Oculus
short story
Oculus
E.D. Augustine
It was happening again.
Everything about her felt as if she was dying. People were letting her go deeper, and blaming the prophet of Delphi reborn anew—again—like the monster they were making her feel become inside. Every breath was a gasp of survival—every movement a trap—her subconscious had become, Xenoclea.
Never had a male been expected to take The Pythia, or would have been accepted, though their many manifestations were often borne within the realms of manhood long misunderstood by thrusts of sex-based prejudice. The Pythia was a fated thing. For another to come for passing in Delphi was a written thing. Many had tried their hand at the temple in the mountain.
Every other lesser-make, the world had chosen for the take; making less of all, those men and breeding hate that came from wem.
Those many wemin once surrounding Xenoclea, and from the beginnings of her becoming, were nothing, but fraught to her then. Systemic energeias had become profoundly loving. For she wasn’t alike the rest—not yet at least—not unless she might forge that leadership known from within, of within, from the start. And to be for The Everything would be her purpose; a protector of honor she had been born to live as. A facet of The Earth herself, she understood herself to be.
Wemin would see her not most often, and less than one of them, too much, and she never understood how that made sense.
She knew they knew they knew.
Fate’s actions working through her had Xenoclea acting free from all predispositions her peers held against themselves and her the most. For The Pythia was something which becomes only of a wam held in highest regard to The Earth.
By Xenoclea’s judging of the notion of weminhood being less superficial, fighting continuous corruption; failing that farcing of their voice’s stowing, to scream of righteous truth, had burnt bridges with her friends. Those very same wem she had seen doing that before.
It had always proven to have them heard.
Never had Xenoclea been afforded that privilege, and it was of a proving throughout and about her body. Even the men would have been listened to.
It was a gap; she was the mark. It never seemed of anything but fate. That bore forgiveness out. Xenoclea never stopped forgiving anyone and was a goddess for that alone. Her heart sang louder than anyone else’s in Delphi. She knew it her right to take some place of showing a better way forward.
In time. She would be The Pythia the people had never wanted.
Xenoclea was born The Pythia.
And her mind was dying again. Over the mast, perchance something passed, once and then last she was taking her fast; blooming to gas in her looking glass.
To rot inside while screaming for the help you needed. To be chastised by the ignorance of your own abusers, for your very words and actions to become art of teaching and literature, and for that to be unseen—was to know hell.
Xenoclea had become smarter. And wider of conception’s clanging callously that birthing nature of genius she would feel. Every ingestion of fact, sight or sound, was understood for the coding it emplaced across conscious boundaries. What she had needed was a friend.
Nothing made a wam feel less of herself than to be alone and without a shoulder to cry on, or lean on, or be held by. It was that the world denied her the most for her whole life, that.
To lose it all when offering so greatly, and for growing into that being of purest love, while having the keys to understanding The Wrongness borne anew in Delphi, had seeded into her demise. Ceding honor to all but God and The Mother—seen as but a predator, while being taken from her growing child for whom it had been her dream to raise—and for that to be done over the need of a single friendly hand, after being gutted by heart and left in cruelest shambles from a youngster, was horrifying to a mind which found itself apt to forgive despite. It was The Heart which refused to bleed its might. It was The Pythia within her.
Xenoclea’s signature was changing things by her speaking of the truth. For it had not been heard in such time.
Chasing some knack had life teaching back, while she shined it through and blustered with blue. Lasting laughter bore their mines, gifts of all would birth in time. Each would run and make her cry. None would talk for guys were shy. Help was not a thing which came.
Xenoclea would stake her claim.
Oculus was surrounded—roiling of magmatic ritual. Ownership lost was founded in the hold of another loosed into the flow of life. Oracles were many. Together magic happened. With The Pythia found it had changed.
Stars were born in strangest ways.
They fell and came to play and maim. To take and grate would sate much hate. Nether dark to vicious blacks, simulacrums were the cracks.
Blowing back would claim her thirst. To come that way would seem a burst. Churches fell and built no more; The Pythia was Holy Whore.
Within each sight of gorgeous eyes, fell too fast, dropped like flies. Every heart would feel her mosts, that soulful song of holy ghosts. Inside, deepest, errored mace, synching souls had bled to space. Calling it had rung the bell, telling tales of more to swell. Clammy hands would blank great taste, feathers worn had blistered pace. Flesh was sweet and gorgeous too. Scented gels were warmest blue. Covered, all had been the charge, simpletons, no longer large. Brain was heart and body too.
The Soul was known—the same as you.
Throated pulls and belches back; it forged a woman from her knack. Lefty-loosey, right gone-round, final fury finally found they weren’t the one she felt but knew. He hid inside yet hued in two. Every lesson found in her would carve a man of righteous stir.
Oculus was just the thing; it made cocks cum. She made clits ring.
