Original article posted by bluesman:

It was the drops of blood that gave her away. Well, that’s not entirely true. She started acting strange after she came out of the restroom. Before she went in, she had been quiet, reserved, but lucid. Nothing out of the ordinary for a first date. Nothing that would require long explanations. After she came out, her demeanor completely changed. Her eyelids had fallen to half mast. She slouched in her chair. The corners of her mouth were pulled up into a very faint smile. She laughed loudly at things that weren’t even jokes. She lost interest in her meal. She was relaxed to the point of absurdity. Several times she made to hit Josh on the arm in that playful way girls do when they like a boy, but she missed each time, and nearly fell out of her chair with the last attempt. He had helped her back into her chair, while she giggled and said something he didn’t catch.
There was also the thing that fell out of her purse as she tried to get out of his car. He might not have given a second thought to it, he knew where she worked, but he had seen the drops of blood—dark points on spotless white pants. He had been staring at her in one of the obvious places: her rear. He saw the first drop when they got up to leave the restaurant. She stood up, turned around to pick up her sweater that lay draped over the back of her chair, and there it was: a small dark spot high up on her backside, just below the belt loops on the right side. At the time, it meant nothing to him. But then he saw another one, after she came out of the restroom at the music store. She had sat on her haunches, looking at the rap section, laughing obnoxiously, making noises, as though she were a human beat box. She nearly fell again, threw her hands out to arrest her fall, the C.D.s she held in her hands skittering on the floor. As he stooped to pick up her and the scattered C.D.s, he saw a second dot on her pants, this one just down and to the left of the first. Her behavior became even more erratic. She had put on a pair of headphones at one of the listening stations, and was bouncing to and fro, alternately pointing her index fingers in the air, a la John Travolta, her lips pursed and sticking out in a caricature of a kiss. The other browsers snickered and laughed behind their hands, while the store owner just looked on impatiently. Finally Josh pulled her away. She complained loudly as he led her out to the car, pulling away from him, fighting him. She tried to play it off with a smiling face, but her features were pinched and agitated. The smiles were more snarls than anything.
She started to complain of a headache, and so he pulled over next to a newsstand that had little packets of aspirin hanging in tidy rows. Before he could get out, she had jumped out of the car, yelling. Then he saw it fall out of her purse and onto the floor of the car: a small, plastic cylinder with a black rubber plunger and a tiny needle. The plunger was pushed all the way in. As he stared at it, the object became clear, immediate, present. He picked it up. It felt heavy in his hand. The back lettering on the sides, denoting measurements in milliliters, stood out sharply. Josh felt sick at his stomach.
There was a commotion outside. Looking up, he saw she was fighting with the newsstand keeper, holding a little packet of aspirin in one hand, and a bottle of mineral water in the other. Her face was twisted, her body rigid with anger. She threw the bottle of water at the newsstand guy. It struck him square on the nose, and he disappeared behind the counter, holding his hands to his face. She went berserk. She tore apart the newsstand, throwing newspapers, gum, playing cards, and souvenirs everywhere. Josh jumped out of his car, running toward the chaos. A cop came running up, called over by a concerned onlooker, and tried to calm her down. She turned on him, trying to scratch his face with her hands. The officer grabbed her and forced her down, kicking and screaming, to the pavement. And there she lay, on her belly, with her face pressed into the cold, wet cement, screaming and cursing, spittle flying from her mouth, tears gushing down her cheeks, as she thrashed underneath the heavy policeman. Josh just stood there, seeing dark spots and sinister syringes, looking down at the train wreck that was his date.

This is Camille’s story.

