious stories and situations to bond with others who are just as weird.  

He is absolutely hilarious and can have you in stitches.  He loves to point out the crazy and the wacky things going on and elaborate on them revealing the true brilliance of the comedy.  He is creative and brilliant and can help one to unleash and awaken their creative essence through comical and expressive means.  He is bold and brave and does not care what people think of him.  He can help people realize that laugher brings people together and when you are willing to laugh at your own silliness, others will laugh to and it will bring people together.  He is 100% true to himself and the chaos and madness that is all around. He loves to reveal it and reveal how silly it is to try to contain it.  It is wild and free and does what it wants."
Lover of Demons
Royal Demon Goddess
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A grayed and desiccated arm came up from within the dry ground. It struggled and pulled and dug, for it was buried deep, deep in the ground. It heaved itself up, a huge figure, and I realized that this was a Hellborn Warrior that stood before me. His eyes were completely white and blind and his fists clinched again and again in anger! His back was hunched and he looked defeated. He moaned and cried, then bent over and pounded the earth! "But....but Hellborns don't die!" I told him. He stiffened at the sound of my voice and focused on me. His face snarled and he pointed at me and spat "I am only his spirit. His body moves; he fights and breathes still, but I am the ragged and raging desires, the goals and the laughter that should have been his!" And the great warrior's spirit cried out in pain, ending in a choked and hysterical laugh. "He buried me here. Deep and cold. Immobile. Unable to act out the joys of existence. I hold everything he gave up! I am his love for a mate, for his homeland. I am his laughter, his children, and sharing with his kin. What fights on is just a beast! It kills and kills but has forgotten what it killed for! The fight has become all to it. He failed to find his balance. He is a magnificent Warrior, but he failed at life! You asked to see what happens when a Demon screws up? It is this." The great Hellborn cried for the soldier who had lost his capacity to love. Suddenly, a howling came forth from the hole the broken warrior had crawled from, and something stirred from down in the dark bottom. A torn and terrible creature crawled and whimpered until it reached his side. The Hellborn's spirit speared me with eyes that had no sight! "A Hellhound." he said. "The exact one which he slayed to make a curse to carry into battle. His most loyal friend. His first family! A friend who fought beside him, who gave him his allegiance and the comfort of his warmth when there was no one else. He murdered it and used the bones and blood and sinew to further his fighting, his obsession! My message is simply this: remember to live! Know laughter and joy and family. Bad things happen in life, and you must fight them, but never forget what you are fighting for! You fight for the chance at laughter and doing what your heart enjoys. You fight for little children who are free to run and play and discover! Is a man or woman any less than a child? Should you not ALL play and learn together? You must fight for your inner child! Should you not share and laugh and take your fill of the joys of life? Why are you here in this damn graveyard?! You belong back there in the Carnivale Demoniaque! What is life if it is only filled with a black need to strike out against the hurts of life? Go enjoy your life and be grateful for all the little snippets of goodness and happiness you get. There are some who truly get none of that, so be grateful! Do not let your spirit die!" And with that he jumped back into the hole with the broken wolf-like figure at his side, and the soil covered him over.
“If you really want to do something, you'll find a way. If you don't, you'll find an excuse.” – Jim Rohn

"The Master has failed more times than the beginner has even tried."

Do not rely on ANYTHING, unexamined. If It does not seem to fit, ask about it. If it ultimately degrades or dishonors or holds you back, it is bad for you, so remove it from your life. If it takes from you and never gives back, it is a leech. Discard it. In magick rely only on your own work: What you have seen and done and used for your own self and in your own way. Only keep what in your own estimation is worth keeping. (Hellcat's Rules Of Satanic Magick)"

Don't get too close. It's Dark inside. It's where my Demons hide!

Hailing Satan isn't a hobby, its a lifestyle. (S@tan)
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laalbieglna
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The Clown Graveyard of Madness:
The Zombie Clown's Tale

The rattle, the choke of his voice, first I don't understand that he is the one speaking, his dead eyes gazing at the churned earth, the myst, at nothing at all. I hear the grating, the buzz, like cicadas, like a throb, a howl, growing around us. Siioow grabs my hand then, his fingers cool and dusty like his makeup, like the gravedust around us. I try to meet his eyes, I see something in his smile uncomfortably like lust, dangerously like violence...it is anticipation, I realize, as the myst around us grows dark, the red and black of the Carnivale overlaying the stark, flat white of the graveyard, punctuated by electric blues, and it is the dead clown's voice I am hearing, his voice settling into his dead throat from the air around us like a swarm of maggots, like a cloud of putrescence, and it is no longer a sound but pictures painted on the air, a scene unfolding around us.

