Iconoclast part one ( Wake up Call)

                

            We stood up against all odds to protect the welfare of our people, even if it means bashing the face of those who mercilessly arrogate. There is rotten in everything in the foundation of reality. We can find shortcomings in religion, politics, even in the most minute of notions. We are infested by a reality that either agrees with us or otherwise. So, what do we do? We stand up for what we think is right.

            If your bishops profit from the sinning proletariat, can you be so silent about it? If a clandestine putrefaction of a governing body is unravelled right before your eyes, can you still be the taciturn and let them get away with it?

            Times like these, we need to wake up the iconoclast in all of us, even if it means turning ourselves into an anarchist (which is what I am) and wishing no government shall stand overhead us. There is a calling to straighten the fabrics of imperfection, to call the bluffs of those of those who thirst for power of superiority.

            What? You are afraid to stand lest you would be labeled a transgressor? Remember this, we are born in a society that inculcates to us that all transgression is a negative idea. This is not true!!! They only came up with this notion, subtly embedded in your mind, to stop you from standing up.

            Silence is nowadays a disease. It may not corrupt the mind, it may not blot the spirit, it may not deprive an innocent child of life if deserves but it retains the sickness. Cowardice, indifference, and any form of silence are a catalyst for the destruction of the foundations our fathers, the heroic and immortal, tried to build. Yes, bashing the system may not solve the problem, it is more likely to add up to the heap to be burned, but at least we can wake up the sleeping potentials to make a change.

            Iconoclasm is a wake up call to pin point the tainted. To be blind, another form of embracing silence, is to let the evil ones carry on with their diabolic deeds. If we let them go on, what will become of us?

            Then, wake up, iconoclasts! WAKE UP!!!

            

Angels of Black Heaven: Chapter One

Craighan stood before the window. He had a jacket on, its hood virtually covering his face. That time of the day, which was considered to be earl for a student like him to be at, the school was a refuse, a silent fortress. Silence was a companion, it made him think. And at theat time, there were images kept on appearing in his mind. A band of grim reaper surrounded him, all  chanting an incantation. He knew deep inside him that was the prelude to everything.

                Selina Svenningson found the door to their classroom was ajar so she ventured to come in. she saw someone and eventually recognized it. Craighan  was just standing there, the hair gave him away. “Oh! Ah! Good moring, Matt.” She forced a tensed smile across her beautiful face.

                The intrusion woke him up from his shallow reverie. He turned to the lady and wore a smile. He tried to make it as genuine as possible, almost having his art of deception perfectled. “Good morning, Svenningson,” he said under a cold breath. 

            “You the first one to arrive?” she asked, there was a fondness in her voice though she tried to hide it lest she would give herself away.

            He nodded. A man of few words.

            “That’s good. I-I came in rather early, too.” She felt stupid for giving such a reply. “Ah! I mean, I always come early but–“

            There was reluctance in her voice; that he noticed. “Cut the formality. I’m a fellow student, not a professor,” he joked.

            If the young man’s smile was fire, she would have considered herself a wax, melting under his stare. “Ah! Y-yeah. Right. Just like what I’m supposed to say myself.”

           

            Tara Lamoreaux stood before the grandeur of the city; she was in a building under construction. Her long black hair was swept by the wind, her eyes strong and impregnable. The shape of her her face a beautiful triangular frame accented with a nose lifted right and cheekbones announcing their reign on her face.

            “Do you think he’s here?” A voice behind the young lady asked. “I’m getting sick of this whole hide-and-seek shit.”

            “Patience, Christophe. Mortals can’t escape death as death can’t escape us.”

            The man smiled wryly. His strong yet handsome face turned away. He combed his black hair with his finger and remarked, “so much for living forever”. Christophe chuckled.

            She just smiled. If there was something the lady had the man did not possess, it was patience. She looked at the city, seemingly spellbound. However, beyond the trance-like state she was in, she knew that the search for Death started from that point on.

            Immortality was a price Althea had to pay for wanting to be someone else’s salvation. Heaven did not choose her for that one purpose, she opted it herself. She relinquished her place as one of the seven angels on the book of Revelation to fulfill her mission: to save one. And to save one meant to save all. She was in constant quest to complete her destiny– to give life to death.

            As she knelt before the image of the crucified Christ, she wove a prayer to ask for something more than guidance. Until a force compelled her to open her eyes. She stood up and looked around. something was wrong. Something was bound to happen. Beneath the layers of consecrated silence laid a sense of danger, though anticipated, still shocked her.

            She faced the altar and looked up at the stained glass.

“So, it was time,” her voice echoed in the church.

Angels of Black Heaven: Prologue

The cool mid-august air blanketed the city. The lure of it bright lights seemed to possess a concept of advertisement.

            Althea Stainthrope walked towards  the large window of her hotel room to see the nocturnal stagnance cladding the city. All was well and quiet. The hotel where she was was never short of accommodating. She opened the window. The virtually icy wind caressed her face. Her beautiful long silky hair flew.

 She must fulfill her mission her mission. That urge gave her a sheer sense of purpose.

            It was all she looked for.

 It was one of those peaceful nights that the young man with long curly hair got used to. Standing on the edge of a towering skyscraper, he looked at the loming moon. He was veiled in black, mysterious and melancholy. His eyes were sharp but lonely. He possessed a beautiful crafted face, a face of an angel. Yes! An angel… of death.

            He had been in the realm of mortals for quite a while now, since Adam and Eve devoured the forbidden fruit. It was when he was conceived. He was a born of a mistake, the consequence of the first sin man committed, a child of temptation.

            Peace rode on the wings of the nocturnal air. It was time to move, to feed his scythe.

The cound of the alarm clock floode Matt’s room. He a woke from a trance, from a black dream. Escape was all he wanted . it s something he would never have. Well, at least for now.

            He rose and let the first thread of daylight touch his face. But some of his long wavy hair prevented its rays from reaching his delocate white skin.

            Another day to waste on his professors and classmates. Another day to be hypocritical!

            He let his half-naked body fallon his bed. Half-asleep, he tried to reach for the noisy alarm clock, subsequently turning it off. Five minutes more, he would seep for five more minutes.

 Matthew Craighan, also known as Matt, was one of the most attractive young man one would ever see. He had a long black wavy hair with a tinge of hazelnut tint, his crowning glory. The pair of gray eyes wer set to be sharp– could cut through one’s soul– and mysterious. There was an air of enigma surrounding the young man. His complexion was white with reddish cheeks and an almost feminine facial feature. It was mild an soft a texture but the deep-set sharp eyes conveyed enough masculinity to drive away any notion that he was not man enough.

 He stood almost five nine, with a built close to being skinny…. But not quite. He did not want to gain any more weight, as though he were destined to be of that physique.

            Many a people described him as someone quiet, but there was something in him that did not necessarily need to beg for respect. He was feaerd, respected and admired. The guy was smart. Dead smart. He could outwit almost anyone without even shedding a sweat. Girls fell for her as though he were a concealed trap. But he was not interested in them. He liked to be alone, but extended a helping hand to those who needed it. He was simply a charism incarnate, giving orders without even opening his mouth. A force to be reckoned with. A superhuman.

            But he had a secret, one that was way beyond human conprehension. His life was a secret itself.

            He opened his eyes and sighed, “that dream again.”