Writing Prompt #195 “A World Apart Part 3”

This is going to get long because I went all out creating factions, no joke even had hubby design the symbols. Let me know if you want to join!



All residents of the Mourning Cell belong to a faction called “Moirai”.

The Moirai deal with death and the afterlife. Whenever a sentient dies they appear to recover the body. On the first day they clean and restore the body to its prime state. On the second day they collect the memories of the deceased into a single crystal shard. On the third day they separate the soul from the body. Once the separation is complete an individual psychopomp guides the soul through a large, ancient, and unremarkable mirror at the center of their temple. On arrival to the other side they give the deceased three options.

The first option is to be reborn into a new life with no memory of their previous existence.

The second option is the chance to rewrite some element of their past. Occasionally the rewriting takes many years and once rewritten it can change history including the memories of those presently alive. Once the rewrite is finished (for better or worse) the deceased is again faced with death. If their goal was outstanding enough (and what constitutes outstanding has nothing to do with good or evil and is up the individual psychopomp) they are given two options. One they can receive a favorable rebirth. Two they can choose an individual from their previous life with whom they wish to be reunited in the next. If their rewrite is not considered outstanding their next life will be filled with challenges (or as the Moirai say opportunities to evolve).

The third option is to agree to a test. During the test the soul must recognize and reintegrate all projections of itself. If the soul succeeds they have the option of Nirvana (which is to say returning to the Universe) or becoming a God. If the soul fails they are simply reborn.

If the living should wish to have a funeral the bodies can be returned but only after the Afterlife Ceremony is complete. Most often the Moirai conduct the funeral services but occasionally loved ones wish to have a private ceremony. The necklace allows loved ones to view precious memories.

The Moirai have very few codes of conduct. The main one is respect for the dead. It is considered an offense worthy of banishment to desecrate, in any way, a corpse. Some believe the Moirai are necrophiliacs but this is not true and any such behavior is forbidden. In fact, Moirai who engage in such acts often take ill and die shortly afterwards. They call this illness “The Defiling”.

The Moirai wear black robes. Females wear black veils and males wear a black mask over their eyes. They spend many hours a day in secret training to ensure that their soul and consciousness will remain intact when entering the Great Beyond. As crossing the dead over is extremely taxing the psychopomp is always given three days of rest afterwards. On the first day they bathe in Marrow Brine which is near their settlement and drink a nutritious broth (they do not eat solid food on the first day). On the second day they sleep a full 29 hours. They are allowed to spend the third day, however, they wish.

Many assume that the Moirai are a morbid death-obsessed lot but actually they are a content and happy faction by and large. Knowing what happens after death takes a lot of the fear and worry out of life. Despite their dress, which they wear as a matter of respect, they are quite a lively bunch. They produce a good deal of art and literature. Individuals will often take long vacations to explore the other universes. They are not expected to be celibate and they are not ascetic in nature. They are not allowed to consume drugs during the Afterlife Ceremony or during funeral services but are otherwise free to partake if they so choose. They are also free to leave the faction at any time.

The Moirai do not proselytize as such but if they recognize the potential to become a psychopomp in another being they will mention it, usually in the form of a dream. Whether the individual joins or not is entirely up to them and they will only be informed once. Generally Void are the only ones who join the Moirai as the Void are born with the ability to open portals. That said they do accept other races into their faction. If an individual is unable to conduct the Afterlife Ceremony they help out with the funeral services.


The services of the Moirai are generally appreciated as their rapid corpse collection keeps disease from spreading and takes away all the confusion and hassle of handling dead bodies.


The Dread-Bringers resent the beautification of their deceased as it goes against their philosophical beliefs.

Faction Leader: Kasedan

Gender: Male

Race: Void


The Dread-bringers are a disparate group in Dire Cell that worship/protect the Demented Eremite. They perform sky burials. They hold festivals in the creature’s honor. They spend countless hours listening to the bird’s haunting melody (it is said that if one listens to the song long enough that the soul will temporarily leave the body). They wear the vulture’s bones in their jewelry.

