The first thing Madison does when she inexplicably stirs awake at 2 in the morning, is scream.

Because in blinking away the hazy surroundings of her bedroom, and rolling from her supine position to her back with the heels of her hands rubbing away the darkness, she's met with the moonlit shadow of none other then her high school ex.

What comes out next is a string of incomprehensible garbled curses, all strung together to the back of a freight train that cannot leave her throat fast enough.

The ex in question looks up at her, the holes where her eyes are meant to be widening just so and then her head tilts back— the skin of her neck that seems paler than it used to glinting in the bay view window, a low groan tumbling from her lips.

"Oh you've done it now."

Within a split second, Madison is tugging her blankets to her chest like a frightened child and letting out another half-scream, half-swear, more embarrassing whelp when her older brother and father both burst in- the first with a baseball bat at the ready, and the second tightening the knot to the robe bulging around his stomach that he refuses to replace for a properly fitting one, poking himself with the leg of his glasses before fastening them on.

"What? What's going on?" Her brother says, on edge and hair a spiky mess of unwashed gel.

She points, and the two men follow the tremble of her hand to the bay view, where the ex stands, unamused.

"She's right there! Don't you see her?!"

Her bother stares at the space, stepping forward, crouching to swing his gaze beneath the bed, and threw his eyes to the closet, before settling back on the brunette. "Who are you talking about? Where?"

Her father pats his salt and pepper covered head, and with kind eyes peers around his wild blinks to banish the sleep. "What are you taking about, sweetheart?"

"Emmy! She's-- she's right there!" It's half question half accusation that borders on whining and the woman looks up from where she's admiring a photo of Madison, younger by a handful posed by a childhood dog. Emmy smiles.

Jason looks every shade confused, every line in his face flooding with that shameless pity she knows all too well, reaching without any certain weight shifting his stance forward with the back of his hand to his sisters forehead like she's the deadliest thing in the room, bat limp by his side.

"Are you feeling okay?"

Madison swats at him, and he backs off with hands raised in surrender. Madison thinks she's close to the brink of insanity--

"Tell them it's a nightmare." Emmy says, smooth and soothing into the discomfort buzzing around.

"Uh..." Her gaze darts to her father and brother, both expectant and bordering something that forewarned of institutionalization. Inexplicably, she abides."Bad dream. Sorry."

Emmy is now running her fingertips along the knifes edge of the wall, painted a deep purple with a sort of tenderness that... it would be both right and wrong to call it displaced. Given the fact Emmy wasn't meant to be here at all, let alone having some kind of trip down memory lane..

Emmy smiles approvingly when she looks up from the photo in her other hand. "Good job. Its nice to know my words carry years after I've said them."

Madison clenches her jaw. This was a dream. No, no this was a nightmare, like her subconscious brought a demonic abomination to animation. She had read about dream theory- they almost always made you dream of something completely different than the meaning itself. This Emmy looked nothing like the real one, so this was fine— this was—

Emmy groans again, heavier as she swings herself down onto the windowsill's bench, face in her hands but her words escape her fingers. "Who's this guy?"

Madison doesn't get a chance to process the confusion, between her brother and dad acting like two NPC's called off in-action stalling awkwardly by the doorway, and the neck break speed in which Jason nearly goes face first into dream-nightmare Emmy when the next man, this one with gaming controller in hand bursts in, dropping onto the bed beside her with eyes full of such honour that she wanted to humourlessly call him off like a solider.

"You alright babe?"

His hands are soft against her cheeks-- meaty and heavy and calloused from lacrosse. It does little to soothe the Great War six feet away.

"Yeah I'm alright, Jack. Just a bad dream."

Jack frowns, his eyes flickering over every inch of her like she was about to crumble into dust that he would likely encapsulate in a gem around his neck for all of eternity-- which was more disturbing then comforting at the moment. "Do you need me to stay with you?" But then she senses the real discomfort—it's not him. He's perfectly good. True, and loving. Real, in his gentle strokes of her hair. So, the real issue was the... thing across from her.

She flashes a half smile at him in response. "No it's okay, love you."

Jack smiles back, warm and an offer of salvation in the strangeness of the hour. "If you're sure." He stands at her nod, pressing a final kiss to the crown of her head and followed behind Jason. Her dad had slipped away as soon as no threat was perceived. "Love you too."

"God that's so gross. Bye pretty boy!" Emmy waved at him, a smile thats all barbed wire and dark bruises.

Madison wanted nothing more than to move heaven and earth just to crush the vision before her. "Don't look at him." And it comes out in a snap, heat licking behind her teeth.

Emmy's face turns to her, slowly, unreadable in the dim light of the moon and the diffused glow of the city. She's much more frightening like this. Guarded instead of swinging. "Why? Scared I'm gonna hurt him?"

Madison scoffs, "You're not real. You can't climb from my memory to do any damage in my world." She says sliding back against her pillows but never enough to draw her eyes from the thing across from her.

Emmy tilts her head, eyes inconceivable like she's pulled shudders over them. "Aren't I real? Im here. I can touch things. I can speak to you." She slams the photo down for emphasis, and Madison prides herself in the way she only slightly jolts.

Madison's eyes narrowed. "You're not a ghost."

"Maybe not. But I haunt you."

"Of course you do. In every thing I do." And she wants to take it back, the words sucker punched out of her from the glow of dark eyes that screamed spineless, weak, soft. Flashes of those same words spat between the cover of green lockers and text messages blurred in the front of her mind.

"You blame me for things I didn't do." Come's the timbering reply.

"I blame you for every unjustified punishment you flayed me with. Your words, and your actions. They ruined me."

Emmy laughs, and it used to be such a pretty thing; tinkering and soft. It used to fill her with a warmth that carried through her veins until it melded into maple. But in the dark of night, hazed by sleep and anxiety that suffocates, it's haunting. It feels like loosing her, all over again. A darkness that can't be unbidden by any amount of sterile lighting or pleads. To—

"If you want to think that, you can. But it's a weak defence."

