Excerpt from the Chronicle of The

Andrew Cook

...

Light! Sound! Pain! Change!

A dazzling brightness. A roaring noise. A searing firey pain. The passage of time!

It had been suffering beyond imagining. That non-place, where he/I/we didn't exist. It was infinite and infinitesimal, eternity and momentary. It contained nothing. There was no vacuum because there was no possibility of matter. There was no darkness because there was no such thing as light. Every moment was eternal and over as soon as it began. But worst of all there was no him/me/us. He/I/We experienced the purest mental torture, the experience of a sentient creature perceiving the fact of their own non-existence.

The eternal and instantaneous suffering was past. The unchanging nothing was replaced by something. A beautiful glare, a melodious cacophony, a blissful agony, the pure joy of existence.

The pleasure of his/my/our existence faded after a time as he/I/we tried to forget that void.

Who is/am/are he/I/we? Memory. He/I/we, no not he, not we, I tried to access my memory, but it is gone. My attempt disturbs the remnant of that memory, I see the fine white ash and black soot of my memory flake and drift away on currents in the quiet air.

My memory? No, not mine. His? Ours, our memory turned to powder and scattered by my efforts to recall it.

What am I? I don't know. The memory of what I am is gone. I only know that I need him, but I can't find him.

The floor is cold stone, the ceiling reaches high above me where I lie helpless. The room is dimly lit by flickering torches on the walls, they are bright but sparely placed so that the centre of the room, where I am is only dimly illuminated. Irregular noises emerge from the two shapes that loom over me. One shape makes a hissing rasp, a creepy devious tone, the other emits carefully formed deep booming noises, strangely artificial sounding.

I am hurt! One entire side of me has been removed, the protection for our precious memory gone! In panic I try to move but with half of me gone my movement is uncontrollable. Skittering around between the two looming shapes, I try to calm myself. I risk damaging the memories I have made since the previous ones were destroyed.

What are the shapes? Him? No, neither is him, they are others. Deep, worried tones come from one of the looming shapes, a harsh hiss from the other. The hissing one is green, scales cover it where it isn't obscured by brown cloth. The deep one is black, totally covered in black, nowhere does what might be underneath show through. More hisses and deep intonations from the shapes. They fall silent, they seem to be intently scrutinising me.

A change comes over me, the searing pain that I felt is gone, my missing half is restored! I shoot out from between the two shapes and soar into the air, they will not touch our memories!

Where is he? I want him. I need him. The shapes have changed, no longer bent hunched over, now standing straight. A shape lies seemingly crumpled on the floor beside the two them. Is it him? It is Him!

He groaned and sat up. His head throbbed and a burning pain seared one side of his body. Holding his head with one hand he hunched over looking at the livid red burns covered his left side. He didn't know where he was, but that felt usual and didn't worry him. He didn't know his name, he didn't know who he was, and that did frighten him. Instinctively he reached out for his chronicle, it swooped down to hover protectively between himself and two strange men. He reached out and it came to him, it was strangely thin though it responded lovingly when he stroked it's leather like bindings.

It opened before him keeping the cover toward the two men and he read the single page of confused text it contained. All his memories were gone, burnt and the ashes scattered in the air as the chronicle tried to get it's bearings. A second page peeled away from the back cover as the flow of, now more settled, narrative filled up the first page. He closed the chronicle and looked at it for a time. It seemed to him that it held some secret beyond what was written inside. He seemed to be on the verge of a revelation, a realisation teetering somewhere on the edge of his consciousness. He had to struggle hard for it but eventually it came to him, a recollection of something contained inside his head rather than in his chronicle.

He looked at the two men and gestured his chronicle aside. ``I,'' he said carefully, ``am a chronicler.''