I am standing on a path, gritty and red, packed wet clay oozing between the baked prints of many feet, the overgrowth of weeds, brush pushing in around me, scrape and catch of burrs and dried thorns, reek of old urine. A sideshow booth in front of me, all reds and blacks, sculpted clown face in stark white, in golds and greens leering from the top of tattered golden curtains. What do you see, child? What do you see?

The breeze scatters the curtains out, they float over the path like pollen, like dreams. Absurd, I think, this breeze blowing from within the small booth, this breeze that smells like stale liquor, like caramel corn and the memory of cotton candy, like wet dreams and decay. Litter blows from near the threshold, a threadbare teddy losing its stuffing, its eyes ridiculous thread Xs like an illustration of lost innocence, candy packets and broken glass crunch around my bare feet, thistledown and spiderweb and the sighs of a thousand broken promises. What do you see?

With something like resignation I step toward the booth, no longer aware of Siioow and the zombie clown in the distance somewhere behind me, though shadows loom in the corners of my visions like gravestones and tombs while ahead of me I see a blank red and gold wall on either side of the booth, somehow indistinct as if I am not meant to look away from the empty cartoon face, its polished eyes, the ethereal curtains it guards, and their stark invitation.

They are brushing my face now, a rustle like my grandparents' dreams, memories I never knew, scent of straw, dust and honey in my nostrils and on my tongue, and I am inside of a cupboard, dry, crumbling slats, and on every side of me dolls, staring porcelain faces, some eyes empty sockets, others colored glass alive with wicked knowledge, cleverness, deceit, no ... mournfulness, and I hear the wail of cicadas, the whisper of voices, silenced screams, a sour odor of bodies and regret.

"What is this place?" I hear his whisper in my ear, unseen teeth scraping against my skin, catching goosebumps and fine hairs against the rasp of his tongue.

"The closet of lost children ... Some of them even grew up."
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RyderXIV
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I decide to sit a spell. The Zombie clown emerges from the earth with his tattered clown clothes and dried blood spattered mouth and with a belt like strap around his neck. He speaks with an Eastern European accent Hungarian maybe. When I was alive I was known throughout many countries for my life work making people smile. I could mimic anyone especially celebrities, I even played in some movies and traveled a lot. I helped the homeless and make them happy even in their situation. I made friends with everyone, one of my favorites was a gorilla from a zoo I would visit and she would talk to me telepathically and in sign language. She would tell me how cruel people can be sometimes and judgemental, I told her I understood they did me dirty sometimes people would also throw things and say bad things but we understood each other. I told my gorilla friend about the pills the people wanted me to take because my mind was schizophrenic so they said. I could hear the spirits they would tell me things that were true about people and situations. Some spirits would take me over so I would speak in another language or with a different accent. My mind would race with thoughts. I lost track of time and be someplace I wasn't aware of sometimes with blood in my hands or mouth. The Zombie clown would change his accent and it sounded from the deep south and he says "pilgrim don't take them pills people are a trip they don't know what they are missing." I was married several times and had some kids they loved me and I them but they could never understand my nightmares and spirits I dealt with they just said oh thats dad. I enjoyed my time on this earth even though I never felt of the earth. His accent changes again and this time it has a Caribbean tone like someone in Jamaica. He finds a butt of a cigarette on the ground where he came out of and he lights the remaining with a quick snap of his fingers. Yes, mon I learned a few tricks here and there from some of my friends in the core regions. You may learn about them too if you ask nicely. He reaches into his pockets and finds a flask made of silver and he takes a big gulp some of it drips out of his mouth it was a green tinged liquid. In my mind I said Absinthe he said yes it is. So you can read my mind yes Monsier with a French accent I always could never lost the ability. You can have this too. I start to smell a very metallic odor something I am not familiar with and he knows what I am thinking. Oh you are wondering what that smells is yes . my mind is aflame when I am excited about the past and he pulls his raggedy wig off to expose his brain steam rising from it. He puts it back on and he says I let the world see me one way but this is who I really am. So I said you didn’t look like this when you were alive, no he said. I tell him you do remind me of someone kind of like Robin Williams. He smiles and laughs that clown laugh and disappears into the earth.
Energy defines life not flesh and blood. WE are infinite energies experiencing infinity. Through a finite aperture.”
― Stanley Victor Paskavich
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Chrysopaelian
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The Clown and the Cedar Mask


The clown took a seat atop a tall curving tombstone, and gestured for me to sit beside him. I took my place, choking back the scent of his peeling flesh. His moans were quieted as he became accustomed to moving his body again. His eyes were cold and white, seeming to peer beyond me and look into a place far away. Moments passed as we sat, and Siioow continued to dig.