To the Dread-bringers decay is the highest form of beauty, because decay represents the one irrevocable truth that we are all in transit. They believe this world is an illusion, an illusion that they mean shatter by whatever means necessary. Some believe violence is the only way to break free of the illusion. Some believe its psychosis (a psychosis they achieve by ingesting poisons/mind-altering substances). Some believe you must surrender yourself completely to the chaos and avoid habitual behaviors. Some believe that solving puzzles and complex problems allows one to see beyond the mundane into the abyss. Some believe in taking the body to the brink of death again and again (the out of body experience is thought to offer a glimpse into the abyss). Some believe in an Uncarved Block, return to innocence philosophy. Whatever the method they are typically a self-destructive lot. There is a sect within the group that is more outwardly violent but for the most part they seek only to shatter their own psyches by whatever means necessary.

Dread-bringers are fond of games and toys and are a notoriously curious bunch. They make the most fantastic and intricate puzzle boxes, taking threads from the various universes they have visited and weaving them into complex new realities.

While they have no specific dress code they tend to have a lot tattoos and piercings and also practice scarification. Unlike others of their race they do not wear blindfolds. It is rumored that the Dread-Bringers may be of mixed heritage (many of them are, others are of uncertain heritage) and therefore susceptible to the madness of looking into the void.

They don’t really have any allies per se, they are tolerated and there are some who are attracted to their self-destructive tendencies.

They claim many enemies but they rarely actually do anything to their so-called enemies. In fact, they spend quite a lot of time hanging out with their enemies at Empty Cell.

Faction Leader: Savant (but the leader changes quite regularly as they tend to be a disorganized group)

Gender: Female

Race: Void


13th Dimension

The 13th Dimension make their home in Whisper Cell. Little is known about the faction as they tend to be standoffish around outsiders and rarely travel beyond the boundaries of their settlement. The faction spends a substantial amount of time inside the cave that bares their name. They believe that the cave is home to a collective consciousness. According to their beliefs this consciousness existed even before the necessity of a god concept. They call this collective consciousness OM.

Others outside of the faction occasionally venture into the cave and while they all claim an experience of mind-expanding euphoria none have ever sensed a sentient presence. Members of the 13th Dimension drink a special concoction made of diluted razor-tongue venom which they call “Animus” and enter a meditative trance and it is this specific practice that allows them to convene with the OM. They refer to the experience as “esoteric orgasma”. The pleasure of the experience is said to exceed all pleasures of the soma. That said members of the faction are not prohibited orgasms of the traditional variety.

When they are not expanding their consciousness in the 13th Dimension they work in Fallow Farce’s largest (and only) library “Athenaeum”. The library is strait out of an Escher drawing with no regard for gravity or utility and yet visitors always leave with the book they came for whether they know it or not.

Spoken word is expressly forbidden in the library but members of the 13th Dimension are telepathic (a gift allegedly bestowed by the OM) so this does little to deter them from conversation. It is said that they can kill just by whispering the word “die”inside someone’s head. Luckily the 13th Dimension are not a particularly murderous lot. They are known occasionally to exercise their abilities of persuasion, the current factol however, disapproves of manipulation and members caught in the act of persuasion are subject to a psychic flogging.

The library is a public service and is very popular amongst scholars. Moirai donates many of the books housed in the library.

Their telepathic abilities have created a general feeling of mistrust for the faction.

Factol Leader: Vex
Gender: Female
Race: Void



The Bodhi make their home in Ghost Cell, the largest of the Void’s settlements.

The Bodhi believe that we are all asleep and that our dreams are a window into the true reality, the reality that is our awakened selves. Our awakened or dreaming selves possess vast reserves of imagination and power, they are the essence of possibility. Within our dreams we are gods. Our bodies are anchors tying us to an artificial reality. Our senses deceive us and prevent us from “true sight”.

Our bodies are fragile, our souls on the other hand are the very essence of the divine. If we had true sight we’d know that the greatest deception is that of our separate identities. According to the Bodhi we are one, we are everyone. The second greatest deception is the concept of time. We exist everywhere simultaneously. The body is a border, a divider, a veil but it is not veil that we can shed at will. The deceptions are themselves essential to our individuality. In order to be “I” we must assume an ego.

