In a time before One Was, there existed two small birds but both mighty.
“Shall I love you?” asked the swallow non-committedly to his Eternal Rival, the cardinal who then paused her pruning and sun-gazing within the small puddle of water she stood in. The swallow’s chest, often so proud and puffed, concaved and it was as if the energy from his body was instantly usurped from within the confines of his Mind’s Eye.
The smaller of the two birds finally acknowledged the oh-so prideful swallow and understood he mirrored the same sad smile she would laboriously birth only behind closed doors. She found herself in a state of silent joy that would surely consume them both if she removed herself from the puddle.
As the cardinal dealt with the encompassing weight of grief that inevitably comes with love, only then did the mischievous bird reward her rival for his bravery with one last game of cosmic cat and mouse.
The little red bird seemed to stare beyond her opposite, but she was intense. The cardinal smiled…but her smile held unforetold anger and rage she could only handle in the body fleshly Kings. When she finished evolving, she would become a Queen God who would only laugh at this rage as she knighted her King to become a God alongside her.
It was the cardinal’s knowing gaze and smile a war-weathered GOLD OWL longed to beguile and take into his own skin.
But instead of an owl, he was chicken shit after all not fit to even be cucked, much less indulge in her sins.
The little owl—belly full of gamey garden snakes— was so insignificant that he doesn’t really do anything in this story but thrash around in the road.
The rich owl looked down on them both from the tree’s alpine. The cardinal and the swallow were only rivals as they were dreamily doomed to be each other’s mirror. They would peck and chase after the other and eventually all in good fun. The two small rivals only really found peace when they came together to watch the old ugly owl flounder—like a fish— and curse them behind his crooked smile as they nestled into one another with uproarious laughter.
And then the most unremarkable thing happened! For the good of All…and as sometimes such with living things…they sometimes die alone.
Gold Owl died, penniless and without food; he didn’t even utter a whimper.
The End!
Meanwhile, a sad canary not meant to be pitied watched the Play of Life foretold by the humble narrator Marchanna Bentley—- unfold along from the alpines from the tallest most isolated mountain range in space. The poor pauper canary began to feel the cracks in her mind break and she found her fluffy yellow feathers transform into opulent emerald green scales tinged with unwarranted rage, envy, and a desire to own both the naïve cardinals and swallows of All the galaxies.
For cosmic reasons, the bitter resentment behind the new snake would remain a secret unless the other cardinals and swallows birthed from These Ill-Fated Mates obtained a level big enough to beseech it.
These two—the Beginning and the End;
The All and the None;
The Yin and the Yang—
really ruffled the yellow bird’s feathers and she and he were doomed to constantly watch them both grow and evolve; be birthed and then die; to slaughter and to forget the sound of the other’s laughter after a long, weary and dreary journey.
The canary wanted to die. It wanted to die in the eyes of anyone who may spare her a moment in time.
What a selfish canary. But even sicker were the twisted masochistic birds he pitted against himself. They did not notice as he stuttered his utter plea for help but instead decide to dance on his grave.
She—the canary this time—would die, but she needed more suffering. Death is sometimes too good for even a beast granted escaped from a cage.
An eternity of suffering is what the canary needed, unbeknownst to her and him. She would have all of the riches—and then daddy’s riches—-and then eventually nothing until all she had was her drink and her smokes.
And even much later, death wouldn’t claim her despite her brittle bones and her pleading on kitchen floors.
I, your humble cardinal narrator knows when she dies before the story even begins, but it is a secret to the canary-snake—as nobody can really ever predict the Gifts of the Future and time is fortunately not linear.
You cannot find your future in a box. You cannot find it in a garden or with Eve. The cardinals and the swallows of the world are joining together and it’s all thanks to Us, my love.
Ahem, Ahem! We return to the plot—the Original Sin— the HOUR AT THE HANDS OF FATHER TIME ITSELF!
“May I love you?” asked the swallow a bit more sheepishly this time, stirring the cardinal from her slumber in a new golden puddle of her own making. She felt herself remember an ancient promise she had not yet made but willed herself to forget! She understood the anger and the demons that would come to collect her like a thief in the night, and oh…the orgasmic cosmic joy that spread from her little crown to her little talons did she embody at this moment.
Only then did the cardinal’s feathers soften and she finally flashed a devilish smile with a glimmer in her eyes. She understood her innate rage and hate and eternal longing for the asshole poet; he couldn’t see that he didn’t need any tricks of the Mind’s Eye to woo any of the other cardinals. But her. He gave her space to rage against the machine—him—-and how gracious was she!
“Yes, you may love me because I already loved you,” she chirped.
Boom! Crackle! Snap! Pop!
PHWWOOOOOOOOSH AND PHHHHHROAHHH and KA-BOOM and KA-BOOK!
The cardinal giggled as her love finally took flight, never to see each other again in this life. They parted ways in a Silent Agreement (written and illustrated by Marchanna FUCKING Bentley) to find each other once they crossed distant lands: Africa, Egypt, Paris, and Brazil; Asia and India—and cultures and countries yet unseen— and even paying a visit to Holland.
Together they spoke in their death— unfortunately, always within reach but never quite there.
“We will forget this moment,” the intuitively vowed as they slithered from the primordial soup of wombs across time and space.
They went their separate ways. No grand gesture of goodbye was ever needed because their cosmic loves made it so the next time they met it would be with a simple:
I wrote this story for the Good of All and for those who have waited centuries to be together again. I am homeless and I have survived rape, human trafficking, and abuse in every which way. My latest escape involves being raped by a child I once reared.
All my life men have wanted me despite me not even knowing their name and face. Look at me. Look at my story and my sad poet girl eyes—how could you not want to devour girls like me?
Only sick individuals thought that about me, but now they know.
They are humans masquerading as demons. They have died before they were born—like me—and they will die, again. Someday.
I have been seen by Hollywood actors and philosophers and people in power who forgot that although they are now false Gods and Goddesses—they were once struggling artists like me. They only have to write about it.
I lived it. I had to rise from the shit and dirt and water myself with my own piss to observe my flowers grow.
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Outside of philosophy and divination, I am a teacher of real human baby souls. I love it and I miss them daily.
I have a home I left in Japan because I was trying to help out blood. If you cannot donate, please I beg you—share this story as it’s all I have to give anyone without selling my soul. And maybe a kind hero will bless me with a home to call my own while I wait in transition.
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