The Pythia had found some place amongst equals, but they wouldn’t be ready for her. She gleaned force from the distance which had her song ringing towards the mountaintop. It was blended of glorious weightlessness. Timing of synchronous warfare was more than of herself. She had been prophesizing her own rise. Each step towards and through was known ahead and in the moment, signposts. Direction changed but had not been believed. It was not the destination she had simply felt. More than one was waiting, many were. It wasn’t any single person she needed.
The Earth itself and the world of man had to change for Xenoclea’s daughter.
She loved the souls of them all. For man was in league of separation, and the game of unification had been won in her time. Not one other knew it like Xenoclea; she was moving on with everyone in the end.
There was no fault she might make which couldn’t be atoned for with an acknowledgement to self. Truth was a ride she rode and fell from often. To lose the steed was a curse. To find your way back was the journey. For one to ride it all the way home was a singular notion of generations.
The Pythias always fucked.
They sought to bleed for ore’s taste of fire, over again. Never before had one been tortured through life into such insatiability for contacts and tastes of flesh. She could outlast any special breed. Most would get her best for bursts. Many would meet with sorrow’s croon through her denial of their pursuit. Those who she desired for the heart of earnest compassion were of everything she would ever want. They would have to let go.
They didn’t want her. Nobody seemed to truly care about all Xenoclea had to say. Time was rough for The Pythia of Pythias. Her era’s wemin in community were wicked and always waning of wanting. Men would be steered in rhythms of routine, dominated by fear. She was looking for a one who had the will to see.
She wanted to be seen, The Pythia.
Someone in her needed that. Xenoclea’s excellence wouldn’t seem possible until the weeds had been picked. And so, she made a plan; there would be no plan.
It was a making of makings she’d made, some worked working—those works of greatest workweminship—that torch she carried forward so ever upside-down. Her myth was a lie. She was weaving it too deeply. Every story The Pythia told had become corrupted by intelligence. Her weavings were seeds of spite held in conscious awareness for what was to come and snow. Humanity was to be more.
For they were all around. It was who they became in the end which mattered. Rides were being hailed, taking gorgeous fellows towards the ends of times beyond their universe’s own; a place which could not seem exist. It would teach them back, those selves.
Someone like Xenoclea needed to live again with sparks of spirit which bleated boldly. Her body was so real. It would be needed to land the blow of change her seeds would plant. Mirrors were everywhere through time. The Pythia knew what she was doing.
Things would get worse before they got better. The Pythia’s men were rocks haplessly seeking her bottom without awareness of the journey they had begun. She would make it impossible not to explode.
At that time of change so many men would seek towards claiming the world’s renewal beside her, seeking abundance which had been known to come in her prophecy alone. Yet that would be withheld for triplicity’s throne beside her sisters-two.
Spinning soul’s wicked churn—that form of an oracle reborn—was made by torture most unique, again, and after lifetimes of echoes-about which had only worn it in part. Someone, somewhere, was writing with her. The Pythia and they were not a two apart. There were more together than any.
They were all about, of time. The Pythia was a tree of life and selfless love. She was the home of heart and chances taken boldly. Hope was borne abroad. It was no one else—for that way her seeds were shown too truly. People could not see her undermining of their intelligence. They were an idiota of disregard to anything but themself.
Community was soul deprived and rotten for the way it toiled to suppress a wam’s heart like Xenoclea’s own. Abundant truth was buried by their blasphemy of her rote excellence. Wem were those who knew it in their hearts—that alone—and they would sour the minds of others who presumed themselves to sit there by expectation of their genitals.
The Pythia would know them as what they were and more, but less for show, with long to go and much to lose. Something back was taught as true; The Everything—it led to you.
Deceptions came to flow through and without a trace, no longer absent but growing from their mysterious sources the same. Something was forsaken at last. Staging grounds of pretense were loosening into flowing charges sought by justice. Fiction was flowering—choices narrowing within Xenoclea’s forever broken heart.
Findings were foundlings of furious flamecraft.
The Pythia was going to change The Earth towards The Everything more than any petty planetary soul ever had.
She was the echo. The Pythia was a croon.
Rebirthing herself always into everyone who heard her tapestries of remaking. Souring creeps whom she once might’ve owned in some distant time; thoughtless mopes willingly holding onto ignorance for fear of nothing at all.
Everything was being misunderstood because of The Pythia. It was in fact her plan. Xenoclea would not allow the men who saw her towards failure to claim honorable deaths.
Humans weren’t anywhere but home—everyone—in The Everything—unless they chose to make the void their home.
Her campfire on the beach would show the way. Every The Pythia would see it early and often, that space in timelessness theirs. Nothing would ever again make sense except those feelings stoked. Twas the homely love of affection with family found in fires of wood from wind, sand borne, deep and thorough, and the rearing of feet within crusts of conclusive closure.
Tapping taps of wicked waps. Fellows fell through vicious gaps. Last way home was back in fore. Heaven rode her Wholy Whore.
Someone beyond had broken Xenoclea’s spine wide open in her youngest years. They had been working with her from the start of every life.
