This is the official blog of Smiley Cain. This is where you will find original poetry, musings, thought experiments, and snippets of scenes and quotes from the expansive universe of The Rumination of the Colorless King (an ongoing story written by myself that will eventually be released) and its plethora of characters. Any and all music produced henceforth is directly tied to this story.

"Little by little,

All the little pieces

Fall distinctly together,

Little by little.

 

Riddle by riddle,

All the little chess pieces

Intersect in the middle,

Riddle by riddle." -- Jonah, written by J.F. Peri

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Elliott Merriner's Nightmares; 1: LACY

It started with the girl. Curled up in a ball on the bed of blue sheets. Sleeping, I think. She was hissing as she slept. Hissing or growling or I don’t know... but the sound resonated. I remember I truly cared for her. It's not that she was my daughter, but she may have been. I leaned over her, just to see her. She opened her eyes... it wasn’t her in there. She kills me. I don't know how, but I died; that much I know.


Before this, she was just a girl. We were in this house. Four of us. The girl and I, and two men; family or close friends is what it felt like. Their frameless faces I recognized, but as of this moment I wouldn't dare to describe; I have no idea of their features.


The house was wood all around. Hardwood floors, hardwood walls, tables, chairs – all hardwood. Stained? Everything had the faint touch of red.


A second floor balcony overlooked the living room which lead to the kitchen.

Basic, but the house seemed like a maze. Every room or hall was eating memory; relearning every corridor as though it were the first time being there.


A door beneath the balcony is open. It’s too dark to see inside. Chaotically black. I don’t know why, but something is one off. I don't recall this door. I'm still learning this house. A knife hangs from a string in the doorway. I shut the door. A sense of urgency. It felt like the demons were already inside. They can’t escape. Do they want to?


She must have been only twelve. "We can’t leave her alone," I said. "Something’s gotten a hold of her. I don’t know how, but I know there’s a demon inside of her." She’s very quiet. I don’t know how, but I’m going to help her. I’m going to save her.


The others listened but they didn’t hear me. They didn’t understand, and thus, they dismissed. I told them someone has to have an eye on her at all times. They heard, and they dismissed assuming foolish paranoia.


I wander around the red house and find the kitchen in shambles; destroyed. The pantry door ripped off its hinges leans lazily on the broken table nearby. The refrigerator disemboweled. Broken dishes and glassware. Cabinets in disarray.


I call everyone. I ask everyone, "who did it?" They deny any part. No one heard a thing. Nor did I, yet the damage screamed 'adult'. Rhetorically, facetiously, I ask her, the girl, if she did it, thinking – knowing she didn’t. Too small, too delicate.


She responded, “Yes, I did it.” The only time I ever heard her voice – angelic yet with a nuance of ... well – like it’s wrapped with sandpaper.


The door beneath the balcony is open again - Too dark to see inside. A noose dangles in the doorway. I couldn’t tell if it was inside or outside the door. I slam it shut.


There was always something happening. Something wrong - off. I’m not letting her out of my sight. I won’t lose her. Protect her at all costs.


I pick her up and carry her wherever I go. The others ask me why I carry her.

“Because I won’t let her go.” I think that’s what I said. Something like that. It was a slew of explanation that happened in an instant of layered cross-talk. A dissertation in a blender.


In my arms, over time, she’s morphing. Nuanced, subtle. Into something horrible. I care. I worry. I'm vigilant in stagnation. She bleeds from orifices and places I cannot see. Bewildered; I do not know how to save her. She breathes heavily. She never struggles and she never screams. Never seems to be in pain, but I know she can’t bear it. At times, she latches onto me. A primal physical call for help. Other times, she’s reserved, not limp in my arms, just... reserved.


My love for this little angel. A little angel that’s becoming a little monster. A demon. But how?

Everything has fallen apart. The others are oblivious.


Always something happening... I don’t know, but at the same time I know.


She’s curled up in a ball on the bed with blue sheets. She’s sleeping. Hissing or growling or I don’t know. On a pink post-it note I write “Lacy” and place it on the right side of her face. Her little cheek.


On another note, I write something to the affect of “Lucifer.”


She opens her eyes.


I am small.


I wake up. Carrying this little devil with me...

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