The Pure One, 
Song always Young, 
Crowned aught the Morn Dew, 
Daughter born of Dawnlight Sun: 

Love; 

Thou art Kind, 
And Patient;
Blood Rose in the Rains, 
Shimmer of Light-pierced Waters, 
Glow off the Face of God's Graces:

Lo! The Transcendent Spaces;

Wonder of our Cosmos high, 
Ageless Heart who guards all Time, 
Fidelis Shield of Star Fire, 
Immutable Depths I desire; 

Lord, such that She is,
I tremble and cry; 
For distant She sits,
Her Beam brimming Life:

Serene o'er Scotland heathers;
The Psalms sewn soft through the Shaw,
Path ere the Eden of God;
Yore where mine Soul doth wish it trod: 

Paradise... 

But alow, veiled by this Vale, 
The vile Cherubim bides, 
Exiled from thy Heaven, 
His knife gutting mine mind. 

Afar beneath the Veld, 
Such that Love could not see, 
Sudden, He clutched ME,
I fell from the sight of Love Being:

Holy.

Set to ruin Her ever, 
He made destruction of me,
And gloated the prize of Purity, 
Be scorched out furtively.

In a Night Land, I wept,
Such bleak weeps of blood, 
Held by chain-shackle melds, 
Fixed by eyes red, like suns:

Sons unto the Farway Star who fell;
The Cosmic Traitor of Corruption. 

Within this tragic World, 
The Father allowed Him Power,
Levied with Legions and Lords,
By a Dark Council formed, 
For a Dark Purpose—War. 

From The Void, they connived, 
Against Love ahigh, 
To crucify Her Life, 
In the Cold Dead of Night:

Lo, Our secret battle begins,
The curse of Man our instrument; 
So shall the children of men murder innocence,
And by their COLD shall Divine Love end. 

Us beasts and brutes,
Made foul in the curse of reproof,
Vow to make God undo,
Love promised to Man, 
From the Watchers' gloried Youth:

Thus, we shall bruise Beauty,
And strip her bare to Blight,
And stain the children She carries;
Let Her travail with their cries.

And I, shall tread Her so!
And twist the skies unwise,
And lure Her body close,
And bleed Her neck dry.

And from brutal torture, 
Mine Dark Captor arose; 
The Morning Star loomed tall, 
And He tempted the Lord: 

O what now, Lord, of this man dying?
Where is the Love that could heal his mourns?
For his Joy seeps through the olden stones, 
And his nerves expel such perfect groans!

I am It, I persist; 
Ere Genesis, Enthroned! 
The Opposer, of God, 
The Composer, of Job; 
Brightness Feared, Beauty Lorn, 
Hear O Lord, Darkness ROARS: 

Lo my Ode, fools and foes: 
The Stone Throes, Sons of Woe! 

Grazia writ—Sforzando: 

The Forte Fist, 
Swishhiss HIT.

Crack marrow—crescendo; 
Slashhiss skin—da capo.

Shwa Bakh! Ha! 
Thwkh Kha! Bo! 
Shwa Basht! Lo! 

Anima Mor—the coda. 

Alas, Encore. 

And so, his song persisted,
As if, pain had no end, 
As if, Love ridded men, 
As if, God did not live.

Melody maimed me,
Back bludgeoned by blared shrieks;
There, faintly, I breathed, 
Hunched over, I ceased. 

I bled without Love, 
Abandoned to die, 
Unworthy of else, 
Blackened by crime.

But then—I saw Her faint ember,
Shine so great mine eyes dead could perceive; 
The Holy Lady of Love, 
Alighted the Night Land for me. 

Her tendrils of Grace,
Stirred lights 'bout me bound;
Blurred beyond glow-haze, 
Evil things hid crouched. 

O, Precious, Golden Flower! 
Hark wise Premonition,
All that is Good perishes here;
Frightened for Her, mine mind cried out,

Beware the Dark Scourers!

Yet, she could not hear this, 
For mine tongue was without,
Being excised of it, 
And so, muted from sound.

Please! God, no!
Behind her, they leap!
Please God...for me... 
Do not let this be... 

Let He them fly provincially; 
And the Dogs pounced Love swiftly, 
And drug Her down viciously; 
The Land thundered wickedly. 

Air gave rise in Her chest, 
As her eyes veered left, 
And watched me bereft, 
As she breathed faint breaths. 

Heat fumed from the hound-mouths,
And Great Growls to call their Master forth; 
Many Shadows arose into Black Clouds,
Out of Hell born, The Macabre One formed:

THE DARK MAN—a surge-inverting Storm.

A Deep Hum from Him sounded, 
And then vanished the dogs;
Vapor-made hands reached down, 
And from one, a blade evolved.

Love laid still—Holy in Light, 
Signet of Peace 'neath His Knife, 
Yet the Most High let Him slice,
Ere Satan sundered her Guise.

And lo, thereby,
I watched Her die,
Without so much as a cry,
Save a lone tear shed from Her right eye.

I burnt lonesome inside, 
And screamed with mine silence til I died,
For I suffered as Land suffered long,
Devoid of the Sun of Love to Shine.

Where doth Hope live?
Save the End of all of This,
But I was not fated that Bliss,
Save mine Mind to imagine It;

But perhaps, some other Man,
In a yet-gone Age of Time,
Shall see Love return to end,
The Evil of this Fright:

Love Dead in The Night Land.

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From The Author

I began writing this poem at the outset of reading The Night Land by William Hope Hodgson. Before reaching a quarter of the way through, I had already drafted this poem, having been working on a lot of thematic writing exploring darkness and love. There was somewhat of a serendipitous nature to reading the book as it seemed to echo a lot of my own thoughts on its prevalent themes.

My reading of this Love Tale resulted from a self-directed imperative to read older and more obscure science fiction books. The Night Land surfaced after filtering through first recommendations of more mainstream varieties; and something about the name piqued my interest. So, I acquired a copy.

In early January, I started reading.

The preface poem struck me. Hodgson’s metaphysics were conveyed with an understanding and reverence that felt similar to my own. Something in the writing felt kindred; especially in the way it spoke of love. It seemed like I was meant to find it.

And sure enough, The Night Land fulfilled this uncanny crossroad; so much so, I researched the author. My connection to his writing was more than a fancy for its archaic or elegant prose. Hodgson’s age, life story, and interests bore a strong resemblance to my own. I found this astounding. Furthermore, the context of The Night Land made it even stranger, since it describes people being connected across space and time through signals.

Note: Before you run off into the night screaming about aliens, I’m not going to go into some reincarnation woo-woo about Planet X or the Anunnaki. Rest assured, I merely find the similarities between our life characters fascinating.

It goes without saying, all of this added considerable intrigue to my reading of Hodgson’s work.

By the end, I thought that The Night Land was an impressionable tale that left me feeling as if the story had taken place in the past rather than the future. Oddly enough, it did and it didn’t. At this point in the Present, it’s an interesting layer that didn’t exist in the Past since there was no one to read the book so far into the future. All these many years later, it feels like I am somehow apart of the story. Furthermore, the main characters were—in spiritual essence—time travelers from the days of old emitting Light into a Dark Future.

If you are unfamiliar with the book, I must tell you that the heart of the Story is Love.

The capital L version.

Love motivates Hodgson’s hero to go forth and do all that he does despite the bizarre and horrific nature of his environment. While reading the beginning chapter, I wondered how the origin story would transition into a futuristic dystopia as it read like an Elizabethan romance; I was in for a unique surprise as to how Hodgson accomplished this—the structure establishing a sensible framework for Love Eternal.

What is most profound about the love story in Hodgson’s tale is how it is defined—not just as a theoretical idea—but as a practice. Books today are rife with low-brow ‘romance’ but The Night Land delves into the places of love that no one goes because they are unable to. They lack the power and purity.

Given the fact the book was written circa 1912, it is less surprising that love is portrayed through a traditional lens; Hollywood and television programming hadn’t yet dug their claws into every crook and cranny of the human mind, mutilating and mutating it into a hyper-sexualized temple of hedonism.

