Foreword from anansi, the great knowledgeable spider (nigerian
cosmology).
Death is a good friend of mine, they are a recluse outside to in yet
somehow you always feel safe in her grip, he has a calming aura
that can stop a bird mid flight and they simply could not make you
fear them. Many people say they fear death, even in a proud
country like nigeria. I hear all sorts of mumblings and prayers for
just a few more years and think to myself, In the name of juju what
are they doing? Surely if you’re wishing for a longer life you are
priority on death’s list as one of suffering and pain, yet I continue
listening and writing as death may be preeminent but it is only
death’s job to fulfil their job. I thank you for letting me be included in
what shall be a wonderful literary project and give my wholehearted
encouragement
Death..that cold silence you feel when sleeping. A tingle down
your spine or a sudden tensing of the masseter whilst walking alone
in the dark. That feeling is me, or a by-product I suppose. I am a
lonely spirit, a wanderer of realms and roamer of oblivion, I live for
my work but others die to complete it. I have many names but all
people regard me as a negative creature, a sickness or a
plague..yet if humanity never died then nature would only subvert to
find another way to dispose of them, I am currently residing in
london though i know I will have to leave prematurely, I sense
danger for this quaint city of criminals and whores. I am under an
alias, An eccentric noblewoman known as Clemence Hettyfeather,
one who never speaks nor shows affection, that is safe and
secretive, I am a split entity, one of pain and screams and violence
and one of mercy, kindness and serene smiles.
This country, this nation is a powerful one, with tentacles reaching
out for everything. Though with might comes disgusting, devouring
pride, the undoings of vagabonds and emperors alike..if one country under its regime rebels and others join then this pride will
dissipate into fear, toxic and glorious fear, which is where I come in.
Swooping people to their respective afterlives like an omnipotent
new york yellow cab..I don’t hate my job, it’s most certainly worth
the satisfaction and feelings of accomplishment and the immortality
is a bonus too, i learnt fast not to make mortal friends as it’s never
fun returning to kill an old friend..as a naturally obligated universal
entity i follow many restrictions though i get to customise in some
ways, like a new method of killing every century or decade, I have
gone with a kiss for this decade as homage to the many fluid borne
diseases floating around within this pocket of what would be
considered humanity’s coat of many colours..I am writing this on
one of the most convenient inventions humanity has created..a
typewriter! I honestly thought quill and ink would be the preferred
writing media forever, but trust humanity to create something as
lazy yet wondrous as the Typewriter or telegraph as the papers are
calling it. Being an immortal entity literally created to end lives
brings up a lot of existential questions, though not the usual “why
am i here? Who put me here?” they are still rather good
questions…for a human.
Though human is strictly everything I am not and therefore by
process of elimination I have rather different questions like “what
does love feel like? Is life truly a pit of horrible betrayal and mortality
for humans?” I spend my evenings being attended to by inferior
spirits disguised as footmen and living a noblewoman's life of lust,
lavishness and poor spending choices..though i don’t personally
have an identity and can't identify with gender i am inquisitive into
my old age and so I have melded into various societies under many
forms from spiders to women to men and even other spirits.
I get my lust and obsession with everything covert from past and
present experiences, hiding is a game that i play with all life until the
bitter end, though many have portrayed me as a cloaked skeleton
with a sickle or a man in a top hat decorated with finger bones..I simply cannot be described as all who see me never speak again, I
personally rather enjoy the Irish portrayals of death: the macha, the
morrigan and the badb, crow goddesses of death and war..though
im not particularly violent i enjoy the crow imagery..i don't pick off of
corpses which is the only thing they get wrong. The job of rotting
corpses into sludge is given to pestilence and her ghouls and thank
the universe for it as my schedule simply cannot fit patiently waiting
as hundreds of invisible demonic maggots dissolve a corpse.
Life, death and existence is an afterthought to most people in their
last days especially if it’s painful. I hear their prayers and cries of
pain in every waking moment which means all the time due to me
being unable to sleep physically. The feeling of releasing some poor
pained soul is bliss and pure euphoria, like you’re curing the world
of an illness brought on by the universe every time, even if it’s only
one poor old hoarder wallowing in their own filth and decrepit
insignificance
I remember everything, all I have experienced and all I have yet to
experience which is not a lot, I bask in my knowledge every time I
encounter something I have seen before long ago. Omniscience is
a double edged sword unfortunately and often overloads the psyche
and quite frankly messes up a daily routine. This morning I looked
into the mirror and saw nothing, like every morning, and suddenly I
started reciting the entire of Bram Stoker's dracula. I could not stop
myself until it was finished and so I stuffed a pair of stockings in my
mouth and locked myself in the bathroom.
Now, you must be asking dear reader “why, pray ask, has death
written a book? And more importantly, why are they so well
written?” I say to this, silence yourselves, questions only get you
dropped into purgatory for being endlessly annoying.