Unlike the Dread-Bringers who wish to shatter this illusion by whatever means necessary the Bodhi believe that we, as the universe, chose to divide. Finding the reason for division is the meaning of life. Some members of the faction theorize that ego-development is the universes’ version of an imaginary friend. Some believe we must learn all we can and evolve for its only through evolution that we may find our way back to our original state of one. Still others posit that just as animals know by instinct what they must do so too must we discover our specialty and pursue it until the very end of this life-cycle.

The Bodhi believe that once you understand the concept of connectedness you will lose your desire to harm.

The Bodhi wear masks and light grey linen robes.

The Bodhi are generally well-liked and are one of the largest factions.

Though their philosophy is in some ways similar to the Dread-Bringers they do not seek to shatter the illusion but rather to make the illusion as meaningful as possible.

Factol Leader: Artisan
Gender: Male
Race: Void



Cadence make their home in Blood Cull. Cadence is the only faction in which the number of Void and Chaos are even.

There is no absolute truth. There is no anthropomorphic father figure. No one can save us from ourselves. We don’t need to be rescued. Forgiven. Resolved. We assign meaning to life. We have a purpose. Destiny is not preordained, life is governed by choices, coincidences, and causation. Life is miraculous and absurd.

Morality is a social construct and no society has created a system of ethics that is more humane than nature. Only nature is capable of impartiality. Nature seeks balance. We judge because we possess ego and it is in the preservation of this identity that we lose our sense of connection. Our mistake is believing that identity is fixed. We are fluid. We are intermittent. We evolve. Because we can. Because we must. Because we are alive. Perfection is an illusion. Perfection is stagnation. We don’t choose our emotions. We can, however, choose to be constructive force as opposed to a destructive force. We are not born flawed. We do not sour with age. Innocence cannot be lost.

Self-improvement is a form of self-abuse. We are as intended. Our flaws are the source of our strengths/talents. Belligerence becomes determination. Anger becomes passion. Sorrow becomes compassion. Self-improvement results in repression, repression results in explosive hostility. We are not inherently evil, we simply lack awareness. The soul cannot be lost. The soul does not blacken or decay. The soul is pure. The soul is light. The soul is eternal. We are the soul. We exceed the boundaries of ego. We are the universe.

Social codes of conduct work through a system of guilt and intimidation. This only instills fear and it is fear that leads to violence and intolerance. These systems create the illusion of freedom, security, and balance. Underlying all these affectations is true wisdom, the wisdom of nature, the cadence.

Allies and Enemies
While the Cadence embrace the other factions their interest in balance is off-putting to the more extreme factions. Cadence is a branch of Bodhi but unlike the Bodhi the Cadence are more concerned with life than dreams.

Factol Leader: Rhazien
Gender: Male
Race: Chaos



Kalunrest make their home in Harlequin’s Mirror.

“God has many faces and many names but by any definition God is a contradiction. To become God I must become that contradiction.” -Draex of Kalunrest

Resistance is essential to growth, comfort is the enemy. Comfort stagnates. Comfort leads to habituation. Habit leads to tradition, to stagnation, to rigidity, to small-mindedness. Through opposition we advance. Sacrifices must be made for the sake of progress. “If faced with a challenge see it as a gift, an opportunity to expand the boundaries of reality itself.” -Draex of the Kalunrest

“At our very essence we are instinct. Society is a leash. I am no one’s slave. I live and die by chance. The only rule I recognize is the fourth rule, there is always an exception, a deviation that turns everything on its head. Expectations suffocate. Whatever you do don’t try and make sense of things, just take it as it comes. Confrontation without circumvention. The only thing thats certain is change. You can’t predict when or how things are going to change but they will or maybe they won’t you can just never tell.” – Kokiri of the Kalunrest

“Forget everything you think you know for a minute. Follow the chaos. Be the beast in the belly.“ – Aesoanahr of the Kalunrest

The Kalunrest feel that complacency dulls the senses and extinguishes one’s passion for life. Why would one knowingly strive for mediocrity? For the status quo? For normalcy? Convenience is a foreign concept to the Kalunrest. In embracing the aberrations they are able to connect with the universe.

As a people the Kalunrest are mostly friendly, even if outsiders find their behavior incomprehensible and frightening. Instability increases with age. Caution is advised. Crimes according to their own laws are rare. The ultimate goal is to evolve their species as a whole. It’s not about some petty competition between individuals or theologies. It’s about the greater good. Pure anarchy is nonsense as there is no way to really evolve without a larger context. The laws of the Kalunrest are difficult to relate, but are largely based on the personal growth.