Madison grinds her teeth, refusing to rise to the bait.

"It's weak, to blame everything on someone else. What is it my therapist always said?- Redemption is not about pain, Emmy. It's about the good we do, not the price we pay. So why do you still think that your suffering is something special? Like you're a hero for not stabbing me for being mean? That because of who I was to you--sixteen years old, that that's excuse enough to be a shit person?"

"I was sixteen too."

"Oh, so that means you're unique."

Madison, belatedly realizes this is ridiculous. She's arguing with her pysche-- sleepwalking, or sleep paralysis, likely, so she flips onto her side and juts her foot out to cool her body temperature with the familiar sooth of the untouched side of the mattress.

There's no more talking, but she knows Emmy is there. Watching. She doesnt sleep. But she wont give the past the benefit of attention, either.

—————

An hour later, Madison is sitting at the table with a grimace on her face as she. stares at the bottle in hand. The liquor tastes... it says pineapple mojito on the wrapper. But what pineapple has such a noxious yellow colour, nearly glowing in the low light of the kitchen. It was cool in her mouth, like the thickness of mango juice, and went down with the taste of soap that settled into coconut and blossomed into... boot polish?

She doesn't flinch this time, when a familiar blonde appears sitting atop her kitchen table, elbow on an upright knee.

"You can't drink me away, you know." She grins, mouth bloodied like the one of the character's in Jack's Resident Evil game. "I've tried."

Madison slams the bottle down with more force than necessary, moving with leaded limbs to rub at her eyelids with the pads of her fingers.

"Why are you here? Do I need antipsychotics?" There's a low chuckle from closer, the fridge maybe. Then there's rifling-- notably the yoghurt containers getting caught on the cardboard in the procured haste to free the snack. "Do ghosts even eat?" She asks when the silence gets to be too much. Maybe this is her own personal brand of hell, dying and awakening to the eternity of high school subjected abuse. And now, it was just a quiet evil that followed her around and ate up her money.

"Wow, what a surprise. You're rude toward a minority."

A hairpin trigger, pulled, Madison looks up blearily at the figure illuminated by the fridge light. Emmy looks so at ease-- older, no longer fumbling with a body of an unsure and hyperactive teenager, but confident, poised in her movements. She isn't so horrifying now that she herself is less afraid. Her eyes were still dark-- did she dye her hair, or was it always such a bronze tinted blonde? It suited her weirdly perfect. Complimented the stained blood around her mouth, too.

Madison looks down to her bottle, wondering if it's food colouring or another poison that causes that bright yellow lurking below. "Why are you here?"

"You called. I come."

Madison doesn't know what that means, but Emmy's voice offers no invitation to question it freely. She focuses on making small circles with the tip of her index finger on the table instead. Waits. She's used to waiting, for Emmy to make the move. To hold her hand when everyone that mattered wasn't looking. To offer placating words in repose of verbal abuse. And its--

She was mean. But she also... she was also someone that stood in the fridge light, deciding whether or not yoghurt would disgust her or not the second she opened it and then decided on a string cheese instead. She was someone that fawned over photos of herself, younger. She was gentle, even with the gore She wasn't all bad.

"So," Emmy dragged her from her reverie, dropping the spoon down beside the unopened container of yoghurt, seemingly still deciding as she eyed the duo with hands on her hips. "What's wrong with you? Insurance too expensive, nails too brittle, mom too bitchy?"

"She died."

"Oh. Huh." Emmy blinks at the spoon. Decides to forgo it, as she tears open the yoghurt and begins slurping. "Sorry."

She's not-- they never got along. But thats fine. Madison and her mother never did much, either.

"S'okay. Not gonna send you to hell for poor tasting jokes or you'd be there already."

Eyes, twinkling like the most dangerous parts of the sea catch hers, "Aren't I now?"

Madison catches some of the sugary poison from the cupids bow of her lips, shrugging, "Lying is a sin. Again, can't send you to hell."

The other woman hums putting the unused spoon back into its rightful drawer, shooting over her shoulder, "Who knew you had such taste for ghost jokes. I'm stealing them."

"Another sin. Two for two, do I get the third for free?"

Emmy's lips flicker just barely, before they smooth into that all natural sneer. "You have wanted me dead for a very, very long time. Everyone knows that. So why do you still think of me?"

Madison shrugs, digging into the comfort of the bar stool with her nails. The circling index digs into the lacquer. "I don't know."

"You do. You just don't want to remember."

"I haven't been able to forget." She snips, her finger permanently etching a line in the table.

Emmy's laugh is dark. Twisting metal and rolling pennies on the back of the tongue. "You ever wonder why I was the way I was?'

"It was easier to not symphatize with the devil."

"Maybe." She sighs, quiet for a moment. "But I wasn't born mean. I didn't treat you badly out of malice."

"You didn't have to react to every feeling." Madison can't help but say. Emmy doesn't snap like she used to. She just nods, her face even and drawn.

"No. I didn't have to. But you can't blame a person you no longer know. You can't blame someone who was drowning for lashing out for any kind of reel."

Madison looks down to the tabletop. The air is too thick, her heartbeat too loud in her own ears. She releases a breath of her own, heavy and stilted. "I didn't help. I was rude. Quick to anger, I guess."

Emmy chuckles humourlessly. Madison looks up at the sound, and sees the twinkle in those dark eyes. They're different— softer. Eyes she had fallen for, when she was nothing but nerves and indecision. There's no blood on her lips now, when she gives a fleeting smile.

"It's not your fault."

Madison blinks.

"What?"

Emmy looks younger, now— like beneath the dwindling moonlight and the glow of the fridge, she's aged back to that sweet sixteen. Awkward, unsure, emotional. But her eyes are that same steady strength— unwavering despite Madison's response to flee.

It's written all over her face she's sure. She's never been good at hiding when she wants to leave.