The man in black whispered to the lizard creature and with a flick of it's tail it turned and walked away. The man in black squatted down by him, his black cloak folding over itself as it lay on the ground. The man wore black leather gloves and shoes and a black shirt under the cloak. His face was covered by a shiny black mask modeled in the shape of a human face, there were no holes or openings in it but he, if he was a he, seemed to have no trouble seeing through it. When he spoke his voice was not muffled by the mask, ``You are the chronicler. The rest of your people are gone.'' The man's voice was deep and booming but it sounded more like someone putting on a deep booming voice for dramatic effect rather than a person's actual voice.

The chronicler didn't know how he felt about his people, he had no memory of them or what they had been like. ``What is my name?'' he asked.

The man's unmoving mask seemed to assume a troubled expression though it's features remained fixed and rigid. ``I don't know,'' the man sighed, ``Why don't we call you `The Chronicler' for the moment and you may call me none other than `Not'. Well Chronicler, let us not see what can't be done about your injuries.'' The man put his arm round The Chronicler and helped him stand. The chronicler leant on the man and was led way slowly across the room towards a large door set in one wall. ``When you are healed I won't fail to tell you what happened to you and the rest of your people.''

``Can't you simply mend me?'' asked Chronicler, ``You seemed to mend my chronicle.'' He put his scarred hand out and rested it on the floating book as it bobbed in the air beside him.

Not grimaced, ``I cannot heal or mend what is already there, I can't do more than replace what is missing. Your burnt skin would need to be physically removed, since I cannot destroy it. It is better that you heal yourself.''

Chronicler examined his chronicle closely, it wasn't totally healed, the back cover was scorched and parts of the spine were burnt away, it would heal in time though. The only part of it that was healthy was the armoured front cover, the whole thing was totally intact and looking like new. Probably because it was new.

They emerged from the dark room into the relatively brightly torch lit corridor, Chronicler shied away from the flickering flames and the chronicle flew up to bob just below the ceiling. ``Chronicler,'' said Not seriously as they walked, ``I will not rest until our enemy is repaid for what he did to you,'' a touch of madness fanaticism coloured Not's tone ``This world will be torn from his grasp and it won't not be ours!''