Camille worked on the third floor of the Midwest Regional Hospital. The third floor is Behavioral Sciences. It is the place where drug addicts, depressed teenagers and semi-suicidal people go to wait for proper treatment. A holding pen/halfway house for the marginally dangerous. Camille worked the graveyard shift. She had been there two years, working three twelve hour shifts that start at six p.m., Thursday through Saturday. She got along okay with her co-workers, if only for the fact that she always showed up on time, did her charting properly, and was always willing to work everybody else’s shift when they called in sick—which was every three day weekend or whenever somebody made camping or boating trips.
Behavioral Sciences shared floor space with Pediatrics, and Camille had to walk through halls adorned with painted scenes from Toy Story, The Jungle Book and Bambi to get to her corner of the floor. Along the way were narrow, darkened rooms with small children sequestered within—children shaved bald, I.V.s sticking out of their emaciated arms, translucent respirators over their mouths, emotionally and fiscally crushed parents sitting beside them.
Camille had to punch in a code to enter her work area. Her code was her own birthday, until one of the patients in Behavioral found it out and then told it to his friend during his afternoon call. The friend came in later that night, drunk, and threatening to lock up Camille and the other woman on duty, Teresa, waving a small steak knife as he shouted. Everyone in Behavioral had to change their codes after that, and Camille changed hers to the birthday of her mother, whom she hadn’t spoken to for three years.
Once inside the heavy door, she would sit down behind the long counter than faced the patient’s rooms, and get the shift change report. The twelve hours she would spend at work consisted mostly of tedious sitting. The patients usually came out of their rooms to pace, or to tell their life’s story to Camille, or whoever was working that night. One night a patient would tell Camille about how she ran away from home. The next, another would tell her how he tried to poison his wife because she refused to buy him pantyhose. Every once in a while, a patient would become so agitated that they would have to restrain them. Sometimes the patients were so violent they would call hospital security—a fat balding man well versed in Star Trek lore who would tell Camille that “a phaser set to stun would put this one down, quick,”
At around three a.m. Camille would take her lunch break, all fifteen minutes of it, in the small office behind the bathroom. There was just enough room to slide into the creaking roller chair that was wedged between the wall and the heavy metal desk that held the patients paperwork. She would eat in silence, staring at the insipid posters which hung on three of the four walls of the space—a man in a rowboat, gliding across a fog-strewn lake in the early morning light, a woman scaling an impossibly high slab of sandstone in the middle of a forsaken desert, a muscular runner at the blocks, his body covered in sweat. Each scene was underscored with a caption:

And again,

And there Camille would sit; slowly eating her food, her face blank, the word PERFECTION standing over her like some crushing, incomprehensible monument.

Orginal comments:

Nickname: Cube
Re: Story #26

Keep up the story posting…. its what this place is about and I enjoy what you post.

-Cube Out


Original article posted by bluesman:

Crash was a punker of the first magnitude. He was one of those latchkey kids that came out of the British depression. One of those dirt poor, roving Manchester castaways that had no use for school or work, ’cause neither one was going to give him what he wanted: the Power. This is what Crash thought about, all through the smoggy, dismal days, wandering through the backalleys, kicking at cans, arguing with the constables, stealing food from the depressingly bare food shoppes, getting in fist fights in Eardley’s House of Records. He thought about the Power–he thought about holding, cradling, wielding the Power, until the neon pink spikes on his shaved head burned with the intensity of 30 million punk-lit candles. He brooded on the Power until his creaking leather jacket smoked and the spiked collar around his neck sparked with outrage. He lusted after the Power, his face pulling in tighter and tighter, his visage a bitter mask of contempt stretched over a skull filled with hate. It was in these moments of blinding lucidity that Crash fancied he could, if he had had the Power, stretch forth his hand, blast the entire bloody mess into the ocean, where he would later walk through the leveled landscape in terrible majesty, bringing up a heaven or a hell on earth as he saw fit. As he sat in the dismal gloom of his dirty flat, the pitiful sobs of his drunken mother echoing off the grimy walls, mixing with the blasting, tinny wail of his record player, human misery and detuned guitars meshing in a cacophany of naked despair, Crash decided he would reach out and seize the Power. Crash had a gun, the old Webley revolver that was kept up in a sagging shoe box, put there by his mother, the ghost, after her husband had used the weapon to blow his head off, a man finally overcome, a man visited nightly by bloody war companions who urged him to keep up the good fight, lad, standing around him in their ghastly pallor, with eyes like hard, black glass. Crash took the gun, stuffing it into the front of his trousers, oblivious of the rust on the barrel, storming out of the apartment past the spreading misery of his mother, out the flimsy door and into the cramped, gargoyle streets. The pistol, a burning heat in his crotch, a fire in his belly, nuclear dragons tearing at the inside of his skull as he stalks, shoulders cramped and teeth grinding, towards Lord Chancey de Vonney’s manor, which sits across that invisible membrane which separates Crash’s world, the world of Churchill, the world of smoking factories, blackened coal miners, prostitutes, and His Lordship’s; afternoon tea in Grandmama’s best China, obsequious butlers, high laughter and pounds, pounds evergrowing, fattening the Realm’s great money houses. Crash walked right up to the gates, sensing the Power just inside the stately house, leisurely, fat, magnanimous in victory. Crash waited, in the drizzle of a Manchester morning, the rusty revolver, with its now useless ammunition, like yellow teeth in the head of a vagrant, rubbing achiingly against Crash’s palm. Crash waited, the Power emerged, the explosion and noise of a backfire devour him, destroying his purpose along with his face.