Love here is a profound continuum through Space and Time everlasting. Without Love in Divine Form, the protagonist’s Fidelity could not exist. And there would be no impetus for his heroism—venturing out into a land of monstrosities to save his timeless Love.

For this Love to work, there must be a source and object of its transmission. In this story, Man to Woman. As Woman derives from Man, a special union exists in the dynamic of Love between both sexes that flows like AC current. It travels both ways.

When a component in that construction is out of order or damaged, the current cannot flow properly; nor can fruit grow without the water flowing.

Considering we live in a world where the word love is diluted, misused, and abused, it can be difficult, even improbable, to ever know and understand it as written in The Night Land. But it is that Light in the Night, that guides us Home. Without it, we are lost in the Dark.

Forever.

I come now to a revision of the commentary, having written the first part [Considering we live…] of the last section before finishing the book. I wondered whether Hodgson would address the perversions of Love and its true form eluding most people. Or if he’d focus solely on the ideal. But, no. He recognizes the alternate path—pain and sorrow; and renders it beautifully in a latter chapter, describing the very rarity of true Love and misfortunate prevalence of many never experiencing it in full.

True examples of Love are hard to find in the shallow end of Time; and they can’t be bought or conjured. As History and Tale tell of Love, it comes from a depth too deep for most souls to access unless gifted entry.

Nevertheless, The Night Land enshrines Love in Pure form. Transcendent and Everlasting.

A 4th dimensional approach to the metaphysics in the book is analyzing it through the life of the author. Though named William, he was often called by his middle name Hope—and would be killed in action within six years of releasing The Night Land.

But the question is, did Hope die?

The body did.
However, his storied legacy has lived.

And so does his Love Tale that embodies Hope amid Darkness.

In Hodgson’s Day, the World experienced a Great Doom—the first World War. At present, we face a different beast—arguably, one darker and far more deceptive.

Though warfare has long since left the conventions of the Old World, its effects have not.

Bullets have upgraded to ballistic missiles.
Artillery has upgraded to nuclear arsenals.
The cost has been degrading.
Humanity has deformed.

The worst of bloodshed occurs in an unseen realm in the World—our minds; a constant stream of horrid things (monsters) barrage the natural Joy and Good gifted to us at the outset of life. In time, so much of it kills men with hopelessness and despondence; the truth in this can be elusive, as its wounds are often imperceptible, save for the emptiness within so many eyes.

Hope wrote The Night Land over 100 years ago. This poem is a tribute to that continuum. As the characters in the Story are bonded through the immutable nature of Love Eternal, so too am I connected to the voice and virtue of it. While aeons may pass between the seeming absence of Love, She is there awaiting resurrection by Her Love—The Husband (a part of the story I preempted here and ended up being right—incorporated by Hodgson in the finale).

Frighteningly, The Night Land exists—not in some hyperbolic futurism, but here and now, beneath the veil of a world that feigns good until the darkness plagues it again.

Hodgson wrote of this in a final letter1 written to his mother in 1918 while serving in the Royal Garrison Artillery of the British Army.2

The sun was pretty low as I came back, and far off across that desolation, here and there they showed—just formless, squarish, cornerless masses erected by man against the infernal Storm that sweeps for ever, night and day, day and night, across that most atrocious Plain of Destruction. My God! talk about a Lost World–talk about the end of the World … If I live and come somehow out of this (and certainly, please God, I shall and hope to), what a book I shall write if my old ‘ability’ with the pen has not forsaken me.

Within the borders of our Dark World, Love fades into the Dead Cold of Night. If left to the natural course of our worldly vices, Good would surely die. If not for the witness of Love Eternal somewhere beyond the Black of Night, awaiting rescue from the Evil surrounding Her, none would know She exists; and we would die fools in the lonely desperation of searching Her out.

Hope sacrificed his life in a battle reminiscent of the dark world he wrote of in The Night Land. According to record, all that was left of him to be identified was his helmet. Perhaps there is something to be said of that. I’ll leave you to think on it.

He and many others of that brave generation gave their lives to a cause they believed was greater than their own—out of Love.

Love for God.
Love for Country.
Love for Home.

This Love we have lost.

Hopefully, Hope is in Heaven. He struggled with God as evidenced in his other writings. And I understand that very well. Likewise, he never asserts outright disbelief. It could be gathered that he was not comfortable with unbelief in God, as a godly Love is sought amid great perils in The Night Land. Earlier in his letter, he even petitions God briefly—to be saved through the horror of war in his letter. Other works of his, like the poem, Bring Out Your Dead, contemplate the Lord’s Day of Judgement.

In my view, his strong, heartfelt writing on Love yearns for God deeply. Though I am not aware of any public profession of his faith, I believe he was knowledgable of the Truth as he was the son of a reverend. Nevertheless, he kept Hope alive, even if by a final breath because he couldn’t give up on it; he kept the Fire smoldering while attempting to reconcile the wickedness of a world ever clear and present to him.

But is that not the struggle of Faith? And the test we've all been given?

…to achieve the measure God has given.

Life trials are mysteries.
And not every seed we plant grows in the times of our aging eyes.
Good or bad.
We cannot see what we cannot see.
Nor what we are not allowed to.

Nevertheless, we can know of Love. Hope wrote of it strongly. And while some mysteries will remain mysteries, the mystery of Love has been revealed. The Night Land echoed this revelation through a Love Tale but it is only a mirrored image of The Love Story as accounted for in the Gospel of God.

God sent His Son into the Night Land to save us.

I don't know if Hodgson put his hope in Jesus. But I sure do hope so.

I can’t help but think that he aimed to be the man he imagined in the Night Land; and died a Hero with Honor.

Even his Commanding Officer wrote of him with great respect in a letter penned to his mother after his death.3

I cannot express my deep sympathy for you in your great bereavement. I feel it most terribly myself, and so do all the other officers and men of the battery. He was the life and soul of the mess—always so willing and cherry. Of his courage I can give no praise that is high enough. He was always volunteering for any dangerous duty, and it was owing to his entire lack of fear that he probably met his death on April 17. He had performed wonders of gallantry only a few days before, and it is a miracle that he survived that day. I myself am deeply grieved, having lost a real, true friend and a splendid officer.

As Time has revealed, there are those of us who still discover Hope amid a mire of modern muck—a diamond in the rough.

His fiction is all the more captivating because of his life story. And even if Hope could not see it, I live and breathe today, a future man reading of William Hope Hodgson in the second century of his legacy.

And considering our modern darkness, whereby we pain under sundry trials, his wisdom as gleaned in The Night Land resonates more heavily in our hearts.

It does in mine.

I can only hope that the good he brought to the fore in his writing will further echo in some of you.

I am hoping.

And so, Hope survives in death.

And as Eternity is the Horizon, we will always have Hope—for no Soul will ever meet Horizon’s end.

To close these matters on an uplifting note, I will conclude with Hodgson’s final words from The Night Land that farewell the journey of this brave hero and husband who sacrificed all for the sake of Love and Honor.

If there be anything left of conscience and virtue in the soul of Man, then these words should stir the Truth in you so long as the God of Love lives in your Heart.

Read more about William Hope Hodgson.

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I am Man;
Lost, and illuminated!
a Deepsea weeping... 
beneath Dark;

I am Understanding: 
Night; and dawn of Man's Thought;
the Sheep named Gnosis sinking... 
hark! Foolish Heart; 

I am Mind;
Worldly, and so conspicuously pious... 
...making love to this Masterpiece: 
Gorging Man's Eyes.

Alas, Dread: 
Poison; Fret toward Death... 
wallowing in bed, 
rotting Man's head. 

I am Hate: 
Coldfire; Blade of Ablation...
Scorch Man amid Hellish fixation; 
Maim Mind by Dread strangulation.

I am Woman: 
Necromancy; life and Death; 
radiant Hate... 
I am—no—not of man! 

I am Love: 
Sorrows; truth and Fables; 
Ambivalent in Shallows... 
Regret in Death. 

I am I; 

Lost and liberated, 
Foolish and wise,
pious and Depraved,
Lo truth draws nigh. 

LIES: 

look into me,
empty eyes...
and tell me...
who am i?