Death has many answers within the medical, logical society and
many many more within the mystical, cosmological orders of this
world but death, much like Udide the Spider and Athena of Greek fame will not share them, I prefer to make people work for the
secrets of the universe. Since the dissolution of the concept of
knowledge being a force of nature I have become the Secrets Vault
for the universe's many hidden fallacies and truths, an infinitesimal
grimoire of truths that would make a human pop and lies that would
do worse than any spell can.
Earth, what is earth? A biological cesspit to some yet a land of
colours and cultures of wonder and exploration. To me? It’s a place
I go to work and release my flair for the dramatic, an office with a
strip club next door to you mortals, which leads me onto my next
point..the strange backwards idea of abhorred sex work. Though
you pretend to be disgusted by the idea of prostitution in your
debate halls and such, later on I see you in a gentleman’s club with
two underage bar girls on your knees, laughing like you never
shunned the thing in the first place. It's not just men that confuse
me in this era. Not that i care, but Suffragettes are absolute
hypocrites, burning down chapels and corner shops and expecting
a vote, i understand the troubles on the streets can take a toll but
can someone please explain how arson, bombing and
assassination attempts will magically make people want women to
go into power, I am all about equality and indiscriminate behaviours
but to go actively pillaging london’s religious sectors all for the sake
of something you’ll inevitably get anyway, I highly doubt you know
death is living in the same city as you but if there’s a chance you
do, stop doing my job for me.
Life in Victorian London as a noblewoman is a plush affair, one of
velvet, lace and leather. The smell of raw carnal desire never too far
from a member of nobility and i will admit that i have indulged in the
earthly pleasures of anatomical lust and pure bliss, but it was all for
my alias, nothing more was gained from it I swear, apart from the
sex, life as nobility is full of dresses and gowns and drinks and food
and cats and masquerades, unfortunately not the african kind. I
cannot tell you I don’t enjoy being pampered for my every whim and delight, I am used to the life of interdimensional vagabond and
being a noblewoman was my vacation from that lifestyle for a little
while, being in this century means there are a lot of ways to make
money as there are a lot less laws and because of that money is
king..Hence the reason for my noble identity, I attend balls always
under masque and unidentifiable though everyone knows Old Miss
Hettyfeather is lurking around, I host a party or two in my country
house in Berkshire, My orchestra are actually particularly skilled
gargoyles but i make it out that they’re wearing masks so I don’t
blow their little peonic minds. My favourite classical piece is Danse
Macabre by the only mortal friend I made, Camille saint-saens,
based on me.
People often confuse me with the devil, a presence of pure malign
intent, though I'm quite a kind being, and not in the way nurse
ratched is a kind being. Benevolence is my manner and manner is
my benevolence. I heal the dying and solve the sick’s last problems
and before they die I whisper their last prayers into the air, I do not
murder and slit throats from the shadows, instead i spread my
wings and revel in the dark light that surrounds me and my client
before giving the final kiss and sweet release to those who desire it,
unlike my immortal..godly affiliates I have had many a cult but the
difference is between mine and theirs..mine always go much too
far..killing each other or themselves in my name..Just because i
hold dominion over death does not mean I require it to be satiated,
a nice feast or a banquet in my name, death doesn’t mind a party or
two in their name just stop with the ritual sacrifice unless it’s
animals, you can kill goats and such in my name.
Art. The medium of which is used to express, well…anything
through music, pictures or film. There are many ways to portray
feelings, colour, faces and the like. Edvard munch’s the scream was
used to portray a reaction to ones final moments, highly inaccurate i
say, and then there's my sort of catchphrase quisque debet mori, or
everyone must die, I have loved latin ever since it was established and I must thank it for the appreciation it has bestowed upon me,
from memento mori to quisque debet mori latin has served me well,
and often the reason my aliases are mute are because i only really
know latin and modern languages like me are ever evolving. I don't
know how people native to these languages keep up with the
thrashing tide of the linguistic hunt for an equilibrium of confusion
and contentment.
Depression, a steadily increasing and readily available commodity,
especially within this era of poverty and disease. Many cover up the
stench of sadness with the stench of alcohol, though I prefer Lance
Parfum ‘rodo’. Many try to kill themselves and it really gets on my
gears, just wait. Living in this disgusting squalid hole, you shouldn’t
have long to wait if you’re doing everything right. Death was never
meant to be inflicted upon oneself and quite frankly I feel utmost
offence at this and would kindly yet adamantly insist you do not try
to kill yourselves.
Though in my fortitude many respect me I will always have mockery
placed upon my mighty name especially in the bible as christians
don’t really accept my existence as shown in 1 corinthians 15 54-55
“When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts
on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written:
“Death is swallowed up in victory.” “O death, where is your victory?”
I expected this, I preempted and prognosticated the writing of this
book. As well as writing this topic, Armageddon. I would like to clear
up a few misconceptions. There are not only 4 horsemen, there are
as many horsemen as there are serious problems into humanity.
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