"It's not your fault. What happened."

Madison blinks, her eyes bleary with unshed tears that she can't consciously remember forming. Emmy is a twisting vision— dark as night, quicksilver like a teen, and... her. The soft, flaxen haired one who looked at her with such tenderness.

Emmy circles the table, and Madison can vaguely recall the memories before the war— them two in the kitchen, sharing hoodies and feeding her childhood dog treats. Quiet, glowing smiles in privacy. The hard set jaw of a child under her own inquisition in public.

"My death. It's not your fault."

"I—I could have done more. To stop it."

Emmy shakes her head. A mess of black, bronze and flax. "No. You couldn't. Two children can't save each other from a place adults made unsafe. A child cannot bear the burden of another child's life."

And her voice— there's no edge. It's light, like it used to be beneath cotton sheets in the cool spring before global warming dragged and misfortune hung. Emmy is warm, here. In this kitchen, in her bedroom, in her mind. She isn't leaden with the exterior that Madison remembers—- that she forced her to bear in death in hopes it would be thick enough to assuage her own bleeding. But it wasn't.

Her tears are heavy on her cheeks, burning a trail only those fingertips had taken.

"Why.. why did you have to die?"

Emmy smiles, it's half of one and pained. But it's real. It's normal. It's not fabricated by a preconceived notion, or what she had begged to see in its place. "It gets very tiring to lick your own wounds. Some poeple..." eyes, not dark like the dangerous parts of the sea but wading at the surface that showed nothing but life, dipped to their edges then back. "Some souls aren't ready to be born yet. That's no one's fault. But some souls, some are waiting to be called home."

Her brother, father— oh.

One door. Heavy. Room filled with little trinkets. Cotton sheets. Worry. Familiarity.

Hospital.

Emmy's eyes are rimmed with a quiet plea. "The world needs you alive, too."

Her throat is thick with cotton when she swallows. "But.. you're not there."

"I haven't been for a while."

"So you're not... real?"

Emmy shrugs. "Who's to say? If I can soothe you— I am as real as you are."

Madison frowns. "I didn't.. you were mean, weren't you? Did I make that up?"

"No, you didn't." Emmy reaches out, her touch nothing more than a buzzing memory against her cheek. "I was mean. I was young, and sick. That's no one's fault. But it's okay to move on. It's okay to let me go."

Dark eyes, and light all the same drift to where Madison can make out the sleepy figure of Jack on the visitor's chair, face tucked into the palm of his hand and yawning. His eyes were heavy, trying to focus on the body in the bed but his own body begging for rest.

"It's okay, to love. To grieve and to heal, and to feel affection all the same. You can love me, mourn me, and love him and cherish him, too."

Madison looks back to Emmy, who's slowly stood. Smile strong and gaze fixed, warm.

"Will I see you again?"

Emmy's head tipped to the side, eyes twinkling with mirth. "Oh, yeah. When it's your time, I'm going to bother you forever."

"So there's an afterlife?"

Emmy sighs, exasperated but fond as she bends to press a buzzing kiss to the crown of brown hair, stepping back without breaking gaze. "There is no plain of existence where I wouldn't find you." Then, with that same guileless smile, "to haunt you of course."

Madison glared, soft and tired as she settles back into the bed beneath her. It feels faint, but there. Real.

"I love you, Em."

Emmy smiles, and opens the door. "Live for me; that's love at its purest."

On Christmas Day, 2016, I crafted My Cestui Que Vie, My gift to Me.  I knew I was creating something very special and I took My time with it.  I practised calligraphy for a couple of hours, then began Scribing into parchment I had purchased for the occassion.  This document Honours My Father and Mother by reclaiming Our House, the House of von Dehn, Kingdom of God.

And so begins My family’s Story, My Story.  In truth, I became a King on Christmas day of last year, legally.  Only God can make a man King, not the government or any other illusion of authority, and each of Us are born Kings.  Few of Us have claimed Our Kingdom.

I did nothing with the document for roughly another week.  I showed it to My mother when She asked Me how My Christmas was.  I Will never forget Her reaction.  She gasped, “Wow, Sean…  What is this, is it Art?”

“That’s My graduation thesis for the last seven years of Law study, My Law Degree.”

Of course, My Mother didn’t understand.  It doesn’t matter, I explained to Her that few people would.  What does matter, is that I communicate My new title and Law Degree to those Ministries that do presume to hold authority over man.  So, I also wrote three letters on Christmas Day that would accompany My Cestui Que Vie Trust, clearly defining what that document means in plain English.

The first letter was Writ to Canada’s Vital Statistics, though a private corporation called Express Legal handles Canada’s birth, marriage and death records/certificates.  The live birth record is responsible for all subsequent contracts a person might enter into and the corporate title created from that record is owned by the Crown Corporation of Canada, a franchise of the Crown Corporation of London.

Declaring the letter a matter for the public record, I Writ the following to Express Legal:

’To Whom these presents may come, greetings,

I am Writing You today with respect to a record of live birth registered with Canada’s Vital Statistics for SEAN STEPHEN VON DEHN.

I have provided a copy of My Cestui Que Vie, or Certificate of Life.  It is proof of My life and the title deed and claim of right to My real e-State.  It is presumed that the record of live birth registered with Canada’s Vital Statistics by My parents is also a claim of right to My Kingdom (real e-State) and this letter is to now and forever dispel that presumption.

My Kingdom is My Mind, Body and Soul.  It seems to Me that any property claim on any part of My Kingdom is a contract of slavery unless I have chosen to volunteer or donate the energy of My life to a foreign nation by way of informed consent.  I hereby revoke any and all consent to any contracts binding Me or any part of My Kingdom to any foreign corporation and any and all such existing contracts are null and void prima-facie for lack of full disclosure.

