This is my entry for week #19 of the Finish The Story Contest. Thoroughly enjoyed it. Thanks, @f3nix

@f3nix's Beginning

I Will Write No More

Prague, 22 September 1994

Dear silent friend,

Once again, I will force you to bear the tremulous handwriting of this pathetic old man.
Time has yellowed my fingers and your pages in equal measure. But I know you will not complain in finding yourself soiled by my memories once again, after such a long time, after the hiatus of decades of life, spent far away from the ancient leather of your cover. And I hope it did not bother you to try the tickling of my pen again. Not more than three spots of water and ten sheets before this, you still were curiously waiting for the hand of a fourteen-year-old, full of dreams and watercolours.

As I write, the mist rises from Moldova and lingers among the ancient gothic spires, guardians of forgotten secrets, while a pale September sun, as a master of alchemy, transmutes in gold water and heavens.
There is this little kestrel who, for a few days, has been picking on the attic's glass at dusk, while I perform my little preparatory rituals before everything happens like every night. The graceful winged evening’s maid urges me to once again cast my gaze on the hundred towers city, but these eyes will no longer be able to patiently stand on the surface of the mystery.

"I discovered a terrible law that links the green colour, the fifth chord and the heat. I lost the joy of living. Power scares me. I will write no more”. Such were your feelings, Gustavo, and I still remember your trembling voice when you confided in me, the last time we met, before the great war swallowed everything and everyone, forcing us to interrupt our occultic studies. Only now that the layers of reality have finally crumbled before my eyes, like a sedimentary stone on the sides of a primordial river, I can grasp the true meaning of your words. The anxious joy of discovery, mixed with the ancestral vertigo of sidereal abysses, has overwhelmed me and continues to overwhelm me every night I leave.

And, just as in the layers of rock are the remains of creatures lost in time, even these levels of reality are not devoid of surprises .. and encounters. By now, I'm sure they saw me, but I cannot help but go back. Of all, I know that the faceless child already waits for me, every time closer, just beyond the threshold. He craves my warmth, my vibration and, this time, I do not know if I will manage to continue playing the game of deceiving him, while I persevere to the end. Certainly, I cannot draw back right now that my human life ends and, at the same time, I’m experimenting one, a hundred, a thousand lives.

Forgive me, dear diary, for having forced you to bear my poor ravings again. Perhaps, we’ll never meet again. The kestrel flew towards the old city. It's time to leave.

My Ending

Ascension, 23 September 1994

Dear Tremulous Hand-Writer,

You're right on being pathetic. Giving up already? I only hope you bother to actually read the pages in your diary that you might see this. Who knows what depths of unreality you've phased into. If the faceless child really is on your path, then its more than just your body and mind you need to worry about. More importantly, you need to cease with your tears. And any and all liquid substances aside from blood and ink when next to me. I strictly forbid you to leave me a waterlogged wasted diary, left to the gnawing criticism of the mice (as Karl once said).

You mention Gustavo. Fool. Do you really think such an acolyte of the esoteric be capable of falling victim to the power of shrapnel and bomb? What do you think came after his discord of green, heat and the fifth? What of color and shape? What of fire and blood? Gustavo did not cease in his explorations, and it speaks all I need to know that you would think such an absurdity, and more, collapse into despair.

I preferred to be left in the hands of one more capable but your precious Gustavo had other plans. He’s requested I reveal myself to you at a time I found necessary, and offer you what little degree of protection and guardianship that I can. Well. I’m here.

So first. You’ve encountered the shadows and potential of the faceless child. This is troubling. I’d first ask you this. Has it noticed you? It could be that the psychotic little brat is meandering through time, as it does. You do understand it consumes souls, yes? You may have just been unfortunate enough to witness the thing in its hunt. Not that it was hunting you.

But. If it did indeed notice you, then we have a serious problem. Did it appear waiting through the thresholds? Did it extend its fingers or offer a trinket? It enjoys games (it’s a child) and I believe draws pleasure from toying with its prey.

I offer the tale of Sampson T. Jacobs, a practitioner of the esoteric arts from the 17th century. He enjoyed astral projection, and despite proclaiming its existence to the public, failed to adequately prove his point (theories of relativity were not yet propounded at the time). He met that sniveling little shit more than once on his journeys to the space between the trees and the moth’s flame.

Jacobs, true to his hedonism, spent his time with nymphs. The Neanderthal wasted his opportunity in the other-realms by pursuing only the sensual pleasures available. Figuring the boy was just another nymph, the fool actually tried to. Well, you can guess what happened. My point is, do not be Jacobs. I do not mean to imply you a sex-crazed maniac or pedophile (don’t worry, I know you aren’t). But you’re falling into Jacob’s mistake: the other-realms are not for the senses. Lose your fear.

Yours (unfortunately),

Diary

END

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