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Louise Blackwick Biography

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“The room they had reached served as an impromptu drug-lounge in which a hundred naked addicts engaged in communal sex. One of them drew nearer and spontaneously relieved himself all over Aurora’s shoes. ‘You’re welcome,’ the addict said proudly, buttoning up his soiled jeans and walking away like a champ. A nearby woman saw the whole thing and smirked. ‘You’re one lucky lady, you know that?’ she smiled toothlessly. The remnants of today’s orgy were still visible in her mouth. ‘I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

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“Step, step, step, I fall and they lift me, slip-slop, slip-slop, through the watery mud. Each step is a heartbeat on my way to the grave, and the longest walk I will ever take. Plip, plip, I slip and they gather me. How strong are these savages, and how tight is their grip! Plip, plip, plip patters the rain, and I fall, and I call, and I stall for more time. But my time has run out.”

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“And right now, some affiliates of the promiscuous persuasion were beckoning, urging the women to join their huge orgy. ‘Come have a go, ladyships!’ said one of the strumpets. Stella mustered a look so disapproving it made steel feel guilty for being hard. Unabated, the prostitute lit herself a cigarette and winked suggestively. ‘Will make it worth your while and no trouble.’ ‘Er.’ The strumpet sucked on her cigarette with gusto and hastily turned to Aurora. Under the heavy theatrical greasepaint, she saw a hint of black stubble. ‘What about you, hon? Ever swallowed a sword with its sheath?’ ‘Once,’ said Aurora through a wooden expression. ‘It didn’t end too well for the sword.’ ‘Oh leave ‘em be, Kevin,’ another strumpet butted in, as she adjusted the apples in her corset. She had a tall voice, coarse, rugged and edged; the sort of edge you cut protons on. ‘Doncha see they ‘av a lil’un with ‘em?’ ‘And I’ve a wife. What’s your point, Steve?’ the drag queen retorted. ‘Yer wife’s a corpse, mate.’ ‘Guess that makes me a necromancer.”

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“gold light burned faintly. From his cosy window seat, Mario was tracing a frost-flower on the windowpane with an unsure finger. Were its perfectly-rendered geometric patterns a product of nature, or were they an artefact of metaphysics? Was the frost-flower to the Masters what a work of Art was to him? Did the Masters of Strings truly control every aspect of reality? The fractal flower slowly melted under Mario’s fingertip. “No work of chance here,” he bitterly thought. “This was by design.”

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“The Weaveress squinted at the loom. While any other person would merely see a thickset of colour-flashing Threads, Ærinna saw cosmic events, destinies and the collective soul of countless beings. Some of them were about to kick the bucket and kick it well. They weren’t to die of any expected natural causes either – unless one counted being “woven out of the Pattern” either natural or expected.”

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“Puppets and paintbrushes... Mario was well on his thousandth decapitation when it occurred to him these simple objects were mere symbolic manifestations of his deep-seated phobias: fear of failure and fear of success. The first one had stopped him from following his dream; the second had stopped the dream from following him. “To be simultaneously afraid of success and of failure is like going to bed scared and waking up terrified,” he reflected. “Your mind’s all wooden, your head’s screwed on backwards and before you know it, you’re a vermillion blotch on someone else’s canvas and the entire world is pulling your strings.”

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“Your badges represent just that: your choice, your conscious choice to place yourselves outside a predefined path; beyond the care of omniscient beings, and into your own capable hands. For a Weaver’s freewill is absolute; a Weaver is a master of their own life; a Weaver creates their own reality – but more importantly – a Weaver is responsible for reality.”