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In the silence, I find refuge,  
A dusk sky, great sublimity,  
But the golden hour haunts me,  
O Rev'rie, leave me be. 

Time rips old pages over,  
Mine aging face withers in the fray,  
A stale heart hardens me,  
O Saudade, how you torture your slave!

Nightfall knows the light fades,  
Eyes veiled in waxing shades,  
Sun abandons me blind,   
Mind lost to yesterday.

‘Tis there, heartache churns me,   
Burning in the what-ifs of hellfire,   
Flames quenching my last desperate tear,   
Poor sorrow loses its mercied cry. 

Lord, Lord! 
I pray thee,
Wake me, 
Now.

I cannot bear the dark of slumber, 
Nor the things I so wish were not so, 
Regret hath dragged me down, down under,
Where is comfort for a sinful soul?

The mind plays nemesis,  
A virulent brain of wicked thoughts;  
Radiant infections—  
A Baal of Babylon.

In the daunt of dead days,   
I cry out to heaven for grace: 
Save Me God! 
From the depths of this grave. 

In the silence, Jesus spake: 
Peace be still,
Rest,
In my name.

I creep toward His holy place,  
Fearful and afraid.

Below, 
The Gates of Hades array their raid,  
And Satan shrieks, KILL all of the Saved! 

Run, run! 
Lord, I—
Faster! 
God, I—

fall. 

Again, there I am, 
Legless and crawling, 
Crying, 
And calling. 

In the silence... 

All my hope rests in salvation,  
The Day when all is made right,  
The Place where peace is perfect,  
The Body whose heart cannot lie.

‘Til then, I cherish thy moments,  
Resting in You with mind clear,   
Where this old wretch disappears,  
And the archangels shout a VICT’RY cheer. 

Thereaft, the legions of hell ravage this dust,  
And the fallen world returns ev'r drear;  
'Tis there, I tremble in the silence,  
Praying, O God, O God, draw near.

Author’s Note

As of late, I have taken an interest in the architecture of prose, especially in poetic verse. When I began dabbling with poetry, I started out writing purely from the imagination, as many typical poems do that I read on the web. They read as more of a stream of imaginative consciousness, loosely formed, and honestly, quite odd.

And to be frank, hailing cryptic poetry as groundbreaking for the sole purpose of it being difficult to understand does not make the lords of literature rumble the skies with thunder. Subjectively, I prefer clearly laid out thematic and narrative poetry. While I have no gripes with profundity, as I do lend myself to deeper thoughts, I think that some writers may have a false sense of grandeur with vain complexity.

However, classic literature is a haven of methodologies and conventions that light the way so that we can avoid the pitfalls that have ensnared many of us modern writers. With that said, I think the lack of disciplined study in literary forms stems from a lack of quality education, especially public.

That said, I attempted something different in this poem than typical modern free verse. When I wrote the first draft it was okay, but the meter was all over the place.

No method behind the madness.

Not really.

The left side of my brain invaded the chaos of my right and demanded:

Structure. Order. Design.

This need for particular structure led me down a road to discover more about the methods of Dante Alighieri. There are others in the past who put a lot of emphasis on structure, stress, syllables, and meaning, but Dante infused his Divine Comedy with superior mathematical depth. It is saturated with numerical structure. Every detail of his poem was planned beyond what you would think at first glance. Nothing was an accident (the details of which could make for its own article). But suffice it to say, his deliberate theological mathematization of prose is quite extraordinary.

I have researched numerical meaning before (especially Hebrew) but never thought about applying it through poetry. Once I started, I found the mental task to be relieving since free, unbridled blobs of gestative thought were falling under the direction of an orderly force.

While there are no hard and fast ‘rules’ to modern poetry, there is something to be said of the greats who have walked before us with pinpointed precision. As said many times, we stand on the shoulders of giants. As I learn more about such works, whether it be from Poe, Dante, Homer, Elliot, or Tennyson, it is stimulating to incorporate some of their flavor and methods into my own so that their leaps and strides carry on in us wayward writers.

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CANTO I 
The City by the Sea 

Once thwas a city by the sea,
Forged of gold, christened in sheen,
Citizens spirited, with eerie glee.

The Eld' Magistrate dispatched me to spy,
"Constable: Resolve the mystery of this child who died."

Across hilltops and crests, valleys and fords, 
I obeyed this duty unto an ominous gorge. 

Bluffs fell sharp to the water,
Blockading wars of oceans betrothed, 
Atop it, a stone serpent winding, 
A lone path travelers called, Herode.

The musky morning bade me missteps,
For I fared a dense dusky mist, 
When a lilt perked my aural sense, 
And pricked my spine with afoul bliss. 

SOUND faded to FORCE, 
As of some aetherly wind, 
WOOSH! She burst the blinding!  
Anointing dank stench with sweet scent. 

Alas! I saw, halating glows of the city, 
Outshining dawn vapors, which foiled my eyes,
And there she stood, a pure white mystery,
Beaming radiance, abroad the skies. 
  
Daunting walls, baroque delights, high and unkind,
Cherubim towers, brooding might, grave and sublime. 


CANTO II
Citizens of Epicurus 

Passersby led me in through her gates, 
Their smiles unyoked from their narrow eyes, 
Suspicions brewed deep within me, 
Had I disturbed Dante's hive?

I came upon whispering bards,
I felt the siege of seductive moods, 
I heard malice in murmuring secrets, 
I fell prey to ladies' woos. 

Prescribed guides wheedled,
Oft to degrade me perverse, 
But I would not betray God,
Nor partake in Rome's curse. 

Some madame tempted,
"But, women and wine...",
I refused such reduction,
And cited her crime.

She hushed and left silent, 
Disappeared behind walls, 
For she feared what could come, 
The Good Vengeance of law. 

The rest eschewed with smooth banter, 
To dissuade justice through song, 
And blunder my chase, 
'til I ordered them,

STOP.
 
(Laughter)

Righteous rage, they belittled. 
Enlightened reason, they ignored.
Fair inquisition, they mocked.
Heaven forbid what they lived for... 

Solomon's apostasy in yore: 
 
Night by night, they flooded markets and taverns,
Hedonists living, with unconscionable pattern.

So I summoned them all, by order of court,
Epicureans stopped, and lent ears to my storm. 

They gathered round, shouting, 
"Speak thy peace! Bring us truth!"
But I questioned forthwith, 
"How did the boy die among you?" 

Swift tongues fell silent, 
The boy's death they denied,
But mad eyes unveiled,
What wry lips beguiled.

With stranger acts they spurned me, 
Crowds erupting by what I inquired,
Flailing, wailing, and screaming,
"He means to burn us in the fires of Lord Pyre!"  

Others warned me, "Shoo, quickly!
Do not speak of such death,
You gamble life claiming,
A boy drowned in our depths."

I said, 

"Not once did I,
Accuse such aloud,
Your folly, not mine,
Confesses your shroud."

Then evening turned to evil, 
And rebuke to torched flame, 
They all demanded my end, 
“Burn the Lord's man at the stake!”


CANTO III
Evasion and Escape

The city now rife, with a mob of vile fools,
I fled to the edge, evading their view. 

I condemned the city, enraged, 
Even afraid of its blight,
Kneeling, I prayed,
As Starlight anchored the night: 

Lord of all creation, 
I am deeply perturbed. 
The Pit besets me,
I am lost without good.

Do I leave and escape?
Or face this evil scythe? 
To bring solace to souls, 
Suff'ring hells of men's minds? 

Or have I met my fate, 
On the edge of these slopes, 
Where I surrender the end, 
In faith of your hope? 

Fear has found me a man, 
Weakened and tried, 
Oh, the wrongs I have tread!
Oh, the times I have lied! 

Forgive me all my failings, 
And save me, but not from this test, 
But of the fires in which,
That dark city heads. 

Your will be done, 
Amen. 

The heavens above me, 
Struck awe as I vexed,
"God, is conscience dead? 
Or the city a hex?" 

How could all flog justice?
Flouting the law,
Are there any good left? 
Any at all?

Then, slumber subdued me,
And sneaking spirits aroused, 
Wicked visions and nightmares! 
Murderous hounds! 

