Wraith Hail (Artifact Edition)

The Demo Tapes Part 2 – Wraith Hail.
Artifact Edition

To anyone who has read one of the two previous uploads of “Wraith Hail,” please note that this version of the story is quite different.

Due to WordPress’s frustratingly limited formatting options, I should inform you of one thing: the italicized numbers are markers for the endnotes. Scroll down to the bottom to see them.

The more of you that I inspect,

The more of me I see reflect.

And when my excuses were perfect,

Realized I was an object.

I’m in this, here, a room, I have a dictionary I have a bed.

You own with food, water, estate,

And you, your story, takes a twist, the bed is red.


Tell me, what was I to you?

I’m a scholar, I know the words.

I just…don’t remember, let jog my mind; open the book:


Con”cu*bine (?), n. [F., fr. L. concubinacon- + cubare to lie down,concumbere to lie together, akin to E. cubit.]

  1. A woman who cohabits with a man without being his wife; a paramour.
  2. A wife of inferior condition; a lawful wife, but not united to the man by the usual ceremonies, and of inferior condition. Such were Hagar and Keturah, the concubines of Abraham; and such concubines were allowed by the Roman laws. Their children were not heirs of their father.

It’s funny, isn’t it?

They used to tell me…know your place.

This isn’t my place, is it?

It’s only yours. It is Orion. His name is Orion.

There is a pile of papers and books in the corner,

Near my mother;

She is insane.

“Gasoline was too expensive!” She sings, “I got kerosene! Ah, look! It doesn’t smoke as much, how lovely.” 

I watch the fire. I’ll die here, impure; my mind, inflamed. How many of my friends; they call it monogamy, but if you’re not a wife, you’re…concubine.

Let it burn me, mother Hail. The grandfather clock strikes twenty minutes afire.

“Come now, don’t be retarded, look, it’s your man, calling in the hall!”

The flames are silent. They drift into the vents. The room is stone, it’s stone, it’s stone, it’s…the tapestry, a gift from my mother, catches fire, then the rug, just let me die.

“Come, Alexandre, darling, listen!”

The fire, I am a kēmist by training. Kerosene, it is a flammable liquid, the vapours can explode.

The air in the room ignites, a cold burst of red and yellow and orange and painful and mother help me

Engaged in crime I grasp my throat

Enraged my mind starts to smoke

Enforce a mental overload

Angry again, angry again, angry—


Come dear, “she says,” I am disoriented, my bed is singed, but it didn’t catch. But the rug is finding its way to me. I’m dead.

“Come on, you can do it!”

I see her beckon. I hear from the hall, calls for his life. He doesn’t call for me. Useless man. All the servants are out, he is alone, but for me.

“Let the wicked burn! My love, we have work to do here yet! Can’t you see them? They dance with the flames, the wicked, still, look! I am to join them, but my lovely, you still need taking care of, don’t you?”

You can always trust a madman—if she’s your mother.

I stand up, the bed catches, finally, sharing a moment of heat and lust with the rug. I don’t see smoke, but I cough anyway.

“Look!” he enters the room, my mother is still not helping, she’s helping, look, I look, I look, I loo-

“Hey, kiddo,” I say to him, I say to Orion.

Orion, my owner, looks at me, he’s frightened, paralyzed. He; I feel now, that my resentment was misplaced. He scans the books, on fire. I take the dictionary from the smoldering bed and add it to the pyre and then laugh as my mother does; the saccharine laugh of our family.

“Nice of you to join us, what’s burning? Did the vents do their job?” I stride to the window and open it. The flames feed on the oxygen, the atmosphere, my life.

“Everything! There was a burst in every ventilated room—”

I hated him, so I took him and threw him out the window, save them from the flames, I called to him, about the others long gone.

Then, my mother and I, we left the building and let it die, die instead of me, I’m more important. I’m more important.


1 The first two lines are identical to the first two lines of “Angry Again” by Megadeth. Song lyrics, notorious for being aggressively guarded by record companies, almost never make it into published work. Thus, this piece can never be officially released.

2 The dictionary used is the anachronistic Webster’s New International Dictionary of the English Language, revised 1913 edition; chosen to avoid copyrights—despite the use of copyrighted lyrics both before and after it. A fifteenth or sixteenth century dictionary would have been more period-appropriate.

3 Seeming anachronisms, while potentially setting-permissible, should be removed to supress reader speculation. When allowed to remain, they can undermine the legitimacy of the text.

4 The Greek (Romanized)a spelling of chemist is used due to the context of the piece. This should be changed to chemist to maintain the pretence of legitimacy in the text.

5 The four lines before “HELP ME” is nearly the entire chorus of “Angry Again;” the song that opened the piece. This further undermines the text, and enforces its unpublishability.

a First coined 1605, from chemist +‎ -ry. From chemist, chymist, from Latin alchimista, from Arabic اَلْكِيمِيَاء‎ (al-kīmiyāʾ), from article اَل‎ (al-) + Ancient Greek χυμεία (khumeía, “art of alloying metals”), from χύμα (khúma, “fluid”), from χυμός (khumós, “juice”), from χέω (khéō, “I pour”). (https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/chemistry).i

i Sourced from the creative commons, to avoid conflicts of legitimacy.

Daniel Triumph.



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