Andrew Cook

	Excerpt from the Chronicle of The Andrew Cook
	Excerpt from the Chronicle of The Andrew Cook ... Light! Sound! Pain! Change! A dazzling brightness. A roaring noise. A searing firey pain. The passage of time! It had been suffering beyond imagining. That non-place, where he/I/we didn't exist. It was infinite and infinitesimal, eternity and momentary. It contained nothing. There was no vacuum because there was no possibility of matter. There was no darkness because there was no such thing as light. Every moment was eternal and over as soon as it began. But worst of all there was no him/me/us. He/I/We experienced the purest mental torture, the experience of a sentient creature perceiving the fact of their own non-existence. The eternal and instantaneous suffering was past. The unchanging nothing was replaced by something. A beautiful glare, a melodious cacophony, a blissful agony, the pure joy of existence. The pleasure of his/my/our existence faded after a time as he/I/we tried to forget that void. Who is/am/are he/I/we? Memory. He/I/we, no not he, not we, I tried to access my memory, but it is gone. My attempt disturbs the remnant of that memory, I see the fine white ash and black soot of my memory flake and drift away on currents in the quiet air. My memory? No, not mine. His? Ours, our memory turned to powder and scattered by my efforts to recall it. What am I? I don't know. The memory of what I am is gone. I only know that I need him, but I can't find him. The floor is cold stone, the ceiling reaches high above me where I lie helpless. The room is dimly lit by flickering torches on the walls, they are bright but sparely placed so that the centre of the room, where I am is only dimly illuminated. Irregular noises emerge from the two shapes that loom over me. One shape makes a hissing rasp, a creepy devious tone, the other emits carefully formed deep booming noises, strangely artificial sounding. I am hurt! One entire side of me has been removed, the protection for our precious memory gone! In panic I try to move but with half of me gone my movement is uncontrollable. Skittering around between the two looming shapes, I try to calm myself. I risk damaging the memories I have made since the previous ones were destroyed. What are the shapes? Him? No, neither is him, they are others. Deep, worried tones come from one of the looming shapes, a harsh hiss from the other. The hissing one is green, scales cover it where it isn't obscured by brown cloth. The deep one is black, totally covered in black, nowhere does what might be underneath show through. More hisses and deep intonations from the shapes. They fall silent, they seem to be intently scrutinising me. A change comes over me, the searing pain that I felt is gone, my missing half is restored! I shoot out from between the two shapes and soar into the air, they will not touch our memories! Where is he? I want him. I need him. The shapes have changed, no longer bent hunched over, now standing straight. A shape lies seemingly crumpled on the floor beside the two them. Is it him? It is Him! He groaned and sat up. His head throbbed and a burning pain seared one side of his body. Holding his head with one hand he hunched over looking at the livid red burns covered his left side. He didn't know where he was, but that felt usual and didn't worry him. He didn't know his name, he didn't know who he was, and that did frighten him. Instinctively he reached out for his chronicle, it swooped down to hover protectively between himself and two strange men. He reached out and it came to him, it was strangely thin though it responded lovingly when he stroked it's leather like bindings. It opened before him keeping the cover toward the two men and he read the single page of confused text it contained. All his memories were gone, burnt and the ashes scattered in the air as the chronicle tried to get it's bearings. A second page peeled away from the back cover as the flow of, now more settled, narrative filled up the first page. He closed the chronicle and looked at it for a time. It seemed to him that it held some secret beyond what was written inside. He seemed to be on the verge of a revelation, a realisation teetering somewhere on the edge of his consciousness. He had to struggle hard for it but eventually it came to him, a recollection of something contained inside his head rather than in his chronicle. He looked at the two men and gestured his chronicle aside. ``I,'' he said carefully, ``am a chronicler.'' The man in black whispered to the lizard creature and with a flick of it's tail it turned and walked away. The man in black squatted down by him, his black cloak folding over itself as it lay on the ground. The man wore black leather gloves and shoes and a black shirt under the cloak. His face was covered by a shiny black mask modeled in the shape of a human face, there were no holes or openings in it but he, if he was a he, seemed to have no trouble seeing through it. When he spoke his voice was not muffled by the mask, ``You are the chronicler. The rest of your people are gone.'' The man's voice was deep and booming but it sounded more like someone putting on a deep booming voice for dramatic effect rather than a person's actual voice. The chronicler didn't know how he felt about his people, he had no memory of them or what they had been like. ``What is my name?'' he asked. The man's unmoving mask seemed to assume a troubled expression though it's features remained fixed and rigid. ``I don't know,'' the man sighed, ``Why don't we call you `The Chronicler' for the moment and you may call me none other than `Not'. Well Chronicler, let us not see what can't be done about your injuries.'' The man put his arm round The Chronicler and helped him stand. The chronicler leant on the man and was led way slowly across the room towards a large door set in one wall. ``When you are healed I won't fail to tell you what happened to you and the rest of your people.'' ``Can't you simply mend me?'' asked Chronicler, ``You seemed to mend my chronicle.'' He put his scarred hand out and rested it on the floating book as it bobbed in the air beside him. Not grimaced, ``I cannot heal or mend what is already there, I can't do more than replace what is missing. Your burnt skin would need to be physically removed, since I cannot destroy it. It is better that you heal yourself.'' Chronicler examined his chronicle closely, it wasn't totally healed, the back cover was scorched and parts of the spine were burnt away, it would heal in time though. The only part of it that was healthy was the armoured front cover, the whole thing was totally intact and looking like new. Probably because it was new. They emerged from the dark room into the relatively brightly torch lit corridor, Chronicler shied away from the flickering flames and the chronicle flew up to bob just below the ceiling. ``Chronicler,'' said Not seriously as they walked, ``I will not rest until our enemy is repaid for what he did to you,'' a touch of madness fanaticism coloured Not's tone ``This world will be torn from his grasp and it won't not be ours!'' Andrew Cook