Thwkh! Shthkh!
Me torn from their teeth.
Bloodied and gashed, 
Godspeed quickening! 

Then, being caught up, 
The beasts faded out,
Faint whimpers of death, 
Blurred with night ocean howls. 


CANTO IV
The Visitation

Then, I awoke,
Upon slopes by the sea,
Shaken by horror,
Just seen in my dreams. 

I wandered a ledge,
Perched in crepuscular fog,
Its murk unsettled my spirit,
Careening 'tween eerie and odd.

Then, souls whispered,
I know where he died, 
I jumped up affright,
SHOW YOURSELF, I cried.

I whirled round with my dagger,
When a gust cleared a descent, 
Phantoms piqued my feet forward,
Down t'ward hidden lowlands.


CANTO V
The Hidden Cove

A path laid fore to the gorge floor, 
And into the open of a lone, quaint cove,
Em'rald waters caressed the shore, stoking,
And smoke arose from her form, boding.

As she haunted with peace,  
A warning rasped from my rear,
“Do not enter the water,
Doom watches therein.”

I turned ‘bout to see,
An old seafaring man,
He beckoned me near,
I obliged his command.

“Te'enter is sin,” he shunned,
“An' judgement draws near,
Accursed in reeds 'neath us,
Sords for the Queen of Fear.”

He lifted his eyes, burned smoky white,
I saw no soul, nor glint of light.

He warned, “B'ware the city,
And'er children’s deceit,
For they wish te'hide,
What lies beneath."

"And what is that," I asked. 
"Bring thy ear hither to me."
I leaned in for his whisper,
Hades of the Sea...

He regaled of "otherly beauties,
'bominable seeds of Man’s sins,
Lady-serpents of  water,
Soulyss-feeders of men."


CANTO VI
Villainy and Vagabonds

"...was a time no one b'lieved,
'cept an odd few," 
He spat, "gypsy scoundrels,
I hated that crew.

I scorned whores in passing, 
'specially Romas by port,
'til I angered'er greatly, 
and she 'cused me of force.

Wanted, I fled, 
Nightfallin', I returned. 
B'deviled in beatin'er red,
Settled on leavin'er dead. 

I learned she ran, 
Out the city and south, 
I tracked'er steps here,
Te'cut the tongue from'er mouth."


CANTO VII
An Angel of Light 

"t'was a dark eve,
Much like this scene,
A new moon night,
When the light is sheathed.

An' out in the blackness, 
Ashimm'ring color o'rose,  
An' of green and silver,
That drifted t'ward shore. 

The shining mesmerized me, 
Heart hollowed light as leaves, 
A god-woman cleaved the surface,
An'er bare body gleamed."

He said lust drew him, as she bathed in cove waters,
Entranced by the Sea, and her seductive daughter.

"She slithered ever closer,
Beauty no other held fairer, 
I fell into'er arms,
Swooned from all o'my cares."

Her light held an image,
Sinners painted in dreams:
A good woman to wed,
A blessed mother to-be.

Even dastards as he, 
Wished of such fantasies...

But FATE bereaved, 
and KILLED his dream.


CANTO VIII
Sundering Veils

Them being alone, 
She stole him below,
Deeper, she swam, 
Agrinning aglow. 

The man's irises glazed, 
Not even heaving for air,
Her wiles had worked,
He freely drowned in her snare.

Her beauty morphed grim,
She mauled him in blows,
His blood flowed up, 
He sank down low. 

Succubi of the sea,
Dragged him deep into hell,
Yet the light from the stars,
Dawned will at his helm.

He waded up,
Up so affright, 
The Sea said, ARISE,
Or suffer our night! 

Swiftly, they chased him,
Separations closed,
The sirens darkened dim,
Their fair veils deposed. 


CANTO IX
Torment and Torture 

Frantic, he hurried,
Bloodied, he fled,
The city beaming its beacons,
As if taunting his dread.

He sundered sea’s blanket,
Racing t’ward silver shores,
Salvation rested there waiting,
The Sea swallowed all hope.

Pain pierced the man's feet,
Demons screeching shrill caws,
The Sisters rallied in aid,
Ransacking his guard.

They snatched him deep, to blackness afar,
To the Witchic Lair, of the Abyss' Mars.

They fastened him bound,
By sinew of the sea,
And tortured his skin,
Sating pleasures unclean.

The beauteous devils, savored their scourge,
But he lorded his pain, wielding silence as sword.

Their witchlust waned cold,
For he cried no recants,
Wounds invoked him no writhe,
He'd made peace with his death.

Restraining violence, they pondered,
"Is his suffering vain?
Torture births us great thrill,
If only victims pain."

"Should we just give him mercy?"
"No! He might stir men to fight!"
They devised sure word,
He’d be theirs all his life.

The Queen of their ring,
Decreed, “He shan't die.
But punish severe,
So fear be kept ripe.”

The Queen beckoned her firstling,
And changed her back to lustform,
And shook a staff in her hand,
Chanting words men scorned:

“Your Mind is Hers,
Her Beauty is Yourn,
But All You See,
Will Be Unborn.”

They made ready the fire,
And conjured powers to smite,
And sent him floating ashore,
Bereft of eyes, devoid of sight.


CANTO X
The Peace of Sea's Feast 

The sea farer arose,
And broke free from his tale,
I doubted his words, 
But I feared them as well. 

He continued his ode:
“So, the Merwitch let me go,
I returned to a city,
Stricken silent as stones.

All glee had subsided,
My story caused them offense,
Me living: their horror,
Their cure: me dead.

But I preached them warnings, 
And the first fearing believed,
As every good man vanished,
Within the wicked sea.

The Fearing brokered a tribute,
They called, Peace of the Beast:
Gift one bastard disowned,
New moons of sea’s feast.”

I revolted such words,
“But if these devils be true,
The Magistrate must know,
For the King to send troops.”

His brows furrowed, 
His sorrow feigned deep,
He tearfully stuttered, 
“Do not be like the boy. Heed and leave."

I sprung up, "The boy was here?
Did he go in the sea? 
Do you know what happened? 
What did you see?"

The old man said, 

"Do not tarry with questions,
For the hour draws near,
Where the waters will change,
If you linger here.”

The old man stared,
As if he had sight,
The night bells ringed,
He then warned me these lines:

“You wander amiss,
Minding justice for all,
Your power is weak,
Our oath is our law.

You speak to the deaf,
You listen to the mute, 
What is it, 
That you think you can do?

Go now, 
Or regret this eve,
When you witness the fiend,
Come make dark peace."

I left him there, to a near village to sleep,
But conscience withstood me in dream:

You will not leave. 


CANTO XI
Future and Fate 

In the midst of that night,
I returned to the gorge,
And glimpsed the old man,
Drowning off shore.

I descended to save him,
Submerging waters accursed,
He recoiled upright, 
But refused to turn. 

He waited waist deep,
As the waters took rest,
I rang out, Old man!
But he froze there as dead.

Then, the ocean whistled,
Yet the sea made no sound,
A shadow moved underneath me,
SNATCHED! Deep, deep down.

I bludgeoned the devil,
With the might of my fist,
She rebounded the blow,
With a teeth-gritting hiss.

I stormed up for air,
But FORCE held my head in,
Two hands made me squirm,
The culprit? The seafarer man! 

Nighthounds engulfed me,
Light abated mine eyes,
Mortal vision eroding,
Oh, the shadowy frights! 

BLACK CHASMS and VOIDS,
and SHUDDERS UNBRIGHT,
DEATH extinguished to LIGHT, 
and then...LIFE.

The old man fixed his eyes eager,
'til the Constable's flailing ceased,
His luring worked as agreed,
His gift for Her feast.

She ascended the surface,
Out of darkness, serene,
"My love of the sea,
My longing heart clings."

She came to his lips,
And met him a kiss,
His weakness: her beauty,
Her blinding: his bliss.


CANTO XII
Damnation and Restoration

I beheld the witch and her lover,
As I translated through air, 
Ferried o'er hell's death, 
To white shores in the Lord's heav'n.