The clown turned to me, arching his neck at an unnatural angle. His white scleras examined who I was through the lines written on my own eyes. Finally, in a melancholy, quiet voice, he began his tale, “Thank you, traveler, for staying to hear my confession. I have done a great wrong to my people and my brother. More than a hundred years ago, I cannot say exactly how long it has been, I was a bitter man who wished for nothing more than revenge, at the expense of…” He paused, staring out across the graveyard again, into a land now lost to time, “At the expense of everything,” He breathed, letting his chin touch his breastbone as he let out a long, slow breath. “But how can I begin to tell it all?” he asked, stepping from the stone and twisting his ankle backward. His body lurched forward, but he caught himself and straightened up. “Let me take you back…” he offered a cracked grey hand to me, which I took, sliding off of the tombstone with him into total darkness.

The first sense I regained was my hearing. Sweet organ pipes, harps and stringed instruments filled my senses. Then footsteps—dancing. Hands, clapping together at opportune moments in the din. I heard laughter and chattering in an unfamiliar language. Next came vision. Whirls of blue and black, yellow and rose, flecks of red and cream. Lovely, rich colors, swirling and swaying in rhythmic patterns to the sounds the instruments made.

“Ah, was my home not beautiful?” the clown asked, placing a hand at the base of his throat.

“I can’t see it clearly, but where are we?” I asked.

“My memory, as it is now. As it remains after all this time. Look there,” He grabbed me around the shoulders and pointed across the crowd of moving colored shapes. “There I was!”

As he spoke, my vision cleared. I found my focus centered on a clown in red and yellow, with little golden bells on his red velvet shoes, performing before King, Queen, and Court. His tunic was trimmed with bells all down the hems, and he held a wooden box of tricks. His face was painted and his movements were merry and light. He beamed with a grin from ear to ear. As he performed he would pull scarves and baubles from this box that seemed to have no bottom. I turned back to look at the face of the zombie clown, watching himself. His face appeared more skeletal now, his demeanor like stone. The living memory before him couldn’t have stood in greater contrast to how he appeared now.

“This,” he gestured, “Was all a lie. An outrageous lie that I lived each day—the lie of merriment. The mask. While my true face was only shown to one…”

He glanced across the dancing guests, and standing there was Siioow, down on his knees, every bit of him from the curves of his face down to the last detail, just as he now appears. In this memory he knelt, surrounded by clapping children, entertaining only the littlest ones face to face. He lifted his arms, singing bawdy words along with the organ in melodramatic tones with wild laughs interspersed, and a lively twinkle flickered behind his eyes.

“Only he knew that my act was no more than a way to bide time. I despised him as I despised everyone who was happy, but he was a trustworthy confidant. No one else was privy to the secrets my heart kept locked away.” He seemed reluctant to say more. I urged him on with a nod.

“When I was a boy I was a prince of this land, but the fickle hand of fate deposed my father from the throne. They spared my young life, but my pride was mortally wounded. They made me their fool, so that I could never be taken seriously, and no one loyal to my Father could introduce a serious revolt in my name…

He took a breath. I watched his ribs. “Or at least, that is what, in my heart, I truly believed,” he continued. “That is why, deep within, I was a bitter man who loved no one. I only performed my duty like a snake, following the charmer’s flute, silently seeking a vital point to strike. Siioow seemed truly happy here, and I think deep down I envied that. Of course at the time I thought that he could not possibly understand how it felt for me to be cheated out of my birthright. In time, I came to learn the truth. I should have been content. By all the bones below, and all the air above, I should have loved my life. I love it now, but now it is too late to undo the things that I have done.”

“What is it that you have done?” I asked.

The throne room vanished. Now we were standing on a spiral stair in a high tower. The clown’s memory of himself had stopped mid-ascent, peering into his box. In the shadows of the stairway, a piercing green light emerged from the box with a frightful hiss. Something deep in the box, under the props, began to whisper something I could not understand. The clown leaned over the box and whispered a question within.

“I” boomed the voice, “Am what you have left to…. Fessssster. The part of you that is… wrinklessss… in the tapestry of what issss. I—I am--The fate that manifests in darkness. I know what you desire. The pain you are longing to release upon your enemiesssssss. For I was born of your heart. I am … you.”

The clown spoke two words that I did not understand.