And somewhere, another punker starts to feel a hum in his guts, starts to think about Power.

Original article posted by bluesman:

Joshua had one round left in his pistol. One round between a new life in Rincon or vultures picking at his bones.

But there were still two men out there in the darkness.

Tom Hagar had jumped out at him from behind a clump of creosote bushes with a knife in his hand, and gotten one in the right cheek from Joshua’s ragged Forty-Five. Joshua had a hard time turning the heavy body over, and found nothing on old Tom that would serve: a snuff box with a few pesos rattling around inside, some tobacco in a smelly leather pouch, a few rolling papers. He saw the dog eared deck of cards that they all used to pass the time while waiting for the Wells Fargo diligence, creaking under the strain of sturdy lock boxes, to pass through. Now, Tom Hagar was lying face down in the dirt, the back of his head an open, bloody mess. Joshua took what he needed and then rode south through the junipers.

* * * *

Harlan Gates looked up from his saddle bags as he heard the crack of a pistol shot echo down the canyon. That would be Old Tom, he knew. Tom was stupid and a bully, which was just fine with Harlan—he would be the next to take a bullet from Joshua’s deadly hand. Old Tom had stood there, silent, kicking at the dirt when Harlan told him to wait by the canyon entrance for Joshua: he knew it was a death sentence. But Harlan knew Tom would rather take on Joshua and maybe have surprise on his side than be gunned down by Harlan in front of the other men. So he left. Now, Harlan was down another man, but Joshua was down another round. It was simple mathematics. That was why Harlan sent Rob Cherry to sneak up on Joshua last night after everyone had bedded down for the night, why he told Sam Spade to lurk in the San Pete Hollow.

Jake Combs he shot in The Flats.

George Juarez while he was taking a piss.

Alistair Finnes on the Tristeza Trail.

Eleven men in all, so far. Joshua had stalked them all this way, picking at them where he could, but beating a hasty retreat when the others came running. But Harlan Gates wasn’t worried; he had stolen Joshua’s ammo belt two nights ago, rummaged through his clothing and bags while Joshua was taking a bath at Nancy Crier’s place. He wasn’t worried because he knew what Joshua knew:

Harlan had one more man than Joshua had bullets.

* * * *

Flint Egan was stumbling over the stones, slowly stalking the south canyon wall. Harlan had told him to find cover on one of the rocky promontories that overlooked the canyon, oiling his rifle as he did so.

“You get up there and lay real still, and when that sonovabitch comes struttin’ from the east side, you wait till he’s past ya and then blow him to hell. I’ll cover ya from the north side.”

So Flint, picking up his gear, forced himself to leave the small camp, glaring at the others until he reached his horse. When he was out of sight of Harlan, he let out a sob. He knew who Joshua would get first.
The footing became more treacherous as he ascended and Flint was forced to crawl on our fours as he made his way to the nearest outcropping of rocks. Then he froze—the sound of a horse’s gallop from a ways down the canyon stopped him, filled him with dread. Hugging the ground, sweating in fear, he turned his head ever so slowly to the left.
There, not a hundred yards distant, was Joshua, leaning heavily over his saddle. Flint felt a shock of hope, like cold water in his chest, and pulled his weapon free. The figure on the horse was clearly hurting, bobbing up and down against the horse’s neck, his face turned down. Flint wiped his brow, steadied his rifle on a nearby boulder. Flint waited until Joshua passed by. He fired. Joshua fell from the saddle into a heap on the sandy canyon floor. Trembling, Flint stood, made his way down to where the body lay. Flint’s hands were shaking badly as he approached the form. He let his rifle drop.

The body was a scarecrow—Joshua’s clothing stuffed with brush and branches; a rope was around the neck.

Flint Egan never even felt the round pass through his skull.

* * * *

Harlan watched as Flint’s body crumpled into the ground. He saw Joshua emerge from behind a bush, holding the other end of the scarecrow’s rope. He waited until Joshua ran for Flint’s rifle. Just as Joshua reached down, Harlan jumped out. Joshua whirled about, pulling free his Forty-Five. The speed of his turn made Harlan’s guts turn to water. Then he remembered:

Joshua was out.

Harlan raised his rifle higher, a bitter sneer on his face.

