Descending Obliviously Into The Other Half

by Wings Of An Angel



Music based on an original short spiritual horror story by yours truly.

For a real-time Narration by Ms. Lush Bunnie go to

He awoke from his nap which seemed infinite. His eyes were anxious and sore and his body was severely scratched. Damn ladybugs! He probably passed away again.

He quickly looked around and saw that he was in the middle of a forest clearing. He got slowly, very slowly. Like an old man, which he wasn't; definitely wasn't. His legs were clumsy and barely carried his entire weight. He stood up, half-naked, baffled and puzzled like a trespasser. What now? He considered the situation and then slowly but surely proceeded towards a shrub that seemed less frightening than the others around. He put his left hand into it, trying to avoid trouble in the form of venomous snakes and spiders, and after a while, found a fruit. He stuffed the fruit into his mouth and bit away. The taste was grave, similar to dry blood. He spat the rest of the fruit on the damp ground and continued on his way to nowhere. He was well aware of his immediate environment, listening to the mysterious soundscapes of the Taiga, a living organism in itself. After a short walk, the yellowish horizon came into view. He marveled at the beauty of the naughty colors; the pine trees moved at a steady pace, blocking the wind; it was absolutely silent, or was he deaf?

He then suddenly stopped. A peculiar yet familiar smell reached his nostrils. He sharpened his senses and surveyed his surroundings like a satellite. Then, he noticed her. His hands trembled as though he had Parkinson's infamous disease. He refused to believe. He approached her and hesitantly touched her cheeks. The girl was alive, but it was clear that she had survived profound tortures. His skin shivered as he kept petting her hair and hands in a fatherly manner. Eventually, he loaded the girl on his shoulders and took her with him.

She turned off the light bulb and sank into her beauty sleep. Her imagination sailed far away and she smiled to herself. When she was already in another world altogether, the door to her room opened. He glanced inside, scanning his prey. He saw her beautiful body and murmured something to himself. He then approached the girl and stopped. The sheets were slightly moist and he twisted his lips in disgust. She probably had an erotic dream, he thought to himself depressingly. He took some cotton wool out of his pocket and put it in her mouth. The touch of her lips was raw and tender at one breath, and made him radially excited. He desired her badly; he desired this amazing human body - in the most non-sexually stimulating way. After a few seconds, when he was sure that the anesthetic was working, he loaded her dying body on his rugged back and left the room.

The wooden cellar underneath his ramshackle Siberian house was outrageously cold. Its ramified walls were in a state of advanced decay, just like his soul. He remained the only living entity in this abandoned village of fools. The times were harsh; the Perestroika has left Russia in spiritual death and collapsing social order. It was the greatest time for horror masters and psychopaths alike. For every horror masterpiece written during the wild nineties, there was at least one horrendous murder taking place at some godforsaken city or village. Such were these psychedelic times and there were no enlightened prophets to sooth the moral deterioration of the monstrous aspects of humanity, as witnessed and reflected via human behavior. If you tried hard enough, you'd most definitely find blood for sale. Vendors sold everything at the marketplaces. In a society of technocrats, spiritual decay is always at reach, and so are all the unbelievable crimes against humanity that human beings are capable of, having no compass as a bona fide guide.

She was in agony and there was no one to help her in the whole world. She held her breath tightly, trying to understand whether she was alive or not. She closed her eyes when she finally understood that she was probably alive. When she opened them again in a few hours, she saw an ugly looking man next to her, sitting on the ground, reading from what seemed to be a very weary book. He looked world-weary and perhaps hideously otherworldly with his razor-sharp black eyes, goatee white beard and rampant curly hair. She felt like a fruit fly which had got caught in a spider's web. He approached her silently and put a jug of water in her left hand. He looked disappointed. His hands felt metallic and inhuman. She put her hands on the jug and drank the turbid water in one long gulp. The taste was bittersweet. The water softened her thirst and dwindled her throat, but her stomach ached nonetheless. She was so hungry she could probably kill somebody or herself in the process. He knew that well and pointed towards a rusty bottle, wherein she saw a battling murky cockroach, trying to escape its unavoidable death. The hint was clear. She picked up the cockroach carefully, and then put it in her feverish mouth. She tried to digest it, ignoring its filthy movements inside her, but failed miserably; A passionate puddle of vomit busted from within her throat toward the man; he cursed her using the dirtiest words she had ever heard. He raised his left hand and slapped her so hard she did not even feel it. His fingernails were long, dirty and torn her flesh apart like a storm. She then lost consciousness and fell into a coma.