The name “Kalunrest” translates into beautiful unrest. The symbol is that of a broken circle. The broken circle represents the breaking of cycles and is never depicted the same way.

I have one more faction over here as well as the prompt that this post relates to





Wordle #35 “Anarchy”

Week 35

She pours from the ceiling,

The antecedent of an amoral God

A blackguard, a machine swine-driven.


I am poor, cheap, and operatic.

My pen cleaves as with sedition

But the only blood on my hands is ink.


The baritone whisper of my heart

Alludes designation

I belong exclusively to the revolt.


She is the revolt, a cause sans denomination.

Axe handle secured to my naked thigh

She is the dark horse on which I ride.


Just having a bit of fun here


Polarity #6


Seconds crept into minutes. Minutes wept into hours. Hours spiraled into days. Days bled unsealed into weeks. Weeks spun surreptitiously into months. His old life seemed to him distant, irretrievable. His heart ached, too tightly tuned to yield to grief. Music remained a source of inspiration, a clear iris amidst colliding tempests.


In the absence of supervision the residents fought continuously with one another. Each with their own means of embellishing violence. The atmosphere was fevered and uncertain, every step taken was in violation of some inscrutable farce. What had seemed at first a fierce individuality appeared now as posturings and affectations. He withdrew into her and she in turn embraced him, even that which stood, a monument to his anachronistic virtue.


His sobriety was a point of contention to some of the residents for they took it to be condescension. Others exalted him for his resistance to social pressure but neither view seemed to involve him directly. Caricature, opposition, deceit. He knew not to which paradigm they affixed his likeness only that his words and deeds never measured against it. A villain. A hero. He knew himself not in such black and white extremes. He saw in each man a vulnerability, guarded, resented, and preyed upon. He saw happiness assumed in jest. Insatiable was the illusion of freedom for it depended solely upon excess.


She held him, his love for her a panacea. He was willing to remain indefinitely. Until one day she betrayed him in a way that his heart was unable and unwilling to fathom. “What are you a monogamist?” She had asked, the final word drawing from her a smile of contempt and ridicule. Here was a question he’d never pondered for it had seemed to him quite obvious. He was and he had assumed she was as well. Had she not said “I love you” only hours before? She had never mentioned an open relationship and had assumed happily the titles that he had naively bestowed. What of his best mate? The other man knew well his feelings for he could not help but speak of them. Had the pair just assumed that he wouldn’t mind? That he would defer or perhaps even applaud them their secrecy (discretion)? If they had thought it natural why had they lied in the first place?


“I knew if I told you…you’d make a big deal out of it…” He would have because he would have known himself well enough not to enter such an arrangement. His heart would have been crushed but as it stood now he was completely devastated.


“Life is just a game right? You ought to loosen up a little…” He had loosened up but he would not become someone else entirely. Doubted that any of them had become someone else entirely for their reliance on parodies and pills.


“We can still have fun together so long as you don’t pull that morality bullshit on me…I get claustrophobic in relationships you know….” He wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth or if she had simply assumed the lifestyle in order to fit in. But standing there watching her fang-bearing smile flatline, he knew that he didn’t belong. More importantly he knew that he did not wish to conform to their despotic notions of authenticity.


We’re not there yet but we’re getting there it was a pretty long and involved dream haha I tend to have one dream that seems to go on the entire night or I only ever remember one. Today I turn 33 I love birthdays, the aging thing not so much haha

Polarity #5


He slides a guitar into his lap and begins to stroke out a rhythm. The music comes like heat lightening. He’s got friends back home but they are all based off the same carbon paper sketch. His roommate is different, nonchalance tempered with a vicious musicality. The mysterious blond being absent most days he’s started to bond with the other residents. All teenagers, all victims of the regime. Like wildflowers dipped in vinegar they are beautiful, experimental, and deranged. He doesn’t fit in quite yet but the nascents always struggle or so he’s been assured. He’s already fallen in love, music is his rebellion, a few lessons and he’s proven himself something of a prodigy. Sometimes she stands in his doorway, alabaster thighs hugged together underneath a plaid skirt. He likes her but he doesn’t know enough to assume reciprocation.