“It’s useless, Josh, you sonovabitch; we both know yer empty. You’re good, all right, best I ever seen. But nobody steals from my gang. You know that. Now, I’m gonna be merciful to ya, cause we got a history, you and me, and I’m willin’ to show a little compassion. You can choose whether you see it comin’ or not.”

Josh stood there, silent. Harlan waited, as he had waited for this moment for two days.


Josh pulled out his pocketwatch, looked at it.

“Are you ready Harlan?”

Harlan screamed:


The report of the weapon was loud. Harlan looked down in dumb amazement at the blood spreading from his chest. He sank to his knees, his life’s blood pumping out in rhythmic time.

“How…how did…”

Joshua held up the watch.

“You gave this to me, Harlan. You said it was a ‘damn sneaky place for hidin’ something’. I’ve always kept a round in it since.”

Harlan looked at Joshua with murder in his eyes, then fell flat.

Joshua stood a moment longer, then gathered his belongings from behind the bush. The morning was breaking and he had a few days yet before he hit Rincon. Mounting his horse, he kicked his heels, and Barley answered with a burst of speed.

Orginal comments:

Nickname: Asmodeus
Re: A Game of Numbers
You know I have not, hmm I aught to play with a western I am good with conflict.

Original article posted by Gunny:

A fellow student asked me the other day why I was majoring in English for pre-law. She suggested that all of my writing would be done for me by a secretary, and I, therefore, would barely need to be able to write at all.

Well first of all, I don’t even think it’s true that I wouldn’t be writing, especially in military law, which is where I am heading. I would most likely do the really important writing myself, and I would also proofread things that I delegate out, a fact which would necessitate being able to write. But also, English majors don’t merely write-write-write. We also have to be strong readers and be able to analyze and interpret a text. This translates well into law because a large part of the Law School Admissions Test is reading comprehension. After the LSAT and law school, a lawyer must be able to read a brief and be able to see the most important parts, dissecting the text for any flaws or ambiguities. Lawyers must also be able to look at their own writing and to see the “trouble spots.” Putting my own conjectures aside, everybody I’ve ever asked has said that the majors that help most for LSAT/Law School preparation are those where the student has to do large amounts of reading and writing. Therefore, the best majors for pre-law would be English, History, Philosophy *gasp*, or Political Science.

This brings to mind another point, that many people think that Political Science is pre-law. I suppose that because many lawyers move over into politics in the end, this would not be an unreasonable assumption. There are different ways to do pre-law, however. If somebody were to ask me, “Is it necessary for me to do political science for pre-law?” I would respond with another, related question, “Is it necessary for you to drink your own urine?” Really, it’s all a matter of taste. Personally, I find that urine has too many objectionable components, such as human waste, and I think that people who participate in activities like drinking urine are at least a little crazy. I object to Political Science as a major for the same reasons. I don’t really care for philosophy either, but I do admire the ability to spin a meaningless web of nonsense from a pile of nothing and to have everybody think I said something important. I can’t be too hard on them because after all, English literature is a type of philosophy.

The point is I am an English major because I enjoy it, in addition to it translating well into law. Much of English study is interpretation, much like how lawyers and judges have to interpret the law. The principle is the same, but we use different books, books which become much less exciting. I think that English will be a fine precursor to law school. Now that I have given the girl’s question, “Why do English for pre-law,” some thought, I don’t think I was too far off base when I responded, “Shut-up! You’re stupid! Stop being stupid, I hate you!” and summed up most of what I’ve written in this essay.

Mister Gunny

Orginal comments:

Nickname: Asmodeus
Re: English as a Precursor to Law School
Not only should you do english, but when you get to your second language, I would take latin as well, but of course that is me. Latin law is hard to understand.

Original article posted by ravenpaine:

You step up to the microphone, insecure in posture, unsure of your material, and afraid of your audience. Too many thoughts racing through your head. You tighten your grip on the sheet of piecemeal fiction in your too-moist hand.

They know, they know.

And they can see. They have eyes, eyes that see how you failed. The fight you had that summer.

Years of degradation and neglect and now you’re standing at a microphone and everyone can hear you screaming your crimes into the silence created by your shuffling feet and voiceless fiction.

Tap out the beats between words with your tread-worn shoes. Look to the left and then to the rest and know that your time is up. Depart the stage to mingled nods and weak smiles.

“You finished here?” grunts Raguel, sneering over a filterless Lucky next to the door.

You frown as you leave the parish, “It’s not my best eulogy.”


“But they don’t have to know that.”