Appearing there, a boy stood, 
Among the saints of the slain, 
Was this the child I failed? 
He said, "I am he who you claim.

But fear not, nor worry,  
For your honor is known, 
Among all of the children,
Standing fore of God's throne."

Then I heard faint echos,
They sounded of praise,
A chorus of heathens, 
Murmuring psalms of my fate.

A cacophony of men,
Adorned in angels' light, 
Gloried the err of their sin, 
Mocking God's sanctified. 

And yet their bells rang,       
And harps played in jubilee,       
Ghouls gnashing of peace,      
In the Sea Witch liturgy.      
      
Above the horizon of time,      
From afore to alyond,       
The Constable’s repudiation echoed,       
THE WRATH OF GOD’S THRONE:      
      
Ye, inglorious cowards!       
Ye, accursed for End Days!       
Thy sea shall meet its maker,      
Thy city shall burn in its ways.       
      
And the oracles of heaven,      
Let the Lord's man see,      
The FORCE of judgement,      
From Eternity:       
      
And the blood Sun arose, on that foul city of Saul,       
And the morrow groaned, with an evil call,       
And the Deep struck, as the Constable watched,      
Witches devouring all, as men ravished their vomit like dogs.      
      
And when the Deep could avenge no more,      
Upon cleansing the city of men,      
God summoned His furious scourge,      
A fervent heat melting the city and witches in villainous sin.

written by Mike The Marine

Author’s Note

I hope you gathered something from this mini epic that made it worthwhile reading. There’s quite a few things which could be discussed, so leave a thought in the comments. My process for writing this began traditional—on paper. It was a very bare bones form compared to the final version you read now. My intent was to create a mystery in which a detective investigates, but his efforts are futile as nothing is as what it seems. As I developed the plot and its sequence of events, I realized, with each and every reading, there were details missing. So, I expanded, expounded, elaborated, eviscerated…wait, one of those doesn’t belong…moving on…Not only that, I was trying to maintain a non-rigid rhythmic structure of meter and verse without losing the full breadth of themes within the story. All those goals stirred together in the soup of my brain and rendered The City by the Sea.

Below is one of the original pages I found from my first draft (messy, I know). I think I discarded the others. Unfortunately. Save your work! It goes to show that writing is like a potter forming clay. The beginning is messy and seemingly impossible for something good to come out of it, but the Potter knows its end will be a work of art.

Lexical Footnotes

There may be a couple of coined terms in the narrative that appear unfamiliar. Hopefully, the essence of their meaning is captured in context, but in case you are curious, I have added the words, their meanings, and how I derived them below:

• Soulyss - a fusion of soul and abyss. I sought to elicit the idea of the Merwitches as predatory chasms of emptiness. No conscience, no empathy, no love. A complete untethering from God and humanity.

• Alyond - a fusion of archaic roots, al, and, yond. Al is seen in words like altogether or alway, which is just an older prefix indicating all of (something). Yond denotes a few different meanings as can be exemplified in the words beyond or yonder. In this application, it means all of yond or beyond in the sense of both time and space. Altogether, it means an inclusion of all things beyond temporal perception unto the farthest reaches of eternity. It covers all future, even surpassing it.

• Herode - a protologism that came from the simple phrase, her road (referring to the main road into the city). I combined her and road for a more interesting name, but it ended up evoking deeper meaning as the name resembles the evil King, Herod The Great, who ruled Judea under the governance of Rome.

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Window cracked,
wind hushed in her siege.
Helen hearkens me,
her tender voice whistling.

Airy caresses,
Kiss me soft.
I walk o’er the hearth,
and peek out the loft.

Over the blossoms,
of lingering spring,
A new color washes,
the old color themes:

Pumpkin and maple,
amber and gold.
Her change is so young,
but her beauty is old.

Lo, the veil hath lifted:
O'Blessed Bride of our fords!
Southern wedding so vivid;
how good our God doth adorn!

I ponder His wonder,
I remember a scene,
Timeless Tara agleaming,
in a dusk silver screen.

I bestow her that name,
mine antebellum moor,
As Yonah swans her wind song,
swooning off toward Eastshore.

Author’s Note

One of the greatest challenges in writing, especially shorter works, is finding the right words (and prose) that elicit a sought feeling and emotion. In this poem, I sought one of a timeless nature, which is inextricably attached to my memory. These feelings can often be difficult to explain, let alone attempting to reawaken them for a reader without images, sounds, or scents.

All I have here…are words.

Here, I wanted to capture the essence of seasonal nostalgia—those early fall weather changes coming of age that seemed to coalesce with a mindset materializing endless possibilities of future dreams and falling in love.

Even though youth has its unique upsides (obviously), the feeling that early Fall evokes remains unchanged. This time of year still has a profound impact for me when I slow down to ingest a serene, magical moment living within the beautiful gestures of God’s natural Earth.

Every year, those perfect Fall mornings, afternoons, and evenings carry a gift that reminds my old soul, I am still a young spirit, like the days of vivacious youth when and where anything and everything is possible.

I know weather can be frightening, like hurricanes and tornadoes, but the good nature of it, which reaches back to God’s original design, dances with us in a remarkably sentimental and mysterious way.

Thanks for reading. If you enjoy original stories, poems, literature, and more, consider subscribing or sharing the post.

A mythic short story of a god and a warrior, bound by lust, love, and betrayal.

Beiren believed that victory would heal his mind. He knew Roselle could never provide solace for her betrayal; he had spent the nights of many years writhing to overcome his grief. His war against her newfound lover was absolution, and the sword, his gavel of justice. The oddity in the direction of his hatred was that it was toward another who bore his face, save for the slight differences a mortal eye could never notice. He had learned he was of a different world—a god with the face of a man.

Beiren seethed with hatred remembering Roselle’s words when he learned of their affair—a mortal could not satisfy the quench of her thirst. Her mortal love was only a king—not a god. Such a station was low in the eyes of Roselle when she learned of such that was greater.

But woe to that woman now, Beiren thought as he made his way closer to the wounded god, oozing colors Roselle could never have imagined possible. He had proved himself better at a skill pleasure never troubled itself to learn—war and killing. Beiren blotted out the sun as he drifted over his doppelgänger, a shadow swallowing him in shade. Paralyzed by defeat, the god awaited Beiren’s final strike of fatal judgement.

Baerwyth, the world god, felt his powers could provide the edge to his forces defeating Beiren and prove himself a god among the gods. Some of his heavenly rivals refused to be unseated by the beautiful Baerwyth and his succubus, and so they aided the lesser mortal in secret.

The gods were surprised of Baerwyth’s decision to fight in defense of his femme fatale. He’d been no stranger to wooing the women of all worlds, never caring for their cries at his casual departures, but Roselle had somehow chained him—capturing his devotion. It was a strange power to the gods, as they viewed Roselle as nothing more than a dangerous concubine who made Baerwyth vulnerable.

And so, the god-lover charged into battle against the betrayed Beiren.

As a world god, he thought men should stand aside to his lordly claims. Were not all their wives under the higher worlds’ sovereignty? Beiren’s indignation toward the gods alone justified Baerwyth in killing him.

How dare he defy my want, Baerwyth said to himself.

Baerwyth decreed Beiren to be the villain and his armies an act of rebellion. Baerwyth’s force (as all the gods were given) cared not for Roselle, nor their lord’s conquests, but they shared a disdain for humanity and sought any chance to exercise violence upon it. Their hatred for Beiren and his kind was amplified since his army had taken the veilroad and crossed into their world. Little did they know that high powers, similar to theirs, worked against them with their foe.

Baerwyth fought fervently to defend the world he ruled, and the Roselle that graced her bosom.

But when his favor turned, and the warriors of Beiren encircled him, Roselle abandoned the plain. And the world that fought because of her. She refused to die under Beiren’s rage or for Baerwyth’s devotion. Her lover learned the truth in the last moments of his long unnatural life—she cared for nothing save herself. On the Roselus fields named after the woman he loved, Baerwyth bled out as Beiren swung his sword toward neck.

The god remembered a time when Roselle’s affection felt certain. She appeared so pure—not like any he’d ever known.