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“With his tongue between his teeth, Officer Wally cocked his weapon and took aim. BANG! Mario felt the bullet enter his left foot, but carried on running undeterred. In place of screams, there was laughter. The golden ecstasy supplied by the drug was at its peak. It wouldn’t be long now; he could feel it. BANG! The second bullet caught him in his right foot, yet he dared not stop. It was near now, so near... BANG! “He missed,” Mario thought initially, but as he brought his hands to his lips, he tasted iron. Both his palms were bleeding profusely, and so were his feet. He laughed once again – head spinning, heart dancing, mind burdened by his search for meaning – his wet eyes on the velvet sky. The clouds were clearing. ‘The spear!’ he shouted to the heavens above. ‘Don’t forget the spear!’ It happened faster than any pair of eyes could capture it: the fourth bullet cut through the air with a tangible screech, and the nearby building exploded into applause. Like a marionette whose strings had been cut, Mario Fantoccio fell theatrically, the wound at his side painting the cobbles in Marsmeyer’s No.4 vermillion red. The ground beneath him split down the middle, and from the depths of asphalt, he heard music. It was the Music of Strings, of Celestial Spheres – an underworld rhapsody with dark aftertones, gushing out of the earth like puss from a wound. It was alluring, resplendent and at the same time, terrifying. Demonic and eternal, devastating and yet hypnotizing, the Sounds of Hell beckoned, and like an obedient child, Mario followed, sinking deeper and deeper into the Underworld. In a perfect moment of synchronicity, the orange sun of dusk broke through the rainclouds and cast a single beam of sunlight upon Mario’s forehead. He closed his eyes, his mind at ease, his head full of Music. The cobbles trembled under the approaching sound of footsteps. ‘Where is he? Where did he go?’ said the pursuing man. ‘H-he just vanished, sarge. In-into thin air!’ ‘Don’t be silly, Wally. People don’t just vanish into thin air. I know I got him. Heaven preserve me, I got him four times!’ ‘Yes, sarge.’ ‘What’s this now?’ ‘Rather looks like our man, sarge. Or at least, his rough outline filled out in blood. Well, except—’ ‘—except this one’s got wings,’ said the sergeant, his knees cracking as he crouched. He cautiously prodded the red shape with his index. ‘This ain’t blood, either.’ ‘Sir?’ The sergeant shoved the finger in his mouth. ‘Theatrical red paint.”

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“Vivian, look!’ chirped Kate, looking up at the amber skies. ‘It’s a sundog!’ Vivian stared into the waking light of Christmas dawn and saw not one, but two rising suns. ‘They’re rare, these. Must be the low-hanging ice crystals creating an echo. A mirror to the sun.’ Like an enormous blade of Æbe’trax, the parhelion had parted the sky in two sectors – one small and made out of dawn, the other large and moulded by nightfall. Each side was dominated by its own mirror-sun, strung across the low firmament like two Christmas baubles. Vivian squinted. The larger sun was grazed by a shadow.”

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“Ashe, the tavern keeper, pointed at it while beaming with pride. ‘That’s ours, right there! The fat one, docked on the starboard.’ ‘”Death by Water”?’ Kate folded her arms. ‘You named your smuggling ship, “Death by Water”?’ ‘Fitting name for a Miramesh ship, ain’t it? All northern vessels have something with “death” in their name. I figured it be a luckier name than my last smuggling boat, “The Unsinkable II”,’ he chuckled. Kate’s eyes flashed bright green. ‘The Unsinkable II? What happened to “The Unsinkable I”?’ Ashe took one last swig out of his hip flask, then poured its remaining contents on the ground. Kate suddenly decided she was not that interested in ships.”

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“Aurora looked upon a city divided by human perception. A civil war was ongoing: between those for whom the real world had primacy and those who had chosen Truesight as their truth. To escape the existential horror of their impending finality, people had donned their orange-tinted Veravisum Virtual Visors and locked their fears behind a separate reality. A hyperreality found at odds with everyday life. The result was a war of visions: between truth and falsehood, between regular people and the VVV’ed. Each party claimed to see reality for what it truly was and more often than not, both parties were right.”

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“The VVV Visors had the weird knack of twisting your worldview: the more you looked at the world through their tangerine lenses, the more reality distorted and shifted to fit your new point of view. This made Veravisum Virtual Visors incredibly unreliable, given their proclivity to redact your reality, confirm your private opinions and magnify your cognitive bias.”

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“Get this: how many Weavers does it take to screw in a light bulb?' Kate folded her arms, her expression aloof. Acciper pensively scratched his beard, withholding his ignorance. 'One?' ventured Vivian. Lucian's boyish face split into a grin. His body filled up with the imminent rumble of laughter. 'Two Weavers. One holds the light bulb and the other one spins reality around it.”