Original article posted by Olorle:

Shadows stepped off the wall wearing the faces of their creators. With this new found life, they began where their creators left off. The shadows worked. They loved. They ate. They played. One became bitter and killed another. Seeing death, others began to age. The first shadow, fearing the uncertainty of death, sought escape and delved into dreams, far away from the fear.
Faceless, hazy people dragged across the ground and walls attached at the heel to busy shadows. The first shadow walked through the crowds, once again at ease. All was right with the world until a tap on his shoulder drew his attention. His person grabbed the shadows face, pulled it free, and re-attached it to himself. The shadow slid back into place on the ground. The other shadows turned on him, trying to take away the face, to show that this would not be allowed. As attacks rained down, darkness rose up and claimed him.
Death stood in the darkness, waiting. Desperately, he tried to sleep, to lose Death in dream. Death tsked once, took him by the hand, and pulled him off into the darkness.
Shadows slid back to the walls, again mimicking the actions of their creators. One shadow hung limp, unmoving, trapped in place to be hauled off by the other shadows and buried away from the light, into nothingness.

Original article posted by ravenpaine:

the Third Host
Rodney TGAP


Olivier chapter 1 pages 1-20
Olivier and Raguel meet in an office to discuss Olivier’s plan to mobilize the Third Host to put forth the next step in the Earth project. Olivier explains the importance of the move and the readiness of the time. Raguel reluctantly agrees. Remember also the analogy of the baseball game that Olivier constructs to explain his point. Olivier looks up a list of identities and locations of angels of the Third Host and prepares to travel. Raguel informs Olivier that he must meet with a contact, Umbris, about something that is going in the rest of the supernatural world.


Raguel chapter 1 pages 21-40
Raguel travels to the Midwest to an unassuming gas station named Earl’s Gas. Here he meets with Umbris and Azer. Umbris reveals that Cthulhu is putting a plan into motion to rise from R’yleh and Raguel could play a key role in stopping or instigating the plan. Azer gets in a fight with Earl, the owner, and Raguel trudges off to find transportation to R’yleh.


Uriel chapter 1 pages 41-60
Uriel, having recently destroyed another angel, a job that normally falls to Raguel, is having second thoughts about his role in Heaven and the righteousness of his actions. He discusses the past of the previous 11 Angels of Death that Fell. Coming to no conclusions about what he should or shouldn’t do about the events of the past and getting less than useful information out of the stoic staff of death regulators he endeavors to travel to Hell and personally question three principle Fallen Angels of Death.


Olivier chapter 2 pages 61-80
Olivier travels to Seattle where he meets with Arael and Arimisael to discuss the mobilization of the Third Host. They hash out the psychological make up of current society and decided that it is indeed time to move the Earth project forward a step. They discuss the philosophical ramifications of what Olivier has planned and go over the steps necessary to complete the process. Finally he leaves for a show he has to catch.


Raguel chapter 2 pages 81-100
Raguel takes a boat to the center of the Atlantic and jumps overboard to the island temple of R’yleh, the resting place of Great Cthulhu the shaman of the Elder Ones. He trudges through the cyclopean landscape until he reaches the inner chamber and discusses with the heaving, sleeping Elder God his plan to “assist” in Cthulhu’s project for resurrection. As he leaves the island he is confronted by Daniel & Grace who try to convince him not to meddle, this time. Raguel shoves past them; he has his own agenda after all.


Uriel chapter 2 pages 101-120
Uriel travels to Hell where he meets with Samael, Azrael, and Teliel – three previous Angels of Death. He questions them as to why the Fell and are given three different answers along with a selection of old adages and snippets of wisdom. Uriel leaves Hell more confused than ever.


Olivier chapter 3 pages 121-140
Olivier goes to the east coast to catch a show of a small time blues band. While at the club he meets with Bardiel and discusses the difference between talent and marketable skills. Bardiel agrees with the plan and agrees to pick a selection of entertainment personalities to push forward the change. Olivier heads to his next engagement in New York.


Raguel chapter 3 pages 141-160
Raguel travels to the Vatican to retrieve the Codex. One of two items he is required to get for Cthulhu’s plan. While in the Vatican Raguel runs across two members of the Order of Alkire, who mistake him for a Corruptor and they get in a fight. The Jesuit’s that keep the library find them and Raguel has to flee to protect the Codex, he leaves Warren James, an old acquaintance to fight the Alkire members and the Jesuit Cardinal Varian.