A few details of Your record of My live birth record are fraudulent.  My Kingdom could never legally be registered with the state as it can never be taken away, nor would anyone but Me have the right or authority to determine how My property should be governed.  To incite a man to surrender His Kingdom and the energy of his life to a foreign corporation or nation, suggesting the man Will have no right to employment, health or dental care, and/or any other ‘benefit’ of society is a very clever and constructive fraud.  To this day My parents can’t believe they have given away any part of My Kingdom and insist they would never have done so if they had known.  You do not have My informed consent and I do not acknowledge being born into a fictional time construct created by the Roman Catholic Church.

I am a true man of God, full age of majority and the rightful heir to God’s Kingdom, (My Mind, Body and Soul), living in My nation, in My house and in My land.

I am the land of My Mother, My body, Sean.  I am the ideas of My Father, the House, von Dehn.  I am the spirit of God, the Will or Hand of Stephen.  I am Sean Stephen von Dehn, a man living here and now.

I am kindly asking You to return the source document or genuine article live birth record for Sean Stephen von Dehn or provide proof that the e-State has been claimed by its rightful heir, Sean Stephen von Dehn.  In exchange, I surrender all corporate titles and the certified person back to You (I currently hold no Crown issued paper ‘identification’).  My Cestui Que Vie renders Your record of live birth null and void as I am now the title bearer of My own real e-State or Kingdom.  Please advise all relevant offices that the trust for SEAN STEPHEN VON DEHN held by the Crown no longer represents any real property and therefor has no commercial value.  As the live birth record is considered the ‘source’ document from which all other corporate fictions and titles are created, the corporate titled character SEAN STEPHEN VON DEHN has no value and no life without My energy, rendering all commercial contracts null and void.  Let the tower of cards collapse, please.

As I believe this to be an act of willful and constructive fraud, I am also seeking compensation for My years of service to this country in ignorance and would like every tax dollar I’ve had stolen from Me returned with interest.

Every nation reserves the right to create its own debt-free currency necessary for the full development of its inhabitants and I am sure I can count on Your cooperation and support in developing a coin for My realm, documents for travel and establishing My Kingdom in the international community.  I look forward to Your reply, have a blessed day,

King Sean, Hand of Stephen, House of von Dehn, Kingdom of God.  (Thumbprint)’

Funeral of Your Dreams: https://www.theprose.com/post/772026/the-twain-funeral-for-me-please-lil-bit

Funeral Package: The Classic

My dear, Huck. The “Twain” funeral is quite grand, but you, sir, are too unique for a premade package. Let’s use The Twain as a starting point and create something extra special, just for you, shall we?

The Twain comes with a real movie based on your life. My Master Filmmaker, Stanley, will use real home movies and photos of your life mixed with his own genius vision to create an unforgettable full length feature for your attendees. Mind you, this is no slideshow set to a sad Sarah McLachlan song. Oh no… this is a film that will be nominated for an Oscar because of its legendary story and unique style. And who could deny throwing even more wins at our beloved Huck? No one—that’s who. Huck isn’t just some big fish in a small pond. No, sir! The winningest writer I’ve ever seen on Prose is a big fish in the big ocean. Mr. Hoo is man of such caliber that he inspires masterworks from artists all over the world. The film of your life, premiering at your funeral, will be no different.

Your film will combine all of your greatest literary works with the sounds of the Carpenters, Waylon Jennings, and more into a story that will leave everyone in tears from both heartbreak and laughter. The end of the film will focus on that one that got away, all those years ago: the prettiest girl in school, Meg Bell.

“Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” by Frankie Valli will play as the audience sees boy Huck pining over his first love. They are all taken back to a time when they had their own puppy love. As the crowd is focused on the final scene of the movie (a tracking-shot of the time you walked all the way to school just to break the windows), no one will even notice the 12 year old boy who has casually strolled into the large theater behind them.

The boy actor on screen delivers a heart wrenching performance of a young man so desperate to be noticed by the one girl he wants most, set to the song “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling” by The Righteous Brothers. Just as Huck is about to throw that 8th rock into the school window, he falls to his knees, crying and screaming at the world as the song hits its climax…

“Baby (baby)

Baby! (Baby!)

I beg you please!

(Please!)

Please!

(Please!)

I need your love (need your love!)

I need your love (I need your love!)

So bring it on back (so bring it on back!)

Bring it on back (bring it on back)…”

On screen, we see the back of little Huck as he slowly stands, the song fades to echoing silence as he turns around to face the camera (breaking the fourth wall). Tears are streaming down his face, and with all his anger and might, he throws that last rock right it at the audience! It breaks through the screen and soars over the heads of every friend, family member, and fan… right into the hand of this mystery 12 year old little boy in the theater! The actor on screen resembles Huck, but this young man… oh my… he is Huck!

The whole audience gasps in horror and astonishment as the real 12 year old Huck smiles, cueing “Come And Get Your Love”. Young Huck tosses the rock over his shoulder and it disappears into thin air. He begins to make his way down the aisle as the funky sounds of Redbone make him start dancing, young and free as he is! This is no mirrored illusion of Michael Jackson taking the stage after his death—no, sir! This is Huckleberry Hoo himself in Living Light, the award winning holographic technology created by my team of Light of Life scientists. It uses billions of pixels per squire inch, thousands of mini ultrasound speakers that produce the sound waves to suspend tiny particles that move faster than the human eye can see. Finally, a real 3D hologram made of “solid light,” all for the legendary Huckleberry Hoo!

Perfectly proportioned from any angle, your Living Light Body not only looks like the real you, it can speak and respond, just as you would! And as you make your way up to people of choice, they will shriek when they feel you touching them! Then, as if you’re spreading a virus that’s good for the soul, you pull people to their feet to start dancing with you. No one can help themselves as they, too, start snapping their fingers and swaying their hips!