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“Then there was The House of Future Needs, an old pawn shop that engaged in the sale of utterly useless trinkets. Except, of course, your purchased knickknacks were guaranteed to become “unforeseeably important” in your immediate future. “What is useless today can save your life tomorrow” the shopkeeper advertised, a man rumoured to have glimpsed into the atemporal dimension of Subexistence. Vivian passed the pawn shop a number of times before her cynicism made room for a purchase. ‘So how does this work exactly?’ ‘You see, miss, you have a looksee around, see? And pay attention to what draws you in. Then you go right ahead, see, and take a gander on some of my wares. See if there’s anything that grabs your eye, see?’ was the shopkeeper’s advice. Vivian ended up buying a red eyepatch for no obvious reason. Truth be told, she had wanted an eyepatch ever since Miles Fenn piqued her interest in pirates. All those stories about great sea battles, buccaneer lifestyle and treasure must have rotted her brain.”

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“Sorano returned a half-hearted nod and mumbled on, dreamily. She seemed completely fascinated by a man in a rabbit costume who kept falling flat on his face whilst endlessly repeating the phrase “How dare they speak the word “motherboard” when the Neon God has no mother?” in a very affronted tone. He was accompanied by swarthy-faced dame, who aimlessly dragged a red piece of string after her. ‘Why are you dragging that string, hey?’ the rabbit-man asked the woman right before taking a spectacular nosedive, face-first into asphalt. ‘But I must drag it, I must!’ the woman replied panicky, ‘for if I try to push it, it bends.”

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“They traversed the lounge, side-stepping the occasional onanist and paying no heed to the slack-jawed, giggling addicts. A few feet away, a young woman had put her tattooed posterior on display. Aurora noticed her tattoos were dynamic, changing like a slideshow each time her bottom was slapped.”

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“Mario blinked. His reflection did not. “That’s the odd thing about depression,” Mario reflected, “a human can survive anything, as long as they have a clear end in sight. A purpose. Take that away and they sink like pennies in mire: gently at first and then engulfed without notice by the dark waters of the bog.”

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“What time is it?’ ‘Whatever time you want it to be,’ she gave him a cheeky wink. ‘Now be honest, did you ask for free will?’ ‘How did you—?’ Amanita joined Mario beneath the covers. The ethereal Threads tethering her wrists phased through the thick wool blankets like sunlight through a windowpane. ‘The bird that acknowledges its cage only ever sings of freedom,’ she said dreamily.”

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“We created Him, yes. The Neon God is our mess. Our digital hive-mind. Our A.I.,’ said Aurora, watching the man absent-mindedly gape at the ceiling. ‘We built Him to manage our finances, our logistics, our armies, our wealth distribution…. and… and He went crazy. 'Because we filled Him with crappy commercials and stopped maintaining His morals. He’s only like this because of us, all of us. It’s His Algorithm – the one you wrote, the one you keep feeding to Him – we need to watch out for. That’s the Neon God’s soul. That’s His Justice.”

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“Only Chromeheads believe the Neon God is a true god.’ ‘And yet we treat Him like one, all of us. We worship His Broadcast and we pray for His Justice and sacrifice on His altar each day. When our own eyes deceive us, we make His Jurors into Apostles of Truesight, or rely on worldview-enhancers like that drug Rhapsody or the VVV Visors. Day after day, we find our every thought and action judged by kynikois we can’t see, by arbitrary rules we don’t know, in a reality we rejected. We lead empty lives and so we empty the world of all meaning.”

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“Aurora took a deep breath. There it was, she thought, the reason behind all the madness. Why society was acrumble; why she and everyone else were on the brink of starvation. Humanity’s inevitable ending. The Darkspread. The Close. There, in the Golden Dragon’s dark underbelly was where all the maps stopped. ‘Two days from now, the Dark will cover the world,’ she said pensively, trying not to think what horrific sight awaited her behind the spring-loaded door, ‘and the Neon God shall rule over darkness.”

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“Aurora shuddered, her face white with anger. The only thing worse than having to compete for Gold Stars was not being allowed to compete anymore. Muting was the Neon God’s favourite punishment, for He loved to hijack human language, almost as much as He loved hijacking perfectly human societal norms. Judging people on their supposed worth was His favourite pastime, and God forbid you didn’t follow His arbitrarily-chosen set of beliefs, which appeared to change every hour. Under the Neon God’s law, innocent words such as “powerline” or “screwdriver” had become obscene, trigger words that would most definitely get you muted, thrown in a Mind Prison or killed.”