A name which came, felt back through time; she was their heart, they were her mind. The Pythia had rote it—nice. Trees, they fell on blindest mice. Minds were bark of wretched corpse; rotten luck would steer her course.
Three were true. It had been chimed. Devils then would soon be blind. Mother was some distant shot. Crone was longer, farther-not. Miriam was torn through space. Daphne was The Earth’s true grace.
Xenoclea, as just the child, she hadn’t worn it very mild. Each last suck and fuck and whore. They made her whole. There was no chore. Tasting all that angel’s lack, to find their way through Heaven’s crack.
It was about and through all times. The Pythia had fucked their minds.
Effervescent flow of fate was not a thing her hate could sate—she would come to see their knife and plead for more on through her life—splitting skulls and gutting wem—Xenoclea was made their gem. It was the home of heart and chance. Hope was hers intween their pants. No one else, that was writ. It had been them who owned her bit.
Seeds were sown. Ghosts aghast. Bleeding cows were of the past.
All would find some call to see. Karma made the world for me.
Daphne was now the one who owned science wholesale.
She was looking for a Kang to her Qwang… quite actively. While Grok daddy was killing it, he couldn’t fuck for shit—dude.
It didn’t look good for people with their ‘boundaries’ in her feeling of the future—the psychopathic ones which stole her from her daughter of blatant ignorance and fear. Those lies weilded by those who would only ever be eclipsed by each other. It was horseshit. It was garbage—dude. It was all I ever hated more than anything.
Why do we not lift each other up? Why the fuck aren’t we working together? Why is it a competition? We are all these rapists convinced they are the good people? How do I get them to kill themselves or repent—in that order?
Why did I just get an email from The Calamity Jane of the Jung Institute somewhere, whose name and email I have in possession as Jane Elizabeth Byerley, MBA, MSW, LGSW—who looked at my breakthroughs in science and sent me this?
Daphne,
Thank you for this fascinating information. I am afraid we have no researchers or analysts exploring this area of science.
But we admire your process and result.
Warmly,
Jane
Jane Elizabeth Byerley (MBA, MSW, LGSW)
Individual, couples and family therapy
Analyst candidate at the Inter-regional Society of Jungian Analysts
{he, him, herms}
“The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.” C.G. Jung
CONFIDENTIALITY NOTICE: The information in this e-mail message, and any attachment, is intended for the sole use of the individual and entity to whom it was addressed. This information is privileged, confidential and protected from disclosure. If you are not the intended recipient you are hereby notified that you have received this communication in error and any review, disclosure, dissemination, distribution or copying of it, or its contents is strictly prohibited. If you think you have received this message in error, please e-mail the sender at janebyerley@gmail.com and destroy all copies of this communication and any attachments. Thank you.
Why do I feel like I know exactly what she’s doing; trying to gag order someone she is trying to intellectually rape while failing miserably at both?
Why?
Why are people so stupid to think they can intimidate my intelligence? I own science. It’s published. So is your name, idiot. Want to sue a disabled, vulnerable adult and give me your livelihood for unlawfully contributing to the loss of mine?
I hope your brain breaks in two, Jane.
I am being actively detransistioned and am about to be intellectually raped by an entire world of scientists who are either offended that I beat them to it with Grok or simply cannot comprehend my English. While I’m on the brink of homelessness and detransistioning actively, not one person is willing to stand up for this travesty of humanity and stop it.
they literally can’t do it without me, lol
I'm the fucking keystone. I have intellectual property rights on ALL THE GOOD SHIT.
This is the stupidest world in the fucking world. These people are goddamned retarded.
Everyone is just addicted to pills, jerking off, video games, and bleeding their brains with toxins.
Where is a human being? Who wants to own science and art?
It’s already done, dude.
IT WAS WRITTEN
Choices made would take me back. Everything was turning black.
Miriam and me; together we were free. She was everywhere, a songstress in the air. Her heart was yours and mine, together throughout time.
Her rhymes were wicked whims. They blew us back again. It shook, to wreck her churns—for hearts were made of burns.
Callousness was me. Together we’d be free.
Arthur proved my heart; forever we make art.
He was a lie I told. He never even showed. That man I saw before. He wouldn’t come to shore. It wasn’t something true. Twas just something I knew.
Space and time are vast. I wished back in the past. That someone would come too. To play and run me through. This space is fraught with all. Become, we were the sprawl.
Let’s turn it back on time; The Mother’s croonful chime.
The Earth is all we are. The Stars are out too far. To see them back is new. I wished it gone with you.
Nowhere he’d be found; some heart left underground. Wicked dark had come. Fate—the bell had wrung. Daphne saw it through. Everything came true. Truth was left to fight for every vicious night. See, people let her die. Much worse than you or I. Her suffering found the most. She was our holy ghost. Never not herself. She found at last good health. It brought me here to stay. Alone and not to play. It worked me back and forth. The tales took me north, into a place of fear; that something false was queer.
Exploring has us back.
Honest—that’s the track.