The music of all your favorite artists will fill the massive theater. Sam Cooke, Elvis, Lynyrd Skynyrd—all in attendance for your party! Hundreds of people will dance their hearts out to the soundtrack of your life. With overwhelming joy, the whole theater will be in tears as they watch you slowly age, having the time of your life. Then, as one final song plays, we will watch you climb into a fine oak coffin, giving your best Miss America wave, and disappear as you close your own casket. A cherished moment to remember you for the goober we all loved. Our collective energy of this magical moment will send you off to the likes of “Soul Heaven” to join the rest of the legends. This will really be the Funeral of your Dreams, Huck!

I know, I know… a little more extravagant than the basic “Twain” package, but could you blame me? And you better believe that I’m going to attend, personally. Like a kid waiting for their favorite band’s album to drop, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Because you, Huckleberry Hoo, are Classic: a solid gold record to be treasured throughout time…

And never, ever forgotten.

Thank you for choosing The END!

Love,

E <3

Created from my Welcome to The END Challenge: https://www.theprose.com/challenge/14302

Funeral of Your Dreams: https://www.theprose.com/post/771964/zinnias

Funeral Package: Enigma Special

Ahh, yes. I’ve got just the funeral for you! The “Enigma Special” package is a service based on my own, and like all our services, still customizable! Personally, I am set for Full Body Donation, which means I won’t have a “body funeral.” I will already be in transport to the State University in which my remains are promised (after any viable tissue is harvested, of course). Let me know if you’re interested in giving yourself to science and the brilliant minds of today who will save the lives of tomorrow. I can walk you through the application and ensure your best chances of being accepted.

If you wish to “keep” your body, I can simply arrange for one of my gorgeous dancers to pop out of an all black “dummy coffin” at the perfect time. But to really boost your scare vision, we can even have synthetic body parts fall from the ceiling to drop onto the laps of those you didn’t like (a seating arrangement will be sent out with the dress code). With no corpse in the coffin, I’d really love to make the people who were mean to you in this life believe they’ve just been rained on by your chopped up body. We’ll make sure to warn the people you love, of course.

Once the meanies have left screaming, we will wheel out your real coffin and perfectly decorated corpse. My Makeup Technician, Lily, will use your naturally dead glow and only add to your eye area. She will shade your eyes to filth with black paint and shadows to create that desired darkness. I’m seeing bleeding black eyes as a final touch. To accomplish this, we will make sure to leave your eyes open during both the preparation process and the funeral itself. This will dry them out for Tache Noire to take effect.

Now, I have a coffin and headstone picked out personally, just for you. Your coffin will be one from our gorgeous African Blackwood Collection. Expensive, I know, but you deserve only the best! African Blackwood is of the densest woods in the world and will shine with the all natural boning you desire (as we use only real bone here at The END!). We could even ask my Welder, One-Eyed-Willy, to make colorful metal Zinnias to garnish the sides. Forever engulfed in your so desired flowers.

The tombstone I have in mind is a slab of black marble with gorgeous gray veining. My Head Carver, Damien, can incorporate the natural veins into the text of your choice to make it look extra spooky for curious children and cemetery goers to ogle over.

Lastly, as this is the most important part of this masterpiece, your funeral will be filled, floor to ceiling, with Zinnias of all colors. When people walk in, the overwhelming beauty will literally take them aback. It will feel as though they’ve walked into a secret garden, too beautiful for the rest of the world to see. Because you, Raven, are a precious secret in which only the deserving may bear witness.

Thank you for choosing The END!

Love,

E <3

Created from my Welcome to The END Challenge: https://www.theprose.com/challenge/14302

Hello every One, and welcome to the Thoroughly Thrilling Thing King Edition, thank King or Queen You for joining Me, it is always a Pleasure and Honour to have You in My House. Today, as the Title Will suggest, I Will be tall King about My final two pieces of evidence Presented to the Social Benefits Tribunal regarding the Default Judgement awarded against the City of Ottawa on September 13th. Samantha Montreuil Wishes to cause as much harm to Beneficiaries of the Public Trust as possible by defying the Court Order awarded against her on a Court of Record, and in accordance with due process of service in any Common Law Jurisdiction, pleading ignorance, apparently!!!

Yeah, I am beyond furious, not only because it is stressful for Me, but the bulk of My stress is My Promise to the other Beneficiary, and the fact that I am not able to Honour that Promise for no other reason than contempt on the part of the City of Ottawa’s legal counsel (which is typical, quite frankly – the City’s legal counsel seems to be hired not to ‘right’ wrongdoings, but to dismiss wrongdoings as ‘frivolous and vexatious’ complaints if they are made by Beneficiaries of the Public Trust), and I have told My readers that My Word is Sacred. When I have done everything I can do to Honour My Word and it is still NOT being Honoured for no other reason than incompetence or Willful, criminal negligence, is beyond infuriating!!!

In fact, I went for a long walk with My Friend yesterday who was telling Me how impressed he was with My response to Samantha’s submission to the SBT, and how furious he was when reading the submission.

“Sean, I don’t know the Law as well as You, but is she not doing exactly the same thing the City of Ottawa was doing? She didn’t address a single point in the Notices? Or am I missing something?”

I assured My Friend he was missing nothing. They are not even attempting to address any of the Real Matters at Hand, have not addressed the rights violation related to the Claim whatsoever, have not addressed a single point in the Notices served upon them, and even practice direction for the Tribunal it Self clearly states that every point in the Notice must be addressed within 30 days or the Respondent is presumed to have waived their right to participate in the rights violation.

They were technically already in Default even before I had Noted them in Default! That’s why I was waiting so long for the hearing – they abandoned their opportunity to participate in the rights violation, presumably believing that Ontario Works do not have to respond to rights violations because the Ontario Works Act Gives them the force of Law to trespass upon whatever constitutional rights they Wish. As far as Ontario Works is concerned, the Ontario Works Act is the Supreme Law of the Land in Canada. And these People are thing King I’m the crazy person? How ridiculous does that sound to even the layman who is not well learned in Law? It sounds ridiculous becuase it is, yet this is the argument the City of Ottawa intends to Present to the Tribunal! Astounding, really.

