I emerged from the dark halls of my house and entered the only fully lit arena therein: a kitchen with wide, tall windows that welcomed the rising sun. I sat down at a small wooden table where scrambled eggs and toast waited for me on a dull, silver plate. My mother stood at the sink, washing dishes, and exchanged with me a brief “good morning” that I returned as quickly as I vanquished the food prepared for me. No sooner was the last bite entering my innards than I was returning back into the veins of my house…

Seven demonized humans turned vile creations from wounds inflicted by diseased, unreasoned, and inexplicable time struck an inert man repeatedly with their fists in the corner of the nineteenth floor of a glistening high-rise. In unbreakable specificity, these Henchmen of Rotted Time targeted the man’s face, hitting nothing else. These blows were wild with the cannibalism of violence: a chaotic hostility harnessed by and unto a chaotic hostility—a feeding of one fiend’s pandemoniac energy by another’s…

The air was musty and smelled of a compound of fruit and charcoal. A veil of haze shrouded what distances I could see and those distances—that were not of much distance at all—contained the walls, ceiling, and floor of my current world; I stood in the center of a small room—a room that I dreadfully labeled the Changer Box…

Head down this way,” I motioned with my arms, directing the couple before me into the stairway leading down into the basement of my house. “This will be the most exquisite collection you have ever seen. I promise you,” I added.

“Very good,” a man, clad in a black suit, an olive shirt, and a pale, yellow tie replied. He then escorted the woman at his side down the stairs. The woman wore an elegant and vivid yellow dress that eclipsed her form flawlessly…

Words hold power of times before, to come, and times unknown. They can exist in form or invisible space. They can exist in colorful sight or invisible sound. Words create and words destroy. They convert the weak and overthrow the wise.

It was words that in astronomical infliction determined my fate—just words. But words are never just words. They are eternal. They are ageless. They are gods of communication and confusion, knowledge and history, discipline and encouragement, worship and cursing.

A curse, yes, was what controlled my fate. A curse, spoken in words, was laid upon me as a bride is laid upon her wedding bed. Delicately, expectantly, soothingly I was bathed in the glory of the warm embrace of a sweet phrase. It tinged my skin and eased my heart. Then it struck with its black truth; it struck like the regret of an ill decision. It stuck its roots deep into my soul and took hold, never to let go, never to show mercy.

But how are spoken curses given assignments? Words hold no ownership. They are bound for no set destination. Many ears receive words, yet only one receives the curse, if so chosen. How does this present itself in the realm of logic? Such questions were never by me deciphered, but it did not matter for the curse was real and what is real, whether explained or not, holds place in the universe of action and diabolical reaction.

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