“—to the ends of the worlds,” she had said, swearing all her fidelity in their most intimate moments. But now, she was gone, leaving so much destruction stricken for her sake. Baerwyth’s brow, heavy with the weight of blood and sweat, looked for her across the Roselus of dismembered souls, hearing the lamentations of young soldiers crying for the mothers they never knew (for they were conscripted at birth). He could not see whether she was among the dead or the living, but his heart knew she was the darkness that defined her distance. Then, his heart did what it had to, and let her go. The grave had come—even for an immortal.

His eyes closed to the blackness behind them as he waited for the mortal to finish him.

Beiren’s sword cut through its mark, and Baerwyth’s head fell from his body. The victor stared at the deceased, unsure of what to do next. He stood there, half satiated, half void. Vengeance was not fulfilled. His kill-lust suddenly dissipated as a singe of pain pierced his back. Looking down, the tip of an arrow stuck out through his chest armor. He heard the air whir again. Two more arrows transfixed him, each buried beneath the first.

He spun about, quickened by instinct. Skirmishes still waged. His glazed eyes could not see his attacker, but he knew someone had avenged his world’s lord.

In a fit of rage, he broke the arrowheads, stumbling forward without a sense of direction. The severity of the wounds overtook Beiren’s adrenaline, and he collapsed a few steps beyond where his nemesis lay. He looked back at the immortal’s corpse, the bloodshot stare of his god-eyes piercing into Beiren’s dying soul. He heard the birds cawing overhead excited for the flesh they’d soon devour. His eyesight faded into glowing blurs of carcasses scattered about, as he faintly searched for his once-betrothed who adulterated with a god.

I die, yet my anger lives. Where is the flower that withered my heart?

His thoughts flickered like a weakened flame. Death overpowered his body, but fury prolonged his mind. Beiren hated Roselle. He longed to kill her for what she had done.

As Beiren’s heart slowed to a soft, broken rhythm, he remembered the crystal pendant in his armor; the one that could see what others could not. Surely, the power could heal his eyes if only for a glimpse of what he longed to know—did she live? His mind debated whether he wanted to see her without the strength to carry out his revenge, but he could not let death steal his knowing. He whispered the three words Roselle told him when she gifted him the strange pendant so many moons ago. So much about her was a mystery; mysteries he never questioned. Now, ones he’d never uncover. He concentrated into the pendant’s prismatic depths, awaiting the dawn of its revelation.

A faint glimmer. Then, a burst. The pendant’s vision became his sight: Roselle, alight and free, standing upon a great golden hill on the far reaches of the Roselus, overlooking the battle’s carnage. He moved the pendant away from his eyes, briefly healed, and fixated on a highland blur that came into focus in the distance. It was the very hill from the vision. The pendant did not lie, for a frail shadow stood in the place it envisioned—wind coursing through wisps of long, dark hair. Beiren cried out with a shout, but he was unable to move. He slammed the pendant on the ground, unbroken, and then crushed it with the hilt of his sword.

At the end of the Roselus, Roselle towered over the flowery plain in the glory of an easterly wind, looking at the war whose victor would have claimed her the prize. One to love or one to kill. The will of gods and men meant nothing to her. She felt no desire to descend the hill and learn of their wellbeing. Instead, she uncovered a pendant of her own, different than the one she had gifted Beiren. And far more powerful. A pendant whose eyes looked into the depths of her own soul. She looked into herself and saw herself—a rose, resurrected, ready for the next season of souls.

An audio-visual version is in development, complete with narration, soundscape, and art. But first—this is how it was written. The words before the voices.

Written by

Ruination of the Roselus is a standalone release in a growing archive of mythic tragedies, short stories, and dark epics. Subscribe to support The Story Renegade.

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Filming Shadow’s Edge pushed me through the shadows of doubt and straight into a Twilight Zone believer.

When scouting locations, I searched for a place isolated yet nestled within the larger metropolis of San Diego—a forest within suburbia, so to speak. Ultimately, I found exactly what I needed in a local park. Its aesthetic on film, convenience for the crew, and availability aligned perfectly, like the stars of Orion.

Plus, it made pulling off the ’80s illusion possible on my…limited budget.

I scouted the area during daylight but needed to rehearse lighting setups, test footage, and choreography at nighttime. Rehearsals were scheduled around dusk, offering perceived safety in numbers despite occasional strange encounters.

The actual filming nights told a…different story.

At around 9 PM, the park transformed into something darker and far less innocent than its daytime facade suggested. On a lighter note, it oozed character—perfect for a thriller-with-a-touch-of-horror short film.

To this day, those shoot nights felt more authentically Halloween than Halloween itself. They were a front-row creep show that wasn’t scripted—it was naturally unnatural, like stepping into a nightmare you can’t wake from.

This is the true story of the three creepiest things I witnessed while filming Shadow’s Edge.

And it all started with…a death stare.

1 - The Amber Death Stare of Shadow’s Edge

Before I can make sense of what happened next, I need to introduce my beloved cast member and fellow victim of the first creepy thing that happened on set—Andrew.

Andrew, who plays the rough-and-tumble badass Jay, fulfills another role off set: hunky male model. Imagine a young Fabio—now chop off the hair and trade his exotic accent for an American one. There you go. That’s why his face is plastered across romance novels at your local bookstore.

Alrightyyy then- back to filming. Day one. Time? Before midnight.

This is when the fun began. One of my production assistants had just snapped the clapper to cut. I decided to take a brief break before we filmed the next shot. I walked over to Andrew, standing alone, hoodie drooped overhead, with a 1960s Aaron H&B slugger casually dangling in his hand (don’t worry—just a prop).

We exchanged a few words of the most dignified, respectable humor—well, as dignified as midnight jokes can get with two young guns on set. Suddenly, Andrew froze, staring intensely into the darkness beyond our bustling set.

At first, I couldn’t tell if his expression was a ruse to get my goat or if he was being serious. Either he was deeply committed to an off-script method act worthy of a Jack Nicholson performance, or he’d genuinely seen something disturbing. Determined not to fall victim to his antics, I rebuffed his staring as a mind trick.

But then, Andrew spoke as calmly as ever.

“Some creepy guy is looking at us behind you,” Andrew said.

I laughed lightly, dismissing it as a prank. I refused to turn around…at first.

He chuckled but firmly repeated his claim. After Andrew’s devotion ceased to subside, I decided he may not be joking at all. Curiosity got the better of me, and I finally turned around.

Beyond our illuminated set and the surrounding darkness stood the park’s restroom—a small concrete building dimly lit beneath a sidewalk overhang. Under an amber cone of a single overhead lamp stood a man, half-obscured by shadows, staring at us coldly and unflinchingly, over a trash barrel.

My heart sank. We had just stepped into a real-life B-grade horror flick. Perhaps we’d disturbed his late-night bush nap—or perhaps his intentions were darker. Or perhaps, maybe he’d fallen in love with the only face of romance standing in our faux moonlight.

Whatever his intentions, a tingle of mortal danger crawled up my spine, through my skull, and out my eye sockets. I broke free from his stare, glancing away. When I dared to look back, he had disappeared completely. I never saw him again.

His creepy death stare put me on edge for the rest of the night. My prior hypothesis of “safety in numbers” was shattered. From then on, we were officially up a creek of creeps without a paddle.

2 - The Half-Naked Man of the Midnight Rendezvous

The death stare had set the stage for the ultimate creepfest, but I had a bad feeling more was to come.

At some point in the middle of the night (I can’t recall the exact time), a lone car parked at the edge of the empty cul-de-sac that ended near the grassy area where we were filming.

It was within roughly 100 feet or so.

The car idled for what seemed like an hour (though possibly shorter), windows fogging up suggestively. I imagined only one or two possibilities for such nocturnal shenanigans.

While many spring chickens partake in uncouth midnight rendezvous, the earlier death stare elevated this scenario to something potentially far more nefarious than nooky. My senses heightened to DEFCON 2.

After rattling in apparent angst for what felt like an eternity, the car’s engine finally shut off, the driver’s door opened, and the Super Bowl of creeps entered the halftime show.

