ExABEMixed Media

When I began Post-Script, I wanted to publish something that would inspire readers to go out and do good work. In the years since that first issue, we have gone out of our way to publish articles that push the boundaries of the imagi-nation. At the beginning of this journey, I would have found it hard to believe that we would go this far and help so many people.

Yet, here we are. 26 years later, with hundreds of issues published, and Post-Script is nowhere near comple-tion. Though I would love to helm this magazine for another century, I am an old man, and it is my time to stand down and pass on the torch to some very ca-pable individuals.

This issue examines the newest works from masters at the top of their game. Goodman’s In the Hall of the Gods is a departure from previous Dreamwalker stories, focusing less on lighthearted adventure, and more on establishing the long, hidden history of the character. In Envy & Lust, Morse is capturing the es-sence of internalized, personal horror. Fi-nally, The Cardsharks is by far the most cryptic series of paintings yet presented by the reclusive Nils.

Next month, Flux will be taking this seat, guiding you through the most curi-ous and creative parts of this wonderful world. It has been an honor to be with you all for these many years.

Peace and love to one and all,

Father TimeEditor-in-Chief

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PAXMixed Media

Table ofContents

pg 4

In the Hall of the Godsby Noah Goodman

pg 11

Envy and Lustby Aleister Morse

***

cover artand interior art

by

NILS

- Introduction -Where the Author finishes

transcribing the Dreamwalker’s previous adventure.

The last time I spoke with John Proctor - or the Dreamwalker, as

many of you have come to know him - had just helped appoint a boy named Young Van Linnell as guardian of the Great Pumpkin Tree after successfully defend-ing it from the maddened Grem-lin hoards. What I did not tell you was what happened immediately after.

by Noah Goodman

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My den was warm on that cold winter night. The typewriter and fireplace sang a duet of clicks and cracks as I finished transcribing the last words of John Proctor’s amazing adventure. Proctor him-self was quite comfortable sitting in front of the mantel. His eyes transfixed on the fiery ballet tak-

ing place in the hearth.“Would you like some tea? Or

maybe a sherry?” I asked him. His eyelids already weighed heavy. Though I could anticipate a re-sponse, I had no clue what words, if any, Proctor would choose.

“The pillars are beautiful, aren’t they?” said the Dreamwalker before the gates to his soul had closed. In another passing moment, he had faded from existence, as if he had never been in the high-backed leather chair in the first place. Upon his return days later, he told me the following story.

- Chapter One -Where the Dreamwalker is

pulled to a place old and famil-iar.

The Dreamwalker had been down tunnels of aether like these many times before. This was the first occurrence, however, that John Proctor could not freely nor accu-rately navigate the mistral halls.

After falling for countless minutes, John Proctor found himself placed softly back on solid ground as the cloudy shroud dissipated to reveal a majestic villa of marble and pearl seated atop a hill surrounded by a clean-kempt orchard of indescrib-able golden fruit. At his feet, Proctor was presented with the first stone step of a staircase that weaved up

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the hill, through the orchard, and to the villa’s front gate.

“Well, the journey of a thousand miles and all that.”

John Proctor placed his right foot on the first stair and started to climb. The trek was actually quite long, Proctor realized, as the zig-zagging staircase actually exited the orchard in a number of different junctures. For days, Proctor walked onward, occasionally finding himself amongst dense jungles, or willowy peaks. At one point, the stone steps themselves disappeared, and John Proctor found himself climbing a staircase made of nothing but air.

After a week of endless climbing, John Proctor finally found himself at the front gate of the villa he had seen at the bottom of the hill.

“It would be nice if one of these times, you brought me somewhere to just relax!” Proctor said to nobody in particular, “Maybe a fine meal? I wouldn’t turn down a hot sauna.”

John Proctor took a deep breath.

“Nothing? Okay. I guess I’ll go inside.”

***The courtyard inside the villa was

surrounded by intricately sculpted

pillars that, unless he was mistak-en, John Proctor was convinced were holding up the cosmos. In the midst of the courtyard itself was the crumbled remains of a statue gar-den. Proctor couldn’t find a com-plete statue in the remains, and was convinced that even if he took the time to piece the sculptures back together with the pieces present, there would still be more pieces missing than there were present.

“What an honor for the Presbyter to heed my call.”

“I haven’t gone by that name for a long time,” said Proctor. “Which means you are either really old or really wise.”

From behind a pile of rubble rolled a scruffy young man wear-ing an old, grey hooded sweatshirt, tattered around the edges, silver in-line skates with glowing, neon yel-low wheels, and a messenger bag adorned with countless patches and logos.