“This night, you must steal two sapphire earrings from the Queen’s jewelry chessssst, those two which she lovessss and wearsssss most often. You must bury them under the cedar tree in the ccccccenter of the courtyard. You must do thisssss, upon thisssss night, and a blight shall befall this castle for 100 years unlike any heretofore ssssssseeeeen.”

The light waivered, then flickered out. The clown closed the box and placed it under his arm. Footsteps were approaching from below.

Siioow addressed the clown’s memory self in a language unknown to me. I couldn’t tell what they said to one another, but the clown began to shout at Siioow, who only leaned into a little window of the tower and smiled, looking down into the courtyard below. The clown continued up the tower into a small room, which appeared to be a shared living quarters between the two of them.

“So, you did it, then?” I asked, “You stole the Queen’s earrings, and then what?”

The zombie clown held out his gnarled hand. “Patience. Patience. I will tell all.”

The tower melted before us, and we were in the courtyard now, after dark.

“What’s happening?” I asked, “I can barely see.”

“Here I am, burying the earrings beneath the cedar tree,” the clown extended an arm. I could see nothing but the movement of shadows. There was no light. No moon or stars shone down from the black sky above. The clown must have known this castle well enough to move through it without his sense of sight.

I heard a noise, like metal striking wood.

“As I cleared the dirt to bury them, I found a box within these roots. The box contained a mask—a cedar mask, with painted eyes as blue as the gems I stole, arrayed with gold and precious stones.”

I could not see, but heard the clown’s memory self unlatch the metal clasp upon the box. The same bright green light poured from it, and the hissing voice spoke again, “This is your prize, your vengeance. Bring it to the court and place it at their feet, speaking the words, ‘A gift for the one who is most fair.’”

The clown’s memory of himself finished burying the earrings and took the box away. We remained in the darkened courtyard in silence.

“Aren’t we going to see what happens next?”

“No,” The zombie clown shook his crooked head, “I do not think I can bear to relive those fateful moments that way. But confess I must. Yet, before I do, there is one further thing I will show.”

Again, we found ourselves atop the tower, now mid-morning, in the quarters of the Clown and the Jester. The clown sat on a ruffled cushion, eyeing the box in his hands with arched back and hunched shoulders.

The zombie clown tapped both of my ears, and they began to buzz, culminating in a quiet “pop!”

Siioow placed a hand on the curve of the clown’s spine. “Eat,” he said, holding a bowl of soup above the box.

The clown brandished it away with a growl. “Leave me be, fool!”

Somehow the meaning of their words were now clear. It still didn’t sound like English, but beyond the sound was a thought-interpretation, an understanding of what was said through the clown’s mind.

“You’ve had nothing for supper this past night, and you’ve had nothing for breakfast today. You have been so silent.” Siioow crouched at his side. “Tell me what troubles you.”

The clown’s hands began to tremble. He picked up the bowl, mopping the soup from the floor with a brightly colored handkerchief. He spoke to Siioow without meeting his eyes, “Leave this place.”

“What is it? Why would you say such a thing? Have I not been your only friend? Have I not been the one companion to your bitterness?”

“You must flee from the castle, for a plague descends upon all who remain this night.”

“A plague? Is this an act? No… your face is grim. Is it true?”

The clown nodded, “It is true. Flee while you can.”

“But we must warn everyone! The children—they must be evacuated, too!”

“You will warn no one!” The clown commanded. His voice was stern and raised, “No one, you understand! This knowledge is for you alone!”

“Are you mad?” Siioow regarded the clown, matching his volume but stepping away, “If there is a danger, we should give warning.”

“Don’t you see?” the clown said, opening the box. The green light began to emanate from within. “This plague is my plan. What may be my only chance to settle the age-old score… to pay them back for what they stole from me!”

“What they stole from you? Luciano, I’ve listened with patience to your ravings for too long. These fantasies of yours began when you bashed your head on that rock, I’ve tried to tell you! You were no prince—don’t you remember? You were the prince’s page. His page, man! Get your head on straight! This revenge of yours is all for imagined wrongs!”

The clown’s anger overtook him. He leapt upon Siioow to strangle him, wringing the jester’s neck in his hands as the bells atop his cap ominously jingled. The jester slumped to the floor. The clown reached for a heavy clay bowl to crush his victim’s skull.

“No!” hissed the voice from the box, “Give him to me!” The box shook, sending green sparks like fireworks over its brim. The clown grimly obeyed, shoving the jester’s heavy, still twitching body into the green wooden box, which hissed one final time before snapping shut.