Uriel chapter 3 pages 161-180
Uriel travels to Earth seeking more practical advice. He spots Raguel’s signature during the fight in the Vatican and catches up to him in Prague. There Raguel is meeting with Umbris, who has double crossed Raguel and sold the meet location out to agents of the Fain Academy. Raguel promises Umbris his end is near, but not near enough, and heads to New York with Uriel. They drop off the Codex with Israfel and Ireul before heading to the Oroborous Café to get some answers.


Olivier chapter 4 pages 181-200
Olivier arrives in New York and meets with Israfel and Ireul, who have already started to translate the Codex. Olivier proposes the advancement plan and they are overly enthusiastic, they chide him for not doing so earlier. They are attacked while at the bank transferring funds to several key corporations to mobilize the process. Olivier is gunned down, on camera, and Adrian Lucien proposes arranges to get the footage erased if Olivier will do one small favor…


Raguel chapter 4 pages 201-220
Raguel and Uriel enter the café where they discuss the current going-ons with Isaac and Daniel. Raguel seems lost on a couple of details and Uriel is caught up in a conversation with a section of dead writers at their weekly poker game. Dostoyevsky offers Uriel a piece of chance advice and Edgar Allen Poe solves the missing piece for Raguel about what Cthulhu is doing. Lovecraft only snickers throughout the explanation. Raguel and Uriel head to the Quantum Law firm.


Uriel chapter 4 pages 221-240
Uriel and Raguel arrive in Nowhere with the assistance of Mala Ilona. They dodge patrols of Clowns and Demons until they find the animatronic shell of Randolph Carter. To get him back out they have to travel to the Greater Spire or the Deliverance Pit. Uriel demands that they travel to meet Adrian’s sister and Mala’s mother at the Deliverance Pit. Raguel agrees with a lot of bickering and cussing and they leave to meet with Olivier.


Olivier chapter 5 pages 241-260
Olivier and Ramiel are having a conversation about the religious advancement of the project. In the background Umbris’ brother is attempting to kill Elden Locke to complete his vengeance and free his brother also ending his own curse of eternal waking. UB is wounded during the fight and Elden flees. Ramiel attempts to give chase but Olivier stops him according to the deal he made with Adrian. He leaves to the meet with Raguel.


Raguel chapter 5 pages 261-280
Raguel and Uriel meet with Olivier to get the translation of the Codex. Raguel bitches out Olivier for falling into an Adrian plot. Leliel, Mala, Harahel, and Qadosch enact the ritual described in the Codex to put Carter’s soul back into the shell that was retrieved from Nowhere. Oliver leaves to confront Adrian, Raguel leaves to confront Cthulhu. Uriel is left with the revived Carter.


Uriel chapter 5 pages 281-300
Uriel must protect Carter from a variety of the Fairfax League’s plots. Though the act of protecting a life rather then taking a life Uriel begins to see what the previous 11 Angels of Death did not understand about mortality and the trials that the Earth Project represents. Uriel travels to Rhode Island to meet Raguel.


Olivier chapter 6 pages 301-320
Olivier confronts Adrian about his past and the things that Adrian has convinced him to do. Adrian attempts to manipulate Olivier into changing the advancement plan in two key ways. Oliver is finally able to refuse Adrian’s ploys and finalizes the plans final stages.


Raguel chapter 6 pages 321-340
Raguel goes to Rhode Island to stop Cthulhu’s entourage who intend to sacrifice Carter to enact the Elder God’s resurrection. Uriel arrives with Carter and Olivier arrives to get Carter’s help. The whole crew must fight off a number of Lovecraftian horrors and Raguel declares his job done. Oliver enlists Carter to use the Silver Key to teach humans to dream again. Uriel heads to Heaven.


Uriel chapter 6 pages 340-360
Uriel takes Olivier to the outskirts of Heaven and they discuss what has happened. Olivier shares his views on redemption and Uriel shares his findings on mortality. Olivier convinces Uriel and himself that there are more than two answers. There is a third choice. Uriel agrees to do his job according to his own will and chooses to ignore whether his actions aid one side or another.

Orginal comments:

Nickname: arylaina
I was going to comment that it seemed pretty solid, but how necessary were the Lovecraftian elements? A knowledge of the war in heaven doesn’t seem adequate to understand and appreciate this story if it’s not also coupled with an understanding of the Elder Gods. I was going to say that it seemed a bit like fanfiction, to use his characters for your own purposes. But then I thought about it, and realized that’s what the other characters are as well. The panoply of beings you have assembled are gleaned from others’ works. Which defeated my original comment. Which got me thinking about how much of religious literature is nothing but fanfiction. Which made me chuckle. Just had to add all this as a footnote. Carry on.

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