“I can see that wise is out of the equation,” said Proctor.

“Ouch,” said the young man, “I can see your silver tongue has lost its sheen over the years.”

“A knife that can cut still serves its purpose, regardless of whether it is blue or sterling,” said Proctor.

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“So what do you call yourself these days?” said the young man, “Certainly not John. It’s so...com-mon.”

“Well--” Proctor stuttered, “--peo-ple sometimes call me the Dream-walker.”

The young man started laughing. “Oh John! John John John! I was expecting a more lively repartee. I guess this round goes to me.”

“Alright,” said Proctor, “round two, then. Who are you?”

“Dull and blunt?” said the young man, “ I’m not even sure you’re trying.”

“Should I try?” responded Proctor, “I’ve lived for centuries, for eons. From my perspective, Rome was built in a day, and now I’m be-ing tongue lashed by a scruffy look-ing messenger b--”

Proctor stopped. The young man smirked as if to say “Go on, you got it.”

“You’re--”

“Tut tut tut,” said the young man, holding a single finger to his lips “I am many things. I am the master

of cunning and communication, of travel and trickery.

“ I, like my peers,” the young man opened his arms wide, motioning to the fallen statuary around him, “have had many names, many titles. For now, however, you may call me Mark.”

It was now Proctor’s chance to laugh.

“Laugh not, stu-dent! For you see, I, unlike my peers, knew the need for subtlety in these secret wars we’ve been waging against the ages.” Mark kicked off, and moved fluidly through the rubble,

leaving a trail of light behind him. “I, who invented and reinvented him-self time and again to suit the era, still live.”

Proctor watched Mark flow through the rubble like wind through the trees, awed by the beauty of his fluorescent after-trail. While he was speaking, Mark lifted up off the ground and began to skate on the air itself, before finally perching atop one of the taller statue remnants.

“So, you’re the last?” asked Proctor.

–––A knife

that can cutstill serves its

purpose, regardless of whether it is blue

or sterling...–––

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“No. Venus and Ares are still around,” said Mark, “the way they’ve constructed their domains is ingenious. Makes them near im-possible to kill. There have been a couple close calls, though.”

“What about the Heroes?”

“Dead, mostly. The few that re-main couldn’t han-dle responsibility if it were tied to their hands. One of the few with any po-tential actually up and joined the Syn-gians!”

In his eyes, Mark showed great fury, though his de-meanor hid it well. He then stood up, stepped off of the broken stat-ue, and descended to stand within a few feet of Proctor. “That’s why I called you. You, whom I taught to navigate the silent roads of Mor-pheus, who gave up a kingdom in paradise to help the world--”

“Who is thrice divorced, kicked out of heaven and hell, and near-ly received the death-penalty for crimes against humanity?” added Proctor, “You’re making me out to be some sort of saint, Mark, and I don’t like it. I’m not perfect.”

“Neither are we,” said Mark, “but you try. Even when you fail, it is only

because the circumstances were far too great for a human could handle.”

“And you think a human can han-dle the Syngians? The same Syn-gians that felled the rest of the pan-theon, the SAME pantheon whose rubble we are currently standing amongst?”

Mark stared at Proctor. “I once met a boy with a spark unlike any other. I gave him a key. I need you to find him.” Mark was now levitating a few feet off the ground.

“And when I find him?” asked Proctor.

Mark turned away from Proctor and started skating away. “Don’t come back here. This is the first place they’ll look!”

§

Next issue:Who holds the key?

–––And you

think a humancan handle the

Syngians?–––

11o5o25Mixed Media

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1At the crossroads of life and

death stands a tree with roots stradling both directions. Under its verdant, coiling bough stands a man of a decreasingly opaque, viridian complexion, pondering of which path he should take. Above him, perched confidently, as he is one who knows more than he should, a raven caws words at the uncertain soul.

“You are wise to confide in me” said the raven, “for I am one who sees many things and keeps many secrets. I possess the knowledge you seek, yet it does not come freely.”

The man stood silently.“If you want the mysteries I possess

by aleister morse

passed on to you, then you must pay me three favors in kind,” said the raven.

The whistling wind sang a sor-rowful elegy as the green man re-mained silent.

“If you do not find the price fair, I can flap my wings and fly away, keeping these secrets to myself.”

A steely moment of silence, and the man nods in agreement.

“Fantastic. By this oath, you solemnly vow to permit me three favors upon your eternal honor in exchange for the secret I, Puck of the Fellows Good, shall now share with you.”