The room in the tower vanished, and again we were standing in the middle of the graveyard. Siioow was digging busily away even now, whistling some catchy melody.

Luciano showed me the top of his head, where there was a rather large dent in his skull, “He was right. Of course he was right. He only tried to help me, and I murdered him.”

I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity for this remorseful clown.

“The rest plays out as you might expect,” Luciano rested back against a great grey tombstone, closing his weary eyes, “I presented the box to the court as I was instructed, only the plague descended on me as well, I was not spared. And now I am here—we are here,” he gestured to Siioow, “Dead before our time, consumed by my hate. Now I know better, I grieve this loss, and in this story’s end, I will be gone again into the bones and into the wind where I am nothing but a tale in your memory.”

Siioow stopped digging, and approached us, clapping his hands together slowly. “Bravo,” he bowed to Luciano and then to myself with a flourish, “What a touching story. Look at all the valuable lessons you have learned!” He turned to me, “A truly fitting end to a hundred year joke, don’t you think?”

“I…” I paused, “What? I have … no idea what’s going on.” I looked from one to the other, but Luciano’s putrid corpse seemed at a loss as well.

“The voice in the box?” Siioow continued, “Was me. The knock to your head? Also me. You WERE a prince, my dear little pet, and the revenge you had,” Siioow widened his arms as he let forth a roaring laugh, “Was ALL REAL!”

Luciano stumbled toward him, corroded bells clanking, “…Really?”

“Who cares?” Siioow slapped him squarely on the back, “You’re dead!”

Luciano’s expression warped through several emotions at once, and he joined Siioow in a hearty belly laugh, “I suppose… I suppose I am! Ahahaha! You’re right! I’m dead! What does it matter—I might as well be anyone! Dust and bones and cobwebs and sludge—I AM everyone! Everyone is ME!!!”

They jingled and clutched their ribs, guffawing, dancing, and making a great spectacle of themselves there upon the graves. Rising from all of the graves that Siioow had been digging came the dancers, the musicians, the courtiers, the king, and the queen—wearing the most beautiful cedar mask I had ever seen in my life upon her withered face. The graveyard became host to a merry corpse ball, and Siioow and Luciano entertained them all with true relish and delight, for the very first time, and the very last.
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S̡̻͎̺͖̟̋̌͗͊̀͆͘͡t̵̥̬̜͍̥̽̅̒́͋̊̍͞o̩̻̪̣͚̘͓̳̰̯̎̍̄̈́̕͘l̷̞͔͓̭̹͖̳̅̅̃̂͐ơ̛̛̱̩͇͍͈̫̖͋͗̅̍̂́͢s̢̡̺̖̯̱̮̼̠̪̾̿͆̄́̅̅̿̀̾ Ŕ͉̫̩̟̪̳̀̑͛̇̓͢͢͠ͅa̵̗̯̭͓̘̞̜̓̓̐̀̑̏̾̾̕͘m͍͈͔̯͌̌̎̒̄́̍͟e̛̮̻͈͕̭̲͛̀̊͂̕͟͞c̴̱͖̰̠̤͉̥̣̲͛̅͗̿̀͊͊̈̐̐͟ v̬͉̞̜̺͚͒̒̓͂̉́͒͑̇͘͟i̭̰̰̥͑̏̏̀͛͟͟͞ả̸͈͇̻̦̱̿̾̾͐͌̌͟ṡ͙̙̝̯͎̩͂̃̒̕͜͢ă͍͔̟͇̞̣̩͈̪̎̆̃̆͟ ơ̴̤̰͎̲̬̙̺̪̋̑͛͡ṉ̵̡̧̖͆̓̊̌̄͜ c̸̛̹͙̗̮̻̾̎̀͌̄͜ȃ̶̡̡̹̬̞͖̼́̉̄͞͠
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Vixen
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Maybe not a story..maybe a tangent of thoughts, thoughts that never had a spoken outlet, were lost to the currents of the unconscious... and in death found beautiful resurgence as a matter of high priority. I listen closely to the currents, awaiting the tale... but he motions extravagantly, more so than I imagined a being of decay possibly could. He speaks through his motions. Gut wrenching, i feel something catch in my throat. Suddenly the weight of the worlds crashes down, through his gaze I feel my own personal comedy playing out in black and white. It is a horrifying story, it makes me shiver. I begin to think of humor as ...maybe it is cruelty cloaked in joviality. I wonder, but my upside down smile seems to poke holes in my logic.