Since he’s been here his style of dress has changed. More necessitous than volitional but it suits him just the same. He’s put on a healthy amount of weight and stopped cutting his hair. Sometimes the mirror startles him, as if a ghost wore his increasingly foreign flesh. There are a lot of mind-altering substances circulating but he’s chosen to stay clean, the circumstances, are themselves illuminating. The freedom to do nothing is itself a burden. Sometimes he catches a face in the queer blue glow of a monitor and panics. The vacant expressions imply a fate more terminal, than that of mindful labor. He still cleans his room though not with a militant precision and he still showers in lukewarm water out of deference to others but he’s learned to speak with less reserve. He hasn’t decided on a mind state yet, if this is happiness or just delirium.


(My dreams always start out very clear and organized but then they start to get disjointed. At this point there was so much happening simultaneously that I’ve been unable to pull out the details in the same linear fashion)

Polarity Installment #4


Night came slowly in the assumption of cloaks. He managed to brood through dinner unimpeded. Before bed he stopped his father in the hallway and asked his question again. What difference would the audience make? What difference could the answer make when his course was irrefutable? “How do you do it The same thing day after day?” The man stood in silence turning his son’s words over as if his tongue were a lathe. “No matter how challenging the day in the end I have my family to come home too…there is no greater reward…besides most days I love my job…” There was something comforting about the heavy callused hand on his shoulder. “That’s all I wanted to know…Good night….” The youth said proffering up a smile, which was as much for his own sake as his fathers.


He didn’t dare dream but waited impatiently for the hours to pass. His brother slept soundlessly facing the door. Shafts of moonlight divided the darkness but did not disperse the shadows that resided now in his heart. Why did he struggle with such obvious questions? His life had been so simple as a child. Every action served the highest purpose. Now suddenly that same life seemed a tourniquet. His family held him together, held him too tightly perhaps.


Though she had cited the location in the map he was still surprised to find her standing in his neighbor’s front yard. When she spotted him she waved him over conspiratorially and there they stood hunkered over by a row of meticulous hedges. “Why did you come here” The woman asked her tone bordering on accusatory. Had she forgotten? Had he mistaken her bravado as invitation? “Because you invited me…” He said. “Too obvious…why did you really come here?” She asked tapping his chest in expectation of a depth he was not certain he possessed. “Instinct…” He confessed without elaboration. “You acted on a foreign impulse…not on rules or rationale…but in response to an internal summons…” She elaborated and he, faced with her conviction, could only nod in agreement.


“I know behind that stoic facade that you suffer…you have no outlet…no identity outside of the hive…you want for more but don’t have the experience to identify your desires…” She went on impervious to his reactions, to his agony. “Wouldn’t you rather write your own book? Then live as if embalmed?” She asked eyes on him as if his words now meant everything to her. “Yes…” He spoke the words in a whisper but she heard them as a declaration. “Do you know anyone that is truly happy? Truly free?” She asked. “My parents are usually happy….” She blinked owlishly in surprise before breaking out inappropriately into laughter. “It’s an act…all of this is fake…do you not feel the chains about your wrists…” She said picking up his hands and dropping them as if the weight of his arms were the reason for an earthbound existence.


“The true nature of the universe is chaos…rules are for machines…indulge yourself…live while you can because just like that it’s over…” She snapped her fingers to emphasize brevity. “I think it’s better if I just show you the alternative…then you can decide for yourself…” She said fishing a cosmetic case from her purse. Opening the compact she directed the mirror to the greenery before snapping it abruptly closed. The hedge took on an eerie electrical glow and the youth could do nothing but stare in awe. Here lies the rabbit hole. Here departs sanity. “Now is your chance to be a hero…” She said offering the youth a delicate hand. Her words were exciting and he couldn’t help but be charmed by them. Taking her hand in his strong one, he knew the gentleness of meticulous detail and though he swallowed her wholly he did not crush her.