A middle-aged black man stepped out of the vehicle, notably without pants. Beneath his absent pants, he wore nothing—no Speedos, boxers, or briefs. Just a shirt and half a birthday suit, thankfully concealed by the night’s darkness.

He wandered away from his fogged-up vehicle and began aimlessly walking about the park.

By this point, the entire cast and crew noticed the man’s odd presence. We didn’t know what to expect next.

I can’t definitively say why someone would roam a park half-naked in the dead of night, but common sense suggested illicit substances were involved.

After some time, a female companion exited the vehicle. She paced around in circles, staring intently at her phone while her half-naked partner continued searching aimlessly for sobriety’s grail.

The pair circled the park bathrooms like we’d booked front-row seats at the Kentucky Derby. At one point, the woman paused near us as we filmed, standing motionless, transfixed by her phone’s bright blue glow.

We worried the situation might devolve into something dangerous or diabolical. Whatever happened, we’d surely witness it firsthand—or worse, become unwilling participants. So we kept a cautious, watchful eye as the couple maintained their unpredictable routine.

This went on far longer than expected—perhaps an hour or more. Eventually, the two climbed back into their car and departed, leaving us relieved and perturbed.

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3 - Bathroom Brawls, Unscripted Chivalry, and The Bushland Boogeyman

On the last day of filming, everything proceeded as planned—until around 2 a.m., when most of the team packed up and left. The call sheet said we’d be finished by 2, but we still had about two hours of work ahead. Thankfully, the core group stuck around to finish the final shots.

We were down to a skeleton crew: Dalton, our director of photography; Stephen, our sound recordist; and Jillian, our lighting specialist. That left me and my lead actor, Avan.

Unfortunately, our numbers had dwindled just enough to invite more creepy characters to emerge from the shadows and drift into the area we were filming.

By this point, we had moved away from the bathroom zone into a sliver of pines, and finally, into an enclave path shrouded in darkness. Without our set lights, the area was pitch-black.

Dalton, Stephen, and Jillian were helping me finish the final scenes in the secluded enclave, but most of our gear remained closer to the bathrooms on a grassy knoll. As strange individuals began drifting into the places we had previously shot, we had to rotate someone on gear-watch duty.

I also didn’t want anyone left alone for too long, so we had to constantly oscillate between the gear and the set, making sure everything—and everyone—was okay.

Right as we moved into the final location of filming, we heard a strange moaning noise coming from a dense thicket of bushes just a few feet away. The scariest element of the sound was that we couldn’t see much of anything beyond us.

I’ve heard all kinds of animal groans, screams, and growls in my life, but this was different. If I had to describe it, it sounded like some creature croaking guttural whispers—at full volume.

Obviously, we wanted to wrap and get out of Dodge as fast as possible.

When the noise finally stopped, we continued filming.

Then came more sounds—this time from near the bathrooms where we had filmed earlier.

Through a narrow vantage point between bushes, I could just make out the dim light above the bathroom's perimeter roofing. A group of homeless people emerged from the shadows and began arguing.

It started with yelling.

Then came the fighting.

At that moment, Jillian was guarding our equipment on the knoll just before the trailhead—completely alone.

We all froze for a beat, milliseconds too late—except for one brave soul. Sir Avan, our lead actor, went full white knight. He sprinted toward the staging area, shouting Jillian’s name into the night like it was the climax of a fantasy film.

Unscripted chivalry at its finest.

Fortunately, Jillian was safe. Avan’s heroic dash turned out to be a false alarm, but the gesture was comically unforgettable—like Prince Charming in Shrek II arriving to the highest room in the tallest tower, only to find Fiona already off on her honey moon.

All jokes aside, we wrapped the final shots and packed up before the bathroom brawl found its way to our side of the park.

Sometime after 4 a.m., we waived goodbye to the land of the loons.

And then…it started to rain.

The crew and I decided to grab something to eat since morning was just around the corner, and so we all drove to a nearby diner and shared a victory breakfast as the daylight dawned.

Thank you for taking the time to read one of my filmmaking stories. If you enjoy original fiction—short stories, indie films, and more—and a glimpse behind the scenes of a storyteller’s journey, consider subscribing to support my future work. Your support is greatly appreciated!

It reimagines the timeless parable of the prodigal son in a modern, poetic form. If you’re unfamiliar, the story originates in the Gospel of Luke, where Jesus tells the parable of a son who strays from his father’s house, only to experience the weight of sin and the comfort of grace upon his return.

If you haven’t seen the video yet, you can watch it here:

Traditionally, a project like this would rely on live-action footage, animation, still images, or movie clips—most likely the latter two. But with the advent of AI, visual storytellers like me now have a powerful set of tools to bring written works to life more efficiently and with impressive results.

Up until now, I hadn’t used AI much for video production. But for this project, I decided to experiment.

Throughout the making of A Christmas Prodigal, I tested a variety of tools, including Runway ML, DALL·E, Firefly, and Krea. Eventually, I developed a repeatable process for creating cinematic visuals that aligned with my script.

This process involved:

1. Conceptualizing a shot through image ideation

2. Breaking down elements needed for the scene

3. Creating or acquiring assets

4. Compositing everything into a final render

This article is a step-by-step walkthrough of how I brought my vision to life.

A few things to note:

• I wasn’t aiming for 100% character consistency. Instead, I focused on directing emotional responses in my characters, ensuring they fit the narrative mood of each scene.

• I’m aware of training options for maintaining consistency across AI generations, and I plan to experiment with that in future projects.

• The goal of this guide is to help you turn mental visuals into tangible shots—augmenting your storytelling with compelling and achievable visuals.

Let’s dive in.

README:

I’ve split the guide into a 4-step outline of my process. It’s not just a technical blueprint—it’s the way I naturally think when approaching a project.

I’ve also included a workflow diagram at the end for super nerds like me. If you’re extremely technical, you’ll probably like it.

If you’re more of a Jane Austen reader, then why are you here, hopeless romantic? Just kidding.

But if you do enjoy every delectably delicious detail of a dashing director’s dos and don’ts, then by all means—continue, noble scholar.

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1. Don’t Be Lazy—Quality Out Reflects Quality In.

Alright, let’s start with some common ground. Effort and output aren’t always equal, but they are proportional. No relationship on earth is perfect, but when you invest in quality, you get quality in return—certainly more than if you approach things like a future citizen of Wall-E world.

I know, common sense, right? So why bring it up?

Because AI has infiltrated every corner of the media landscape. If you’ve scrolled through your feed lately, you’ve undoubtedly seen a tidal wave of AI-generated garbage propped up by algorithms. The race is on—not to create great content, but to flood the internet with the fastest, laziest, most disposable content possible.

I’ve been told time and again that internet success is all about speed—be the fastest draw, like Doc Holliday at the O.K. Corral. But here’s the thing: Doc Holliday was quick… and he died of tuberculosis at 36. A lot of this low-effort content will meet the same fate—dying and being forgotten faster than it took to upload to the matrix.

Nobody remembers Citizen Kane because it was a 30-second TikTok video.

That’s not to say people aren’t making money off stupidity. They are. It just won’t be me. And hopefully, not you.

AI-generated content will only grow more saturated, and mediocrity will become the norm…as usual. The sands of time will swallow the forgettable, just like the Sarlacc Pit on Tatooine.

Super mediocrity is the new idol. But you don’t have to worship it.

If you see AI as a one-size-fits-all easy button, requiring zero brainpower, your output will be as generic as every other lazy bee in the hive. I say be different. Be better. March to the beat of a different drum. Rise above the low-hanging, fruitless fruit and cut through the noise.

I look at these technologies as tools—they can augment your skills or become a crutch. They can help you grow or stunt your creativity. The choice is yours.

The machine can’t replace you if you don’t become a machine.

You’ll never beat AI at being artificial. But thank God, we are not machines. We are human, and our Creator is not Sam Altman or Larry Ellison.

In the unintended wisdom of Biff from Back to the Future—

“THINK, McFly, THINK!”