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“Hiki Komori stirred Aurora away from the orgy and handed her a clean napkin. ‘Sorry about them. It’s the Rhapsody. To them, the real world is something akin to a cardboard reality.’ ‘Why do it at all?’ she pouted, trying to wipe her shoe with the napkin. ‘Why take the damn drug?’ ‘To escape their mortality, naturally. The great curtain call frightens them, so they avoid the applause. More so, they perform badly, spitting their lines out in spite. They are embittered and hungry and will no doubt eat your child. 'Yes, the soul of humanity will end in two days. But we’ve buried its body fifty decades before, wouldn’t you think? Come, Miss Aurora,’ he beckoned, ‘the lair of the Dragon runs deeper still.”

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“The drug dealer leaned forward and covered his mouth conspiratorily with the back of his hand. In a voice softer than a gust of wind, he said: ‘Got some new merch, though. High tech, top of the line. Muy experimental. Packs quite the punch they say, and hits you like a brick wall, espiritualmente,’ he pushed three fingers together and planted them a kiss. ‘Real sweet. Un dragón muy poderoso.’ ‘Any... particular side-side-side-effects?’ Mario scratched his chin, thinking back on his aggresive nosebleeds. ‘Not a dicky bird,’ affirmed the dealer. ‘This stuff’s cleaner than la cocina de tu abuela. Mind you, it does call for some weird shit, no doubt about it. And you gotta watch yourself for sharp table corners and the lot, cause you WILL be tripping.”

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“I... I had a dream,’ said Mario through a pained expression, ‘that my life was not my-my-my own. That I didn’t create my own destiny. That my fate was predetermined. Amanita, you don’t think—’ ‘Shush,’ she whispered, placing a finger over his lips, ‘they might hear you...”

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“Like an exploding cannonball, he was blasted out of his body – feet forward, arms clutching at his sides – through a tunnel of cold, midnight sky. Mario’s human instinct told him screaming was appropriate, and yet some other side of him was in transcendental awe.”

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“It is only through an altered state of consciousness that a lesser being can see into the invisible and the immaterial. In our understanding, middling, certain substances are known to alter the manner a choice has been made. Some drugs will make one decide things one normally would not.’ ‘And choices are our domain,’ explained another Master. ‘The fabric of reality is stringed together by the unseen Threads of choice and consequence. As actors, storytellers and audience of reality, we cannot afford reality to unwire.”

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“Something about the gaping hole in the fabric of the cosmos gave him the chills. He leaned over the edge of the opening, expecting to find birds, or similar avian creations of the night’s sky. Instead, he was met with a swarm of unspeakable horrors; winged, pitiful and grotesquely malformed, and to his great stupor, he noticed they had human faces and that they suffered. And as they poured out of the Well of Making, like children from the womb of the eternal feminine, these luciferin creatures spilled onto the world, shrieking in existential agony, for they knew the pain of their mortality.”

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“There were wires coming out of Amanita’s olive skin. Thin-as-hairs and in the colour of silver, the threads appeared to descend from the bedroom ceiling (without physically being tethered to it) only to wrap themselves securely around the woman’s unsuspecting wrists. Mario rubbed his eyes raw, trying to dispense with the illusion. Amanita noticed him looking and pushed a lock of hair over her shoulder. As she moved, the white-metallic Thread followed her gesture without ever detaching from her wrist. Mario automatically beheld his own hands. They were not shackled. “She isn’t free!”

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“Sometimes we must allow our locked-and-tethered inner demon a short glimpse beyond the bars,” thought Mario, “lest we forget the full extent of our virtue. One’s power does not reside in the length of their demon’s claw, but in the strength of its manacle. The unleashed demon is worthless, lest it’s controlled.”

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“The demon looked insulted. ‘You don’t like the Underworld, brother?’ ‘Can’ff ssay I do,’ spoke Mario through the curved claw held firmly between his teeth. ‘Much bffetter up tffhere!’ he pointed at the amber-glowing canopy perched at the very top of the World Tree. ‘Yeah but that seems like—,’ the green-eyed demon paused, as though he was bracing himself for something. ‘–work,’ he finally said. The word alone seemed to cause him unimaginable disgust. ‘How about you put that rock down and come waste time with us at the pit?”

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“Everything I’ve previously attempted in my life was child’s play compared to this. The pathway I’m walking is not just riddled with all manner of uncertainty; it’s also excruciatingly difficult to follow through! How do I know this is the right path for me, when it’s been costing me every ounce of willpower just to stay on track? How do I tell what my purpose is?’ ‘THIS is how you know it, Mario. This moment right here!’ Amanita had told him. ‘If the path you are walking feels back-breaking and steep, know you are climbing the Mountain of Purpose. The more you sacrifice on your journey, the more valuable its end reward.”