The raven Puck descended unto the spirit man’s shoulder and buried his beak deep into the man’s ear before uttering a single word. When finished, the Puck flew away, leaving the spirit to contemplate a fate most cruel.

2For it was the err of the gods to

poke at the sky. Their inquisition towards the boundaries of exis-tence released into this world the ink blood of entropy and chaos. Spreading like a profane cancer amongst the divine, the Syngians were born.

Tumorous concepts forgotten and malformed collected into ad-vanced systems of malevolence, Syngians could blanket the hearts of even the bravest gods in sheets

of fear and disgust. Over eons, the Syngians developed a system of hierarchy. It was an unnatural mimicry, for the sons and daugh-ters of chaos and strife could have no order, except to mock that which they harvested. This was the beginning of the Syngian Court. Seven siblings set to imbibe of the divine and profane, to expand their domains, and possess all.

3The last 27 months were the

happiest months in the lives of ei-ther Rob or Holly. They had met at a St. Patrick’s Day parade. Rob made a comment about Holly’s shoes and the importance of ad-equate footwear. Holly was genu-inely amused by his analytical, if not amusing, opinions, and invited him to continue the conversation over coffee the next day.

The first date flowed into the third date, which turned into the month, and then one-year anni-versary. At 23 months, they moved in together. At 27, Rob was going to propose. It was at the jeweler, when Rob was purchasing the ring, where everything began to fall apart.

4Hidden behind the curtain of sor-

row and despair, the Syngians held court. It was a tense occassion as Ir, reigning Sovereign of the Syngians,

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was about to choose a replacement for Avarit, former Marquis and recently deceased brother.

“I should be next in line,” said Lux, “for it is my yearning that causes people to give up their comfortable lives in hopes of ob-taining something which they may never have nor want.”

“If it were as simple as that, why would the title not stay with our dearly departed brother?” asked Invidia

“Aside from the fact of the re-vival process taking a tremen-dous toll,” said Lux, “his yearn-ing is most material, corroding and receding through the ages. Investment in my desires lead only to greater interest.”

“I do not know why we even argue,” said Gulo, viscous slobber pouring out with every word, “we all know Invidia is best suited.”

“I do not know this,” said Lux, “I am every bit as qualified as he.”

“Calm yourself, Lux,” said Acedia, who was by all appearances half asleep, “Gulo was only speaking to Invidia’s long and successful reign as our previous sovereign.”

“There was a time where I ruled as well,” said Lux, “or have you all forgotten?”

“Yes, dear sister,” said Invidia, “it appears we have.”

The darkness in Lux’s eyes grew slightly more incindiary as Invidia smiled to himself.

“Enough!” said Ir, seated high above his fellow Syngians. “The decision is mine to make and mine alone. The only influence either of you have over my choice is through your actions, not your words.”

“Well said, my lord,” said Superbia, hovering above them all, “May I reccommend a contest between the two?”

Ir thought for a moment. “That could be a decent idea.”

Superbia frowned, for he knew it was an excellent idea.

Ir stood and addressed all present in the Syngian court.

“I have decided that a contest shall be held to determine who is more worthy for the role of Marquis. Superbia, you shall accompany Lux and Invidia to the physical plane. Find a spark, a strong spark. Set these two loose. The one who can claim its destruction as their own shall become Marquis of the Syngian.”

5“She must be one lucky lady.”Rob was so enthralled by the

glowing light of the jewelry case that he hadn’t even noticed the woman standing beside him.

“Heh, no,” said Rob, “I’m the lucky one.”

“What’s her name?” said the woman.

“Holly Kn--”

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The woman placed her hand on Rob’s arm and stared directly into his eyes. “And what’s your name?”

Rob had forgotten about rings. The perfume of this strange wom-an, scented of lilacs and night, filled him, engulfed him, drowned him in a vast primal ocean of ex-otic mystery. His entire body ig-nored all other function albeit to radiate the heat needed to warm her cold, soft hand that slowly ca-ressed his arm. All he could see was this woman. Her eyes, deep and dark, like tiger traps, tempting him. He wanted to jump in and al-low the rows of thick, spear-like lashes to pierce through his flesh and sinew, allowing a bleak eter-nal repose within her void. “Rob. Rob Green.”“Nice to meet you, Rob Rob Green,” said the woman with a grin equal parts alluring and ag-gressive, “My name’s Annie.”

§Next Issue:

Two Syngians, One Soul.

DirectionsMixed Media

TheGambitMixed Media

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