All perspective, always perspective. I exclaim, making a loud sighing noise. Why must we always spin? WHyyyyy does it have to be so twirly whirly? I don't know which parts of myself are fighting which, but I wage there is a battle taking place. And you know what I do? I laugh. I laugh so hard my insides split open and I begin to collapse in on myself. This is what death feels like, reversed, mirrored, flipped. So the zombie clown moves towards my life through irony and I move towards his death through comedy. We are spinning in a continuum, a vortex of remembrance laced within the forgotten. And suddenly the pain is so hot it's icy. "I wish to swim, entirely unconscious. In freezing cold waters. Unclothed. I want to feel the sharp jabs of my nerves as they cut into me and make me bleed numbness. I want to drown. Containing in my icy corpse chest what I wish to forget." I fall backwards against the damp soil and look to the sky. I wonder why so much exists, why so much is allowed to be erased. How some travel backwards just as beautifully as others travel forwards.

And the stories relayed to us through silence, through absence, through a vague haze of nostalgia are too striking. They hit you like lightning to an old, decaying oak.. delivering the flames to what was never meant to handle it. Burning away, burning through, burning beyond. It's a dimensional dance, one I wished I could map. But as I lie here feeling the energetic textures of the zombie clown, the chaos clown, the universe clown I get a sense that all is laughing at me, just as much as I am laughing at it. Do I stop laughing? What if I never started? There is just this anatomical breakdown of the melodious flow of the insane, the chaotic, and the liberated. It's beautiful, piercing, absolutely spell binding. Like being spun, and spun, and spun until spinning becomes stillness...and stillness becomes forgotten, a foreign entity in and of itself. "Where do we go from here?" I wonder out loud. Back to the earth... into the soil...into containment, where only the natural may flourish. What of the unnatural? It has its place. In beauty and disgrace.
cotton candy delirium
...madness like sugar
sweetness
still dark
but colored
ravenous ecstasy
in cookies cream
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Passemoon
Posts: 618
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Patron Deities: Cailleach, Tefnut, Bes, Kwan Im, Dark Lords
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I was at first grinning, gleeful of what the night atmosphere might bring and the death energies in the air electrifies and excites me as I stare at the rising Zombie clown. I cannot wait to hear him share his personal woeful tales with me. As we sat down, I looked at him expectantly. However he continues to stare at me in jarring silence while I looked at him in anticipation. And then slowly, I hear music drifting in. Music as if he and I are in the same duet as the lyrics played and we each started singing our verses. As we sing to our parts, the music played in my mind, vibrating through my being, its resonance filling my heart.

And I feel once again the bitterness, pain, anger, resentment. I recognise THIS particular song. It used to speak volumes to me when my heart aches with the longing for someone to belong with and recognise who I am at my core being. It speaks of loneliness, of me feeling lost and not knowing who I am and my relationships with the people in my life. I have not thought about it in years in fact. And now it is playing crystal clear, here somehow in this graveyard with a zombie clown, no less!

I feel a little indignant. I do not wish to remember. This is a stark reminder of the unresolved feelings I used to keep hidden and buried. As I smile my way through the world, even to myself in the mirror. Pretending to myself even that things are as they should be and my emotions do not matter. Not the dark, lonely, sad, ugly ones at least.

I wanted it to stop. But the music pulls at me. It compels me to sing and complete this harmony with him. It seems too heavy to ignore somehow this time.

As I sing with him, I begin to think. Can it be? I wonder as I continue singing along opposite him in what seems like a strange other-worldly duet to me. It frightens and bewilders me a little that I am doing this. I thought to him, “Have you experienced such loss, loneliness and sadness as well? Have you also known how this hollow emptiness feels once in your heart?” And he continues singing his part in the duet with me in perfect harmony. His eyes speaks it all as he sings. This duet we share. This will be my story to share as much as it is his to share. Together we shall express this story of ours through song. Of love and loss and loneliness, of the dark days and shadows in one’s heart looming and overtaking oneself. And me, hiding and burying them in an attempt to get away at them. But this time I shall no longer hide nor run.

This time I will experience them as I should have done. By completing this song with him. And as the song strung out into its chorus:

“And there’s a danger in loving somebody too much
And it’s sad when you know it’s your heart you can’t trust
There’s a reason why people don’t stay who they are
Baby, sometimes love just ain’t enough
Baby, sometimes love, it just ain’t enough...”

And I feel my tears fall. But the feelings of loss,anger, loneliness and sadness. They no longer bind and hold me in place this time. I am no longer attempting to bury them and get away from my emotions and the shadows that come with them.