Diary Entry September 22 2013


I am immobile. Grim. My thoughts boil, dissipate, scald on inquiry. I can not adjust my moods to the indulgence of either obligation or whim. So I stoop, incongruous with a sustainable architecture. Contradictions define me. I am exhausted and vehemently opposed to the clock’s covetous hands withdrawing my youthful diversions. My habits offend me and yet I am fondly and inconsolably dedicated to their exploitation. The most significant discovery I have made in the past few months is that I no longer want to be unhappy. I understand unhappiness. The alternative remains incomprehensible. My mouth is a monument, grief-stricken but no longer frequented by superstition. It dips well below the horizon. I frown mostly and I’ve found that the face really does assume the angles most held.


My hair has started to turn grey. Not grey precisely. The hairs are hysterically white. My grandmother had a head full of freshly laid snow, immaculate and cohesive. I am 32, a red head it could be worse but I still find myself cringing whenever I see one of those albino imposters sprouting from my autumnal mane. Even if you approach life slowly, delicately it still passes by in an instant. I am not aging well, despite my good intentions, genetics don’t give a shit about my intentions.


I find that I cry less. That I spend less time engaged in preparations for war. I spend less time generating ulterior motives from happenstance. Some days inexplicably I even forget to hate myself. I realize that soon I will have to articulate my goals to a stranger. My goals have always been survival oriented. Get out of bed, keep breathing, feed, clothing optional/shower mandatory. My existence has been about maintaining a state of “not dead”. I want more than “not dead” but I am not sure how much more. I don’t think I need much.


I am not ready for real life friends. I just want to be able to go to the grocery without the comfort of my automatisms. For God sake stop talking to yourself in public it generates unwanted conversation. Contrary to popular belief talking to yourself while wildly flapping your hands does not discourage people from socializing. If anything it seems to encourage them.


As for jobs. I am at my very core an Anarchistic. I could not, would not, should not work in an office. I cannot drive or operate machinery and I cannot be responsible for a herd of living beings (except maybe plants). Being a surgeon is completely out of the question. I probably can’t watch a store because of the absence seizures. Whenever I think of working I think of all that I can’t do I am not sure if I am being pessimistic or realistic circumstances considered.


My seizures are very frequent. Speaking of which my seizures have actually gotten worse since the pneumonia. My pupils are asymmetrical more often than not these days. I am in a chronic mental stupor. Please don’t let this be a permanent change.  Is it even possible to work outside of home at my own pace? My pace being on par with your typical earth-dwelling mollusk. I couldn’t get any slower if I stood still and waited for the task to spontaneously complete itself.


My idea is to get a physically demanding job, something that would allow me to skip my daily exercise and that would be mechanical and repetitious (memory issues make complicated tasks impossible at the moment). Grave digging for example. Unfortunately I believe they use machines to dig graves which I cannot legally operate. I only want to work part-time in the mornings when I am at my sharpest. I want an apartment/house suitable for a three person family. Not a big space mind you as I have to be capable of maintaining the space in a habitable fashion. I want my bedroom door to close and lock! I want to have vocal sex! I want to be less self-conscious. I want to write poetry books and live with purpose. I want a functional brain, which might be the one thing I can’t have. I want the independence that comes from learning. I want to see a memory specialist desperately.


Today’s something different is letting you read my diary. I have no idea how to write a diary and so I can never figure out if I should pretend I am talking to an audience or if I should talk to myself. Diaries confuse me and to be honest I rarely write in mine which is probably some kind of criminal offense given that I am a writer.  I mostly pretend I am talking to someone else and so I weirdly explain things about myself that are obvious and that I already know. Diaries really confuse me and I think they make me sound insane lol

Cheap Prophet


We used to loiter

In the alleys of our minds

Disinterring our secrets

Like grave robbers

Scavenging for wealth


We marveled at our memories

As if each grotesque contour

Held some great revelation

As if we were dark heroes

Whose cabalistic afterimage

Would deter all nefarious intent


Therapy was for people

With weaker constitutions

We kept rusty scalpels

In our back pockets

Like dog-erred copies of

Bukowski’s “Ham on Rye”

Ready to bleed for any cause


Seduced by taphonomy

We concealed bottles in paper bags

Drinking from untasted philosophies

We were rank with inexperience

Intoxicated by our own inhumanity

And hazardously arrogant

The irony that we had become

Our own nemeses wasn’t lost

But youth entitled us to indiscretion