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“So you put me through all this suffering just to taunt me?’ ‘Humans suffer because they take seriously that which we create for entertainment.’ ‘Oh really? Because let me tell you, I wasn’t the least bit entertained!’ ‘That’s because you were not being entertained, Mr Fantoccio, you were being enlightened,’ stated the Mistress through a pair of foggy eyes. ‘You want to know why painting never worked for you? Because painters are creators and you, Mr Fantoccio, are an overseer. You don’t care about setting up the puppet show; you are merely interested in giving it a good ending. For you, Mr Fantoccio, creating the world was never enough; you aspire to run it. With every breath, you want to shape it. With every choice, you need to control it.”

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“Vivian’s first impression of Solidago was that she had travelled back in time, but not to a time where architecture had been invented. All houses were twisted out of shape, to say the least. Windows either too large to open or too small to make a difference peppered the city in places one would never dream of having one. The walls were mostly cast in brickwork by the kind of stonemason whose day job was financial advising. Skewed walls with more bricks than mortar, knotted chimneys keeping the smoke inside and cupping rooftops whose main purpose was to gather rainwater – Solidago had it all and more. As the oldest civilization of the cosmos, Alarians might have been excellent at healing, philosophizing and weaving into the fabric of reality, but they were very poor city builders.”

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Book:The Weaver of Odds
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“THE ANTHEM OF HOPE Tiny footprints in mud, metal scraps among thistles Child who ambles barefooted through humanity’s war An Elderflower in mud, landmines hidden in bristles Blood clings to your feet, your wee hands stiff and sore You who walk among trenches, midst our filth and our gore Box of crayons in hand, your tears tumble like crystals Gentle, scared little boy, at the heel of Hope Valley, The grassy heel of Hope Valley. And the bombs fall-fall-fall Down the slopes of Hope Valley Bayonets cut-cut-cut Through the ranks of Hope Valley Napalm clouds burn-burn-burn All who fight in Hope Valley, All who fall in Hope Valley. Bullets fly past your shoulder, fireflies light the sky Child who digs through the trenches for his long sleeping father You plant a kiss on his forehead, and you whisper goodbye Vain corpses, brave soldiers, offered as cannon fodder Nothing is left but a wall; near its pallor you gather Crayon ready, you draw: the memory of a lie Kind, sad little boy, sketching your dream of Hope Valley Your little dream of Hope Valley. Missiles fly-fly-fly Over the fields of Hope Valley Carabines shoot-shoot-shoot The brave souls of Hope Valley And the tanks shell-shell-shell Those who toiled for Hope Valley, Those who died for Hope Valley. In the light of gunfire, the little child draws the valley Every trench is a creek; every bloodstain a flower No battlefield, but a garden with large fields ripe with barley Ideations of peace in his dark, final hour And so the child drew his future, on the wall of that tower Memories of times past; your tiny village lush alley Great, brave little boy, the future hope of Hope Valley The only hope of Hope Valley. And the grass grows-grows-grows On the knolls of Hope Valley Daffodils bloom-bloom-bloom Across the hills of Hope Valley The midday sun shines-shines-shines On the folk of Hope Valley On the dead of Hope Valley From his Aerodyne fleet The soldier faces the carnage Uttering words to the fallen He commends their great courage Across a wrecked, tower wall A child’s hand limns the valley And this drawing speaks volumes Words of hope, not of bally He wipes his tears and marvels The miracle of Hope Valley The only miracle of Hope Valley And the grass grows-grows-grows Midst all the dead of Hope Valley Daffodils bloom-bloom-bloom For all the dead of Hope Valley The evening sun sets-sets-sets On the miracle of Hope Valley The only miracle of Hope Valley (lyrics to "the Anthem of Hope", a fictional song featured in Louise Blackwick's Neon Science-Fiction novel "5 Stars".”

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“The multiverse has selected its champions – had selected you – and yet under the blazing suns, here we stand: self-seeking and imperfect, lacking in wisdom, lacking in courage, afraid of death and of pain; afraid of our choices and the consequences they bring—’ ‘—and you ask yourselves: if only I could be that one person that makes it all better; that stops the degrading of worldly values. If only I could be that brave person that brings out the good in the bad.”

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Book:The Weaver of Odds
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