I shall sing this duet with him to its last chord. And through this, I will be liberated this time......


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Don’t only practice your art, but force your way into its secrets, for it and knowledge can raise men to the divine.
Ludwig van Beethoven
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judiss
Posts: 261
Joined: Tue Apr 10, 2018 7:31 pm
Patron Deities: Lucifer
Your favourite Demon?: Lilith, Ronove, Beelzebub
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The zombie clown was in military fatigues and a schoolyard duncecap.
From his perspective:

The sky was blue,
In ’42,
When I set sail with all my crew.
I was a boy of sixteen and two,
No longer a child but not quite a man, according to my father and my teachers too.
Was I a scholar, an athlete, a freak? A modern romantic or period fool?
I knew not what I was nor what I was to be, but I knew through my whole life my words are my tools.
Even so I did poorly in all of my classes; how can I learn what was being delivered in the room,
When everything I did got me exiled from class and everything I said was some practical joke too?
Sure, on occasion I would speak out against his evil attitude,
Being clever, I’d quip before I caught on to what I was about to do.
The inevitable laughter that followed my witty verses would only cause the Mister to fume.
“You want to be a clown, Serge?” that jeering voice would boom.
“Or some type of poet – a Shakespeare, I assume?”
Dear teacher, were you not so scathing, I would have agreed with you.
I dreamed of college where my words would take flight and spread my art to the world – college, where my dreams would come true.
But teacher would share my art with the class. While any other boy would feel pride and rightly should, I would cower in shame at the inevitable laughter that followed his sick tune.
How quickly my class would turn on their mate…
Perhaps peace never was a human trait.

Regardless, college is one thing I never did go into.
I enlisted to help fight in the Great War: Act Two.
For there in the navy, I’m no longer the freak; not the geek, not the meek, not the joke, not the bloody f** poet – just men on a boat, just lambs for the slaughter, just me and my captain – just me and my crew.
“You think this is funny?” Ah, the old familiar coo
Of a stone man in power – I see the irony, I do.
“You’re some kind of clown?” The old familiar career too.
Why is laughter always silenced when the world is the saddest? Why is the weak always punished when the ranks are the bleakest?
I look up to the sky
And I wonder why
The clouds always come
When I don’t want them to?
I drop and I give the sergeant a number he demanded of my arms, legs, and navel too.
But this was not what made me stronger; the sunshine of laughter is what always pushed me through.
Through,
Through,
Ever more through.
Is it in bad taste to joke about death? “No, it’s not” is my answer for you.
“Stop crying about Whitman. His guts were blown all over the field – I don’t think he’ll be back any time soon”
“He was my friend too – but, like ending things with a long-term dame – I’m talking to you, Sue, - onward we move”
“Hey, at least he wasn’t caught by the Jerries; you know how they like to bum a handsome P.O.W.”
Some men called me heartless, some called me a freak, the sarge called me a clown but now I realize… it’s true.
I do all I can to make them forget the pain, accept the war, and maybe laugh a little… so onward we move.

I was just as surprised as the rest of my crew
Or at least the few
That were left by 1944. I never knew
I would make it this long but I did know perhaps I could see the war through.
I was not fastest, the bravest, the strongest… I made friends and lost them, and it was painful – just no one knew
For a smile stuck on my face like industrial glue.
But war… it’s a chemical, a solvent, a remover of glues
And that’s just what it did. It melted my smile away…and, with it, me too.
The sarge died last year in June.
He always said he’d never see the end of the war even though he survived the first one. It haunted me that someone as fit for this scene as him died before I did. His words haunted me even more: This war will never end. There will be no home to return to.
In a way, he was right… not only had the war changed my country dramatically, it had changed me too.
You know, what humor really is, is a face of hope. Humor tides you over until things get better. So what, then, is the point of humor…
If things will never get better?

No more smiles.
No more poems.
No point.
Jokes no one hears
Words no one reads
And that was fine because there stood a world that no one – no one I knew, no one I loved – will inherit.

The sky was there
In ‘44
When the laughter stopped,
When a man who didn’t want to be a clown didn’t want to stop being a clown stopped anyway.
Why should I keep going when nothing’s going to matter? My words won’t be published, my face won’t be famous, my fighting won’t help end the endless war.
Just go.

