“Theraphel” by Ryan Bry
The houses on his street were burdened with the beauty of morning dew and its troublesome legality. The beast that had leapt station to station throughout his bedroom—which for that night had nullified the safe instinct of darkness, shriveled its mouth, dying in a sequence of cataclysmic light which were all the butchered prayers said previously. Theraphel lay lugubriously in the drone, for he was charged with the healing curse of anti-immunity to be a conduit for the melody that only men and women who have stared at the broken body of God can hear. Sleep surrounded him like a child army where he saw nothing because his brother Drawnbove was drunk with inflicting. He liked to step as if experimenting with considerations around Theraphel’s savagely gregarious cocoon which he called his Gempenlink, hatching triangles and objectless gravity. Drawnbove’s instrument of smoke, which he had liked to use to obscure the harmony of nature lay in shattered diminution, as broken as a cathedral window on the nave floor, covered in time’s favorite refuge which is known by the tempered pulses as green moss. Since he was alone in the room with the rage of Drawnbove who was yet to enter, Theraphel began to feel increasingly weary for the protection of a ring wearer, yet up until that time of squalid contemplation where he felt the distinct angel of misery and then many years after no one would melt into his Gempenlink without the death spark to raze membrane in the name of distant perfection.
Just then Drawnbove crashed through the door like an empty bus tumbling down a hill and yelled,
—What the fuck did you do to my blong? Were you smoking?
—No, and I asked you not to last night. Last night had been the birthday feast of Theraphel, where celebrations were made by eating fried alligator and receiving by psyght the Mexkin tale of revolutionary musk where martyrs were created in the name of sensitive glory.
Drawnbove had buried his urge to blong which would put the world back towards unpsyght and rescue his moment’s comfort, as the festive souls were tracing their narratives together and mapping new understandings based on this mellow fortune of a one night house and a forever subtle walk through the mellifluous fluid of the stars’ mighty discharge. Still the whole time Theraphel held on to his little blossom of anxiety that his brother would betray him by being uncareful to his love. But as the blessings turned more taciturn and the urge got livelier, Drawnbove took his habit in his hands and sweetly poisoned his mind with the dubious substance just when the disobedience was most potent, and when the hearts of Theraphel’s friends were anxious to relax into the bliss of common company.
—If you weren’t smoking it how did it break?
—I broke it, Theraphel said, borrowing blunt simplicity through many psyght pictures he had seen, where he bathed in the watery glow of movement through a still message telling him not to let good words die in the presence of an enemy who was conflicted by the somber limitations of material desire.
—You broke it, what the fuck Theraphel.
—I told you not to smoke at the party and you did, so I broke it.
At this simplicity and healthy reduction put forward by one whose sole interest in the relationship was to arrive at steady terrain, Drawnbove came out of the bus and fought Theraphel to the point of ecstatic hollowness, where Theraphel reached into a place he called Bellybor, a quiet sanctuary in the midst of the underworld where he saw that it would have been better if Drawnbove killed him during that evented alternation, because it would have been better for Drawnbove to spend his life in grief for destroying a beautiful thing he had known closely than to blend rigidly all day with the fantastic conviction to do such a thing. As well as this, death in that moment would have been the ultimate consummation of Theraphel’s beauty, for he had tremendous years now where he would suffer the exalted rejection for his saccharine supernatural mischief with so few solvents to fix his compassionate intrusions that made him loved by anyone characterized by the steady monument of yearning. Drawnbove fled the encounter and what made him fugue maliciously away from his intelligent dharma was not a desire to see his brother live but a fear for the external consequences supplied by the world which Theraphel did not create that continuously influxed a heavy stream of threats at every interpretable moment, a fact always making Theraphel and many others sad but not Drawnbove because he took barbed envy at this unilateral miscompensation which was placed on Theraphel—evidenced by the way he fled his climactic justification and left Theraphel alone in the room with his soul exposed to the barren fact of breathing and the little things he had gathered in his bedroom to make life bearable, though Theraphel was known by himself for making life extremely bearable and many would chime that truth pressed to the very thread of conception.
Theraphel descended his personal psyght to his com, challenging his intuition to call the fats but something told him it would be better not to call someone fat and place them between him and his family. Theraphel felt over his organs a release that told him this was a proud decision, and something that would bridge many integrities between Drawnbove and him. With unsurprising mundanity, like looking into a neighbor’s window and not seeing the endless sky, a fat person descended towards Theraphel’s sanctuary jaggedly, where Theraphel had spent so many days and nights gush with the fizzing for his love for special soothing arts and people who had been placed in his life by a sensuous deity who dared to give him the beauty of a knowing spark not just inside of her but outside her as well. The fat person was exceedingly reasonable, almost as reasonable as the most reasonable centipede until he asked Theraphel,
—Do you have a history of Mistechanics?
—Yes, Theraphel said, for his arts had instructed his spirit.
________
Ryan Bry sent his eyes downstream in order to coax spiderleg nursing on a deadbeat ranch. He knows his way out of a soulmate paradox or two. He once saw two hands holding a baptism, at the end of a solstice mass. Make no record of the way glitter lands plurally on his dreams of you. You are welcome there anytime, with a winged feast or a ballad of cosmic fluid. He has been working on his films. Please enjoy his two published books, Information Blossoms, & The New Organics for the Flickering World.
Ryan Bry is on X @syntheticsensei and Instagram @milk_salsa and YouTube @wavestarglitch
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