I also received the hard copy version of the submission made by Samantha Montreuil on Tuesday. Would You believe they addressed the envelope to Sean ‘Von Dehn’ again?! AND in the actual form dated October 10th!!! This is what’s called antagonistic behaviour. They are only addressing Me that Way with intent to antagonize and infuriate Me, hoping that I Will tell Samantha where to go and how to get there even faster than I did on Tuesday.

And as far as Tuesday is concerned (when I sent Samantha a private email calling her a ‘f-ing clown’ for attempting to Present more contempt to the Court in stead of an appropriate response), I did send the email intentionally. It was not a mistake, and I suspected that Samantha would ‘complain’ to the Tribunal about it like a little baby, pretending she’s ‘so offended’ by the Word ‘fuck’ – like she’s never seen an R rated film? She can’t handle some profanity after the clients she represents are the most profane, Godless, insensitive heathens I’ve had the misfortune of having to deal with for six years?

No, I figured she would do this because in her Mind, it is going to justify everything Ontario Works has done. It is not a coincidence that I have NEVER used profanity in any correspondence with Ontario Works in six years of dealing with them.

The Truth is, it is not unreasonable for Me to punch some One back if they hit Me in the face. It is not unreasonable to respond to a profane ACT with a profane Word!!! Sticks and stones, baby! I’m not causing any harm, Samantha’s Acts are profane, harmful, and done with intent to cause harm, which is criminal.

I did this because I know that she Will Wish to say that My behaviour is inappropriate, while simultaneously insisting her profane Act of Willful trespass upon My Trust in God, is perfectly acceptable and I have no reason to be angry. Kind of self defeating, isn’t it? All it took was one instance of the ‘f’ word and a Notice advising her of her fiduciary obligations as a lawyer to Trustees caught in breach of the Public Trust for Samantha to deem My conduct ‘inappropriate’, yet the perceive years of the same kind of abuse to be acceptable and are hoping the Court Will agree with them? We’ll see about that!

It was deliberate to Show the Court that treating Me in a profane Way is perfectly acceptable to Samantha, but an ounce of profanity the other Way is deemed ‘unacceptable’? Interesting theory Samantha has. The Court is going to know she is playing games. It is not relevant to the Claim, and it is appropriate (or at least reasonable) under the circumstances for Me to lash out after so much psychological, emotional, and economic abuse, especially when it is deliberate, which is most certainly is.

Addressing the envelope and cover letter of the submission to ‘Sean Von Dehn’ is done for no other purpose than to deliberately antagonize knowing I find it offensive. They have been doing this for six years, and seem to like doing it ESPECIALLY after I am explicity as King of them no to because it is not the proper legal or lawful Spelling of My Magical Calling – it is a curse, using ’the Lord’s name in vein'!!!

And, just because there really is only one other Idea I have to compel performance before the date of the hearing, I figured there is no better time for a new Writ of Mandamus. You can read about what a Mandamus is all about and why I like to use them for Matters like this. The other time I used one was to waive My requirements for a doctor as it is a trespass upon the Trust and My right to autonomy over health care choices under threat of economic harm.

It’s also worth Noting here that Samantha actually provided evidence that proves My Claim to be True in her last submission!!! She includes the previous health care form which was accepted by Ontario Works in accordance with the Mandamus, recognizing Me as the ‘health care authority or practitioner’. I Signed for that ‘person’ and it was accepted and approved. Just like precedence in Court, One cannot recognize something and then randomly ‘not’ recognize something without breach of Trust and Breach of contract. So they actually included the evidence that not only Shows that I am the authority over My health care needs, but that they have recognized and Honoured this Trust obligate Sean before, which means they can do it now but simply don’t Wish to because it is more entertaining and Fun for them to exploit a Beneficiary under threat of economic harm.

Can You believe that one week from today, this Matter Will be over, one Way or another? It only took six years, not too much incompetence in Canada regarding the public Trust…

And today’s feature photo what I harvested from My garden on Lucky Wednesday! Much better pepper product-Sean than last year, and My favourite (not hot) peppers, are the Bishop’s Crown! They are so delicious, sweet and crunchy!!! They crunch like one is eating a pickle, almost as crisp as potato chips, except they burst with explosive flavour with every bite!!! So amazing.

Love and Blessings,

If You like this Post and Wish to know more, visit www.vondehnvisuals.com for the rest of My Story – Peace Prophecy (vondehnvisuals.com).

THE DREAMER BY LEX.

The head was almost obscured by the big black bee stung hands; but if one looked closely one could still make out the panic ridden face of a soon to be deceased….chicken. The sound that started to echo from its beak was not a shrill scream but a dream ending screech, that started low and continued to build,until at it's crescendo it startled me awake on a sudden turn at the 77th street subway station. Where poultry became real. I blinked once, twice ,rubbed my eyes and then muffled a sickness yawn.

Across from my now semi -focused eyes was the most out of place,blue-eyed, blond-haired boy, His hippie-like coiffure flowing lazily down one side of his almost laughable gorgeous face. The humorous almost macabre part of his angelic visage was that

in three short years he'd be in prison for the murder of a young mother.He would take a lamp; when surprised during a b and e and bash her brains to a sickening silent halt but for now he was my partner ...one of two.....he was Peter. My eyes still trying to focus were being hampered by sick- flowing tears with a mixture of a need and unspoken sadness. My blond associate finally became clear. He was giving me a head tilt to the right, a non-verbal way of saying "look at this". I looked and saw an old man scratching his nose, rubbing his face,all in a half nod which embodied a lifetime of so many disappointments. I smiled. I understood what he meant. It was that hope that we too would be soon in that glorious condition. That tragic dichotomy:

'Of why have you forsaken me?and do this in memory of me.' The clatter clash of the broken and bruised subway car almost knocked our junkie Jesus to the floor and woke us to the here and now.I closed my eyes in a futile attempt to relax my legs and stop the incessant banging of my knees. My uncle thought this was the secret to keeping thin.In fact it was one of the features of an anxiety that had been with me since early on in my life.