In a way, I died a hero.
In a way, it was suicide by someone else’s hand which is, proudly, a last ironic joke of mine… punchline?
I don’t know. There isn’t one – oh. No, the punchline is that I died the same year that war ended.
I mean...
What is this… some kind of joke?
ᛚᛇᚲᚾᚨᚱᛁ:ᚹᛟᚱᛞ
Mabooka of the Iiopotto

Image: "Faust in his Study" - oil on canvas - by Philipp Winterwerb
IvankaAura
Posts: 3
Joined: Thu Jun 07, 2018 1:17 pm

A jester entered the ring, he called me "carrie" that's my name.
He is now ready for the show coz his empty eyes sockets are red and glow.
He starts..
Once I was a human, i was a gypsy clown from travelling circus. I was talented joker who cures the sadness. I cannot make the pain away but i can make you forget while you stay. I can make you laugh even in your saddest day. Life is not perfect my dear, but here i am help you find some fun which you forget to hear. Not all people deserve my talents, some are beyond out of my command. Soon people forget the joy of circus where i made them happy even i am sad. I put smile on my face to bring laughter from people. Ohh.....It was all ok, if i could make people smile with my ability.That is what a clown meant to be. Circus tent was empty and broken, a sad old clown was waiting forgotten.
My passion brought me from dead, my little carrie. Now infernal, my duties carry... Oh i am proud of what i am even I have empty sockets and dry flesh.I can see through your soul where moments of pain, sorrow and hatred go. Do not worry, I will give you little Dark sense of humor. enjoy and laugh for the lemons your life gave. Give them to me, I will turn them to be lemonade..well, pain gave lessons which are priceless. Let your canal desire flow with my dark evil essense, laugh like a mad and face the fate bravely. I am a fucking dead rotten clown, and I will not let you down.... evil jokes will come out from meatless lips now.



I am not a good writer. I tried... I wrote it from my heart at least. "Carrie" is my carnival name i got in meditation. :devilclap: :crazy: :popcorndevil: :devilshock: :possessed: :devilbanana: :nener:
Saber
Posts: 264
Joined: Sat May 12, 2018 5:19 pm
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Location: Northeast US
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Siioow shows me the grave of the clown. And the clown sits up colored in red, pink, and green. He was a favorite children’s clown he tells me. He thinks for a moment and decides to tell me a story about how he tried so hard to cheer up a little girl.

He used to do parties in this part of town. Adults and children both loved having him come to their house and make balloons and tell jokes. This little girl was always there. She must have been very well connected to get invited to ALL the parties.

They called me Watermelon the Clown because of the colors I wore. I had bright pink shoes instead of red ones and a green outfit with stripes. My nose was red and my hair was red, pink , and green. I loved to smile and make the children laugh. My passion was helping these children and adults have more and more fun at their parties.

This young girl was so sad all the time. She wasn’t crying, but she felt so distant. Her parents would be off in another room and she would be standing by herself with a pink ribbon in her hair, watching sullenly at the children playing. It was like she was a hologram from another world. Maybe she was from a parallel universe and only I could see her.

During one party, I was very excited to do my show and have everyone erupt with joy! I started out by passing out magic bubbles. I told all the children that every bubble was a magical world in its own right and when they popped they simply went back to where they came from. They were here to greet them and I asked what kinds of magical things they saw in their bubbles. One child said, a cottage in the woods made of candy. Another said, she saw faeries dancing with gnomes. Another child said, she saw cute monsters dancing and lighting candles. The children laughed and looked at each other’s bubbles fascinated by the multitude of worlds. I told them they could keep the magic bubbles but it was time for jokes and balloons!

They jumped up and down with excitement. Except of course the little girl who stood by herself. She was an observer. I had to keep myself from frowning as I looked at her at such a happy party. She was clearly out of place and didn’t belong. I wanted to hold her and take her back to the world she came from or the world she was supposed to go. Could she be a creature from another realm? Were her parents mistaken she was their child?

After the jokes and the balloons the children began to filter outside to play games. The little girl stayed behind. So I asked her, “ Don’t you want to go out and play?”

She said , “ Why would I do that?”
“To have fun of course!”

“I like to observe. Watching the children create their patterns that they don’t know. Responding in predictable ways.”

I thought she was from another dimension and I felt I was right. What child doesn’t want to play?

I asked her to take my hand and she did so. We went around outside and watched the games in the pool and saw the kids bouncing on the moon bounce. I watched and laughed with the children having fun, but still the girl was not amused. I tried to tell her jokes, but every time I did she tilted her head in a way that indicated she simply did not understand. Fun and playfulness was so far from her. So foreign to her. I frowned and felt deeply saddened by this child’s lack of playfulness.

When the party ended her expression didn’t change. It was still the same. I left the party and went home. I never saw her at another party again after that. To this day I wonder if I failed her.
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