Appetizer: Creative Absolution

Kevin Focke
May 11 · 5 min read

Our appetizers give you a delicious taste of our offering. One full story coming up, gluten-free, easily accessible, and shareable.

Cover by Borodante

Chapter 1: Apogee’s Apostle

I live in Image Nation. I am a forger of worlds. I dream of the day where my masterpiece wheels overhead in a cinematic haze.

Chapter 2: Abstract(ion)

Creative absolution. Carte blanche. Art has simple founding principles: Less is more, more or less; fill in the blanks with no filler.

We start with a blob made of blur, a blank foggy canvas. Here is nothing, hence is more. The result is what counts, the process nevermore. Although… such description is abhorred by the panoply of performance art.

Chapter 3: Artsy Fartsy Dandy Lines

Is poetry prehensile of some deeper essence, or does florid prose validate the rhythmical cadence of pretentiously manipulated, ameliorated, festively donned, vivisected drivel?

You be the judge.

Can Monkeys on typewriters throw a wrench into what’s dubbed the fruits of brilliance?

You be the judge.

Take then a purloined pastiche presented as full-fledged originality, ceding to matters of economy; artifice over-arching art with honey-laced tongue of barter — of gold bars and notes and what have you more, suits which function if art ceases to be original?

You be the judge.

If art is conceived and consumed by the widest audience possible does it not, by definition, become exceedingly trivial? Are its values stretched to the breath of — to the extent of moribund extraction? Does it precede the death of what makes us special?

You be the judge.

Is it culturally vacuous to eclectically extract; does it detract from the culture on which the work is backed? Are the scions of a greater work, signs inferiority may never work?

You be the judge.

Doth money decide what is greater — what is more… profound? Is money not a value indicator? Does box-office not wager what is greater — what is more… profound?

You be the judge.


For me personally, the gambit of new ground should be lauded, wherever possible, be applauded, wherever applicable, be loathed; beware for drivel is drivel; be it polished to a sheen, Cow dung’s still bullshit, colloquially.

Chapter 4: Artsy Fartsy Dandelions

Through my own creations, I’m a landscaper that wagers on ground precipitously fallow — my words precipitation in the overhead brawl. Here I float on clouds as dreams shroud my Image Nation. Now take me away! Bring forth the rain! Bring forth the rain!

Chapter 5: Artsy Fartsy, Dandy Lions

Here be writ with wit: Somatic detachment enraptured in a cavalcade of play — of action, reaction, story unfolds between — it is folly the madness gallops and settles in the brain yet the words on the page may enrapture in a cavalcade of play.

Chapter 6: The Beats

What more do we need whilst our tickers beat? Is water not sufficient when enriched with meat? With calories, protein — all the good stuff, indeed — taken straight from another being that beats, breathes, and eats.

This is false, we both know; meat is bred in clean labs by beings with gowns, defended by grunts with massive guns.

This is false, we both know; guns aren’t allowed unless they wear massive gun gowns.

A joke for us both to enjoy, what more do we need whilst our tickers beat? Quite a conundrum, indeed.


We need pith, I argue — a meaningful being; t’is not enough to solely be living and beating. For pithy makes the heart flare fonder like a benign warmth in a desolate, cold corner.


Quite like hunger, we feel empty when there’s not much around; we can’t stomach an endless void without trace of sound. So we shout! And we shout! And we shout!

How lonely is the universe around? Where’s the sound? Where’s the sound?!

Chapter 7: Chef’s Musings: A Vermicelli Of Verisimilitude

The screed of my creed — indeed — a most pointless deed; bequeath upon me landscapes arid — my brain, boiled and brewed of tremendous ire contained, blocks the signal so ever lethargically faint — the-smidge-the-gumption; my originality. Safe & sound without trace of the sound of the muse so bemused as it flails with soft, mellow-odious duds. Guts have creators who create with originality.


Is math just the code of a dead universe sporadically spewing the most wonderful turds? Breeds the random the bad, the good, and the sublime? Does the code remain static, deterministically?


Rend the anger timid, avail the sorrowful glee — our greatest desire, now and ever, remains to be free. Chained to bodies we can’t, without bodies we aren’t, realistically.


Like a wine we grow fuller with age. Like a wine wait too long and it ruins the taste. End the ride — begone the plight! — on the ripple of time.

Chapter 8: Image Nation

It began with a bang, a shot from a rusty musketeer rifle. The Wild West unleashed into the contemporary with one single bullet.

Our average Jane had devised the elaborate contraption during the arduous, tiresome drag others called her job. Moreover, our average Jane l̶o̶v̶e̶d̶ used to love her job: She was unfettered in climbing the Mountain; each time, she reached a new plateau with a more fabulous roller coaster on it. Each time, the rattle of the wagon’s chains and the thrill of the release propelled her towards new heights — quite literally.

Yet not a day went by when she didn’t complain about the roller coasters; each went higher than the previous, yes, but never quite high enough to see the vista as it was up there, on the next plateau. You had to be there to see it, and so she climbed, step by step, crevice by crevice.

As she went up, the vistas didn’t differ dramatically; it was just more of the same, really. Every time, she could view a little bit more past the horizon. Every time, it was all there waiting for her, all she had to do was climb just a little further; the sky was the limit and the limit she would reach!


Despite never climbing a real Mountain, our average Jane, tired and old, reached the lofty summit. She had done it; she had conquered the Mountain all by herself; all alone she stood victorious on the staggering peak. The vista was perfect into the last minute detail: Puffs of clouds seemingly made of streamlined silk bedded the magnificent velvety dawns as the universe laid perched on the kaleidoscopic resplendence of the sky-plane.

All was perfect until a ray of light struck her imagination from beyond the clouds. She had all but forgotten about life under the clouds. What was it like there, beyond the clouds? There was only one way to find out, one last thrill-ride. Thus our average Jane jumped — the gun. Telos traipses ever on.

Chapter 9: Apogee’s Harbinger

I died in Image Nation. I am a destroyer of worlds. I dreamed of the day where my masterpiece wheeled overhead in a cinematic haze.

~The End~


This short story is part of the Jane Pinkerton Chronicles.

The book is about the wicked weird mind of Jane Pinkerton, swirling in a madness of words.

BatWhaleDragon

Welcome to a world of wondrous creativity.

Kevin Focke

Written by

Storyteller. Founded BatWhaleDragon.

BatWhaleDragon

Welcome to a world of wondrous creativity.