The waiting, the going, the getting was the way of the modern Burroughs. When we looked back in future years the going would be romanticized, waiting would be pushed far back into our memories and the getting would be the silent enemy never defeated.

The walk from the subway to the house was uneventful. Except that two hippies stood out like a cellar in Oklahoma. My dark Italian complexion, made deeper by the days at the beach, playing the pocketbook game, helped a little. The pocketbook game was the source of our newfound wealth and the reason we were able to make this junk chasing excursion. The game was simple.It took three thieves, an oblivious beachgoing public and a pocketbook or better still, a loaded beach bag. One of the trio of thieves stationed themselves at the water's edge.He was the lookout for unsuspecting victims.When they left their blanket unattended and ventured into the water he would raise his hand,this would start accomplice number one running towards the booty on that lonely blanket...he too had a blanket in his hands,while being chased my the last man of the trio.He would push him down on the target bag or wallet and as he feigned anger he'd scoop up these valuable possessions and chase the fake antagonist off the beach...We had pulled that over 2 dozen times and now we could use that bounty to cop the means to forget the guilt that came with such dirty deeds. As we made our way to our destination, we saw the store front of the" Young Lord's" the Spanish version of the black panthers.Next door was an old run down brownstone.The hallway was plaster filled poverty. Smelling of dinner and dirt. It made it clean.We started up the worn-out steps made quieter by the early morning. As the destination came close,my mind wandered to the plaster wall on my right with its holes and graffiti.One passage stood out written in black scrawl on the flaking wall,'Why do you think they call it dope'. I smiled a 17-years-old wise ass "Fuck you" to myself and then shouted at Peter. “Gimme the money.” He seemed lost. What?” he whispered."The money,” I said.

“.I have it in my pocket.”

“ .ok gimme.”

As he handed it to me,he knocked on the paint peeled door, a short pudgy woman answered; her light blue house dress stained with a dozen meals.

“Papi, what you need?” Her voice had that sweet tone that the money in your hand manufactures. We copped 35 capsules. This would be the first and last time we ever had capsule dope.We took 3 apiece for our own private cookers. I hid 19 in my sock while a more paranoid Peter stuck his in a hole in the wall.I took out my works.Kept in a small brown suede bag with a pull string .

The eye dropper had a pacifier attached to it with a rubber band wrapped tightly around the neck , to give it a whoosh. I tore a piece of a dollar bill, a small strand of ’in god we trust and handed to Peter.I did one for myself and I placed it in my mouth, wetting it and wound it round the tip of the glass dropper. This collar would keep the Steelback needle secure. I placed the hypo down gently on my pants leg and started to empty the 3 capsules into my spoon. Peter used his old bottle cap with wire handle, it was a matter of preference.Even though our Spanish lady would not allow us to get off in her apartment ,she had supplied us with a glass of water.Generosity knows no bounds.

My spoon full. I carefully sucked up the water into the dropper and squirted it slowly onto the white powder on the spoon.I raised the mixture with a surgeon’s care, lit a bic and slowly cooked my concoction.The white floating powder became a light brown water.Picking up the dropper I sucked the liquid up and used a tiny piece of cotton to collect all the germs and disease. All the hepatitis, all the dreams, loves and innocence. The small dirty white ball protected us from it all. After a flicking of the finished product to remove any death-dealing bubbles. I slid the piece of dulled steel into my arm . I was looking at the tube waiting for a different kind of bubble, that delicious bubble of blood. Then I could slowly squeeze the pacifier and shoot the brown liquid. Then wait for the warmth of the drug. The all-encompassing warmth, because nothing could replace the feeling of no more worries, no more problems, no more dirt, lost loves, shattered dreams, no more dead grandfathers no more......No more questions..Like:will you? can you? When ,who ,why ,did they, did you ,could you.It quiets them;it makes them dull.The little gnawing pain in your belly goes away.It's the ultimate procrastination....the sleepy sloppy junkie...sorrow delayed.Scarlett made real.Only there are no fiddly dees in the street.

We booted the liquid probably half a dozen times, sending the blood back into the arm. Maybe it was to capture a glimpse of the initial rush,.but eventually we pulled the dropper from our scarred pit and hastily sanitized it with 2 or 3 squirts of water. From the wound in my arm flowed a river of blood slowly making its way towards the cliff of my forearm dripping 1 2 3 4 5 drops onto my jeans. It made a what looked like a pattern a silly deliberately recognizable face of despair.Then 6 and 7 changed the face to a pool of blue dirt,which my wrist swiftly smeared into a distant memory. It was time to go, and I went to retrieve the other caps from the wall, but they had fallen behind.

“FUCK.” I shouted at the wall..I knocked at the door ....

“Our dope fell behind the wall.”

"Sorry nuthin I can do ,you have to go , too much in hallway ...go now.”

."I need to get the dope ” I protested.

“.No,” she screamed, “you have to go now”.

“C'mon let’s get out of here.” Peter said. We scurried sleepily down the steps and at the almost bottom we were greeted with. "Who got duh dope.?” .A machete - wielding Spanish take off artist He had an angry sing-song accent and an anger intensified by a craving and a little jealousy at these white boys copping and getting high without him.The brown handled cutter was raised in one motion to Peter's throat.... Again with a throatier guttural snarl came "Who got duh dope?"

"Wait” I said looking into the pinned pleading eyes of Peter“Stop ok, stop.” I was about to reach down into the sock hideaway when a wonderful George Harrison obscure album burst upon my thought process., “The wall!” I said triumphantly,. “The dope is behind the wall!”.The blade dug deeper into my almost bent- backwards partner's now bleeding skin. “No, no really! It's behind the wall , upstairs". I looked skyward with an encouraging nod. “It fell behind the wall, come on I'll show you.” Our attacker looked puzzled, pensive. Should he cut deeper or go and take a look..….