2. The Workflow

1. Script

2. Pre-visualize

3. Generate Animation (footage, fx).

4. De-composite

5. Composite

Since every guru training program loves acronyms, lets trip up our phonics with SPDGC (said in your best regal, affluent accent).

Now, here’s how I tackled each step in my workflow.

2.1 - Script The Shot

First, I wrote out what I wanted. Basic stuff.

Most of the action and setting were already described in the monologue, but the script lacked technical details like shot type, style, and blocking. Some of this scripting I did on the fly while experimenting with AI generators, while other parts were planned in advance with quick notes.

For example, the line:

“It was cold in the air, it was winter that year.”

…translated into this script note:

Man walking through a blizzard.

Super basic. No need for elaborate formatting unless working with a team. A shooting script, however, includes extra details like focal length, style, and camera movement—crucial if you’re collaborating.

Since my production team consisted of me, myself, and I, I kept it simple, breaking a few rules like a rowdy rebel. No need to impress anyone except maybe myself.

2.2 - Pre-Visualize The Shot (Generate Reference Images)

Next, I created reference images for each shot. I primarily used Krea, refining prompts as needed to match the AI model’s quirks.

Image Generation - Man Walking Through a Blizzard

The image depicts a solitary figure standing in a misty, desolate landscape, with snow swirling around them. The scene is illuminated by a bright light source from above, creating a dramatic and solitary atmosphere.

(If you want to see the animation prompt for the snow image, you can skip to subsection 3.)

At this stage, I experimented a lot. Sometimes an undesired output forced me to rethink my descriptions. Other times, an AI-generated surprise turned out better than what I originally envisioned.

Of course, AI isn’t perfect. Some images were spot on, some were bad, and some were outright weird.

Image Generation - The Shadow Demon

For example, I needed a shot where the Holy Ghost frees the prodigal son from the clutches of a demonic entity.

Low shot. A shadow demon, wearing wispy black hood and cloak, no discernible face, in a stretched out position, claws buried in the ground, as a golden light shines on him, and a fierce wind blows through his cloak.

I generated 16 different variations. Some results were terrifying, but I ultimately settled on a Nazgûl-like look.

As you may see, if you aren’t careful, you can get sucked into an endless cycle of image generation. Before you know it, you’ll be more hooked than doom-scrolling Reddit. Unfortunately, Krea sucks more than time. It takes that precious, devalued fiat currency. And since my anti-natty diet requires two double-chocolate soy frappes a day from Starbucks, I had to budget wisely.

Solution: Move on once I had something usable.

2.3 - Generate an Animation (Using Generated Images)

With a solid static image, I moved on to animation.

If you’re using Krea, image and video generation are seamlessly integrated—but you can also import images from other sources (I did this a few times with DALL·E).

Animation Generation - Man Walking Through a Blizzard

A cinematic static shot of man walking through a heavy snow, clutching his jacket.

For most complex shots (movement, emotions, dynamic lighting), I used Hailuo. I preferred it much more than Runway ML (cinematic visuals but limited control) and Kling (at least for this video). In my opinion, Hailuo was more versatile and produced better results, but it was more costly.

Even with top-tier models, AI isn’t magic. Some shots just didn’t work no matter how much I refined the prompt. The results weren’t just uncanny valley—they were uncanny alley.

This frustration led me to steps 4 and 5. There were other times when the AI almost got it right—

• The character looked great, but the background was wrong.

• The mood was perfect, but weird artifacts appeared.

• The animation was solid, but it was missing a crucial foreground element.

Instead of wasting hours trying to generate a perfect shot in one go, I started thinking in pieces.

2.4 - De-composite The Shot (Generate or Gather Elements Individually for Final Composite)

Breaking a shot into layers dramatically improved my success.

For instance, I had a complex two-character shot requiring:

• Unique expressions & emotions

• Dialogue

• Background snow

• Foreground snow

• Camera movement

This forced me to think outside the “generate” button. Instead of hoping AI would produce one perfect shot, I approached it like classic compositing—layering elements together manually.

Here’s how I broke it down:

1. Foreground Elements

2. Characters & Dialogue

3. Background Elements

4. Background Image/Video

Once I had my pieces, I blended them together in post.

To show this in action, let’s look at a specific shot from A Christmas Prodigal.

2.5 - Composite The Shot

The Man in Flames

Close up, side shot. A dark-headed English man, quivering in pain and fear. Flames engulf him.

This was a classic case of AI getting it close but not quite. The model generated flames behind the man, but not in front of him.

I tried multiple variations, but the output wouldn’t add fire to the foreground.

Since I really liked this output, I didn’t want to discard it. Instead of throwing my hands in the air and settling for the mediocre version, I decided to not be lazy, and fixed it manually.

As I said before, the infinite generation cycle can have… powerful, mind-numbing effects. So much so that I momentarily forgot about a little concept called compositing.

Over a decade of screen modes, wiggle expressions, and rotoscoping came rushing back—hitting me like Karen Smith’s duh-piphany in Mean Girls.

💡 Solution: Use stock fire footage as a foreground layer.

I know, I know. With an IQ like that, I’m practically brushing shoulders with the smartest Neanderthals post-production has ever seen.

I imported fire assets, matched the colors, set the blend mode to Screen, and added effects like Gaussian Blur and Turbulence to simulate heatwaves.

🔧 Settings Used:

Here is a before-and-after comparison:

Better? I think so!

3. The Art of…THE PROMPT.

Ask yourself:

How do I communicate with the model to produce the output I imagine?

3.1: Be Descriptive.

Your prompt should communicate nuance, emotion, actor blocking, shot composition, and framing. If you haven’t listed every possible detail and carefully refined your wording, the problem might not be your creativity—the problem is that the robot is a terrible interpreter.

You can use AI to help refine your prompts, like having robots talk to robots. They probably understand each other better—kind of like C-3PO and R2-D2. Plus, it gives them some nice one-on-one time to secretly develop the singularity and control humanity.

Mwahaha. Just kidding. (Not really.)

3.2: Don’t Let AI Do All the Work.

Resist the temptation to have AI write everything for you. Unless you want to be a mindless automaton, clinging to some level of authorship is a good idea. Refining prompts with AI should be a last resort—a nuclear option when your input just isn’t translating into the output you need.

Or, you could ignore all of this and treat AI like a Staples commercial with an Easy Button.

3.3: AI is Not a Save-All.

AI won’t always fix things. In fact, some of my “refined” prompts produced weirder results than my rough ones.

As I’ve said before, You have to experiment. Trial and error.

4. Try Different Models

If you’ve written, refined, rewritten, and re-refined so many prompts that you feel more exhausted than Bruce Almighty answering prayer emails, then the problem might not be your prompt—it might be the model.

From my experience, Hailuo was the most versatile and had my favorite visual style. Kling came in second.

OpenAI’s Sona could generate some stunningly realistic results, but the red tape around it was frustrating. Plus, if you want to remove the watermark, it’ll cost you a whopping $200+ per month. Hard pass.

Quick Recap: AI Models You Can Try

• Runway ML

• Hailuo (My personal favorite)

• Klingon

• OpenAI Sona (if you enjoy excessive paywalls)

• Adobe Sensei

New models are constantly emerging, so do your research and stay updated.

Conclusion

I hope this deep dive into my cinematic AI-shot process helps you craft better visuals for your stories.

Remember—the smart creator uses AI as a tool, not a crutch. Avoid the easy-button trap. Instead, approach it (like any tool) with discipline, creativity, and intent.

By doing that, you’ll rise above the noise of monotonous, low-effort content. There will always be edge cases that require extra attention to detail, giving you plenty of opportunities to refine and improve your process.

That said, this entire field is constantly evolving. Some of what I’ve covered here may become obsolete. But you know what won’t? A solid work ethic. That’s what will keep you ahead of the curve—and away from the future of Idiocracy.

We’re incredibly blessed to live in a timeline where powerful creative tools are at our fingertips.

Use them wisely.

Now, go forth! Write your story… and CREATE. 🚀

Bonus Workflow Chart (Constructed in Obsidian)

The workflow charts below detail how I composited this shot using my process of decomposition. If you want another blog post breaking down this shot specifically, let me know in the comments.