The war was over; it was no longer necessary to hide. His friends had all been killed on the battlefield. He was the only one left; the only one who kept the memory in his heart. He has lost everything but this precious memory. He adopted this memory and became the memory because everything else was too far away from reach. He wondered what to do next. His government abandoned him, expectedly. The army refused to accept him back because his behavior became unexpected and thought processes too hectic. He spent the best years of his life training towards arduous battles; He was a genuine born-to-be fighter, the most talented of all and well articulated in all necessary combat techniques. However, his bigger-than-life attitude did not survive the test of time. All became a blur soon after the war had begun. The dense visions of hell-on-earth refused to let go. His tortured mind couldn't function normally any longer. His sanity was lost; gone, gone, gone... Forever. He is gone too, to another realm, another parallel universe. A universe of continuous mental and psychological horrors. He went back to his birthplace, which was no less a hell than his consciousness, with only a handful of dying drunkards and lost souls for company. He lost his mind soon after. The trees in this vile village were like soldiers, standing in line, always reminding him of his dead friends. He remembered an explosion of colors. They were all lying dead, with their backs tilted to the ground. To his sheer dread, he was the only survivor and he hated himself for it.

He spoke to her like in a dream; His words were majestically nightmarish. He ran his hands over her desperate body, humming a familiar melody. Time stood still, like a rock. Can god create a rock she cannot lift? Yes, time is this rock. She didn't even scream.

She lay motionless on the ground. The sight was similar to the middle-grounds of a mandala. It was dusk; The tops of the trees darkened and the crescent moon shone in its purest white light. The horizon became a spectacular display of colors - pale yellow, pale blue and heavy-hearted purple. The last rays of sunlight flashed across her face, sketching their eternal portraits. She blinked; her stitched eyelids were loaded with the burden of the dead she had felt all around her. Minutes passed. Thereafter, her ghostly gaze met the image of a powerful man standing by her. Is he back to haunt her until the ultimate exodus of her soul? The man approached her, picked her up and took her with him without a single sound. His dwelling cave was warm; the fire burned fiercely and the flames shaped dancing psychedelic figures and swirls. He sat by the fire and forged a funny looking blade. His wild beard likened him to an ancient Greek god, and the scratches on his back suggested the trials of his obscure past. He saw that she was awake and muttered “What is born will die, What has been gathered will be dispersed, What has been accumulated will be exhausted, What has been built up will collapse, And what has been high will be brought low" (The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying). She tried to get up, but failed. He stood up and walked in her direction. The blue color of her eyes was akin to the color of a bird of paradise. He ran his right hand through her long hair and spoke to her with the most divinely compassionate yet all-too-familiar voice she had ever heard...

And will ever hear in this reincarnation, because a slight millisecond afterwards her tortured soul left the carnal body in an eternal flight... Looking for the next parasite body to dwell in until the sunrise.
- - - - - - - - - - -
"A 60's rock band on acid. The birth of acid rock"

"the new Olympia, laying on her sofa, whispering a strange story
of an improbable love"

"That's Russia for ya', hell of a town."


released April 6, 2017




Wings Of An Angel Israel

Sound magician, visionary and poet-philosopher whose art projects blend these passions in fascinating ways. My life's work gives wings to my infinite psychedelic imagination. This ever-expanding alternative universe explores outlandish mental landscapes, quirky existential commentary and unorthodox humor wrapped in a holy trinity of avant-garde sounds, thought-provoking titles & original cover art ... more

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