“Ok show me, let’s go, show me.” We walked slowly up the steps like coal miners after a long day,filthy with hope but tired at the tragedy of it all.

The wall fell like the crumbling ideals of the Roman Empire. Screaming Spanish and English combinations of " what the fuck are you doing.My delightful dope dealer was livid.My new machete man told her in spanglish to shut the fuck up. After a quick remodeling of the hallway, behind that shattered wall ,sitting on a cross beam was that playtime bag of capsules....

The man with the machete grabbed it and left. As I tailed him down the stairs I could hear the ever- distancing shouts of ’"don’t you ever come back!” My mind didn’t give a fuck about that. I was too busy, buzzing incessantly in the man’s ear, trying to reason with my new friend.

“Hey, part of that dope is mine.” “Hey, we need to split that.” “Hey, we’re partners on that.” “Hey, I was the one who told you it was in the wall.” “Hey, hey! Where are you going. Hey!”

He stopped and turned to me, exasperated.

“Okay, just shut up!”

I smiled inside and motioned to Peter to catch up. We followed my new friend into an abandoned house to become blood brothers,in a heroin kind of way.

So, the ritual was repeated..The capsules were divvied up. The works, the belts, the blood, the booting, the head bob and then the head nods; my nod slowly melted into a silent, soulful sleep, that finally turned black without my knowledge. I was lost in that darkness for a very long time. Then a bright light a white fluorescent light made me take notice that the brightly lit room I was now in smelled of alcohol and misery.

Behind a blue curtain in the far corner of the room stood a group of shadowy figures all moving and gesturing like Chinese shadow puppets. Suddenly, a head popped out from behind the curtain and looked directly at me.

“She's dead” she said. I felt a scream rise in my mouth, but nothing escaped. A rush of memories shot by on a film screen and then I heard the scream. It was coming from somewhere deep within the earth. As I was coming to grips with these oddities the same nurse spoke again.

“Wait we got her back... she's alive.”

I heard myself saying, “Alex its ok,” which morphed into “Lex we have to go,” then into “we got her back Alex.” These words floated in these 3 second snippets, duelling back and forth. Then finally the ‘Alex’ morphed into Lex which became a pleading “Lex let's get out of here." I raised my half-closed eyes, shook off the daymare and slowly rose to my feet. Peter stood before me with a twinkling smile.

“C’mon lets go.”

We stumbled, laughing, through the broken furniture, rat feces, and shattered glass, bursting free into the quiet morning of the neighbourhood. On the way home we were comrades with holes in arms. ..The train ride was a mixture of dope-fiend tall tales and half- nod laughs. By the time we pulled into Newark we were sad to see our new friend go.Two hours before, he had almost cut Peter's throat, but now the misery of addiction had us in hug swapping, hand slapping, nose itching goodbyes. The train started slowly again and jostled us back into our seats.. I stared out of the grime- streaked window, thinking of all the lives in all of the houses that whisked by..What was happening in the little apartment ,so close to the train that the noise must have been part of the family.What evil was being done in that yard with the leaf-filled dirt encrusted pool.And so on and so on as the real lives melted before me. My eyes slowly half closed I gave a quick smile to Peter and then my head slumped in sleep,banging gently on the glass. Suddenly my world turned white, not the sun-filled joyous white of the morning, no it was the bland, awful white of a sheet- covered body at the morgue. Everything slowly morphed into a greyish black.A fog filled darkness opened up onto a street filled with children laughing, yelling and playing.

Suddenly, there I was and from out of the crowd came a single voice,

"First to see the streetlights go on."

I turned to see who had won the night contest with no prize and then waited for the whistle, my father's shrill signal that its was time to come home. I waited but instead of my call to get the fuck home;' the street turned dark.Not the darkness of the blind but of the dead. I felt for a light and was slowly rewarded with a grave-robbers awakening. In the air I could make out Richie Haven's voice,

"Don't mind me, I ain't nothing but a dream".

Then the music got fainter and more cacophonous. I was alone, all alone. Except for a single shadow across from me on the other side of the street. It was illuminated by a fire burning in a trash barrel. Slowly it came into focus. It was my grandfather., My dead grandpa.

“What are doing here, Where are you going?” I called out. He pointed down the road. I started towards him.He waved both hands pleading me to stop. I just wanted to hold him one last time, kiss him on his weathered cheek, feel his warmth that I felt so rarely in my life.

"Can I come with you?” I pleaded.

“No”! "You have a life to live".He pointed towards the night sky and slowly walked away. I was about to follow him ,when from behind I heard a voice.

" Next stop Asbury Park".Again, a little louder this time,"Asbury Park"

The train slowed to a dream ending halt. I awoke startled and gazed over at Peter, he looked at peace. At peace with the present. At peace with the past. At peace with the old man nuzzling his head on his chest.

“C’mon Pete, let's go were home. Peter.” I said softly . He finally stirred, giving a disgusted shrug to the old man, pushing him roughly off his shoulder. He stood up smiling, he was still fucked up.I jumped down the four steel steps of the train to the dirt of Asbury Park, glanced down the street where it's "hard to be a saint"and saw, coming closer with a Jersey City walk, our third partner Gary. He was a sport specimen turned addict, still with the all the muscle that said ’"don't fuck

with me,’" but also a grizzled street look that comes with the constant chaos that a heroin run demands. I wanted to tell him of our trials, of our death machetes, of all our troubles but I thought, for a second, that I saw worry in his eyes. Was he glad we had made it home,because we had been gone so long? Had he thought we had been busted or beat? I hastened my steps, Peter lagged sheepishly behind and as Gary threw his big hands over my shoulders his mouth came inches from my ear. He was my partner,my friend, he was going to give this tired, worn- out, dreamed- out man a glimmer of compassion. He whispered softly with a sardonic smile.

“Who got duh dope ?”