Alex H. Vale

Starbucks had opinions about my order yesterday 😂

A little something from the darker corners of my imagination. This is a short piece I wrote back in 2015, meant to unsettle and entertain while I continue work on larger projects. I hope you enjoy the descent.

- Alex H. Vale



Sleepless nights.

There are things humanity has often taken for granted, unless the affliction plagues them personally. Sleep and dreams are so ingrained in human nature that they are accepted as a simple reality. The ability to close one’s eyes and drift into dreams is natural, and sometimes something fantastic occurs within such an adventure. Most times, however, it becomes evident that sleep and the dreams within it exist purely within the mundane. The most exciting thing most can boast is a twisted perception of a parent or sibling, adrenaline coupled with the sensation of falling, or the feeling of being chased.

He wished he could remember how to sleep. He could not recall the last time he had dreamed.

It began slowly, that particular shift in his consciousness. A startle here, a night of fitful rest there. It was initiated the night he wandered into a particular sort of pub, one of those places reputed to harbor the fallen of society who would drink their dreams away by the light of cheap candles and drown them in cheaper liquor. What led him there is anyone’s guess; he was a man of means who could afford the richness of drink within his own study. But the rain on the streets turned a dim world into a fantasy landscape of shimmering promise, and something hung upon the air which spoke of portents not yet revealed, oaths not yet broken.

The scents that assaulted his senses the moment he walked through the doorway were bitter and cloying: perfume worn too long on unwashed flesh; the acrid whisper of spilled alcohol not yet cleaned from uneven stones. Desperation oozed from the cracks in the walls, and the interior was possessed of a sinister hopelessness. This was where dreams came to die. Tapered fingers moved automatically to remove his gloves, then paused before the action was completed.

What drew him to the man seated in the corner would be a question he would carry for the long centuries his life was destined to endure after that chance encounter. The man looked no different from the common fare often found in such a place. A half-empty tankard of drink teetered precariously on the edge of a table that had seen better days. The man himself, sitting as the beverage’s companion, wore a threadbare suit likely passed down through three owners before reaching his frame. In contrast, the newcomer was finely dressed, his walking stick catching the glint of firelight from the hearth and reflecting it, the only shining thing in a place like this.

His voice was eerily absent that night, a strange predicament for a man who spent his days lecturing at the university on the mechanics of surgery to students who filled the rows around him. If he had spoken, would anything have changed? Would the path before him have veered off in another direction? These are the questions asked by a man teetering upon the brink of madness, or perhaps one who has already fallen into the chasm.

“You’ll do.” The strange statement rang out with a crisp clarity that matched the keen hue of the man’s eyes. His irises were brilliant, shining out of a face weathered by abuse and neglect. No words came in response, though lips parted as though to utter them. It was over in a flash: a coin pressed into his palm, a searing sensation blistering with the bitterness of cold and long death across his nerves, the sound of laughter rich and heady filling his mind.

And then, nothing.

He did not recall how the man disappeared, or how the coin made its way into his pocket. Yet he vividly remembered the scent of rain in the air as he found himself outside the pub once more, dizzied and disoriented.

Rest was an elusive thing that night, though perhaps such a state was understandable. He gazed at the burn upon his palm for hours before the fire in his study, the strange symbols etched into pale flesh that had never seen a day of labor, preserved by a privileged and educated life.

Rest continued to be hard won.

He could not remember when he first started waking with gore on his suits, blood caked beneath his nails. Was he waking at all? To wake implies that one must first have slept, and sleep had become an alien concept, a farce attempted and abandoned with repetitive dedication as days became weeks, then months. The servants began to resign without explanation. His cook shrieked at him one morning when he stumbled into the kitchen after having scrubbed the evidence from his skin, as though she had seen a ghost.

The circles under his eyes grew darker. Hair once lustrous faded into something pale and lifeless, as though color itself was being leeched from him by the same force that stole his memory, silenced his dreams, and turned him into a specter haunting his own halls. And the hunger. He could not place it, and no amount of food seemed to quell it. It was something that went beyond lust or biological need. He felt it scraping along his bones as though his skeletal structure were being rearranged into something that craved a thing he could not comprehend, let alone satisfy.

He wished he could remember what it was to dream, or when he had last slept. Yet with all he had lost, there were things he could recall with perfect clarity.

“Ghastly Murder in the East-End. Dreadful Mutilation of a Woman.” The print read starkly across the top of the page.

Oh, that. He remembered that well.

Send a message to learn more

(Cross-posted across my account and pages)

I want to take a moment to thank every person who has supported me along the way. Whether you purchased a tarot reading, brought a piece of my art into your home, or read my novel, your support has meant more than words can capture.

Life has become increasingly difficult for small business owners and independent creators. In the age of constant video and social media influence, it is not always easy for someone like me to expand reach and find footing. Yet every tarot reading donation, every art/book purchase, and every gesture of encouragement has made a difference.

I will admit that there are times I become discouraged. I often feel tired, anxious, or filled with self-doubt, knowing there are many in the world who are far more gifted than I am. Even so, I do not give up. This work is what gives my life shape and meaning, and your support is what allows me to continue, even in the hard moments.

Each copy of my book, each piece of art, each reading I am entrusted to give has helped me provide for my family, sustain my work, and keep moving forward. I am deeply grateful for those who have contributed directly, and just as grateful for those who have supported in other ways through sharing, commenting, leaving a kind review, or speaking a good word.

Thank you for standing with me. Your support carries me, and it allows the work I value most to continue.

With honor,
Alex

The story is not finished. Memories of Atlantis stirs again, its threads weaving into the sands of Egypt beneath the rising stones of the Great Pyramid. The work deepens, and the next revelation approaches. Thank you to all who walk this journey with me.

Send a message to learn more

Something stirs beneath the surface.
The past never stays buried for long--
Not in the sands of Egypt,
and not in the ruins of Atlantis.
The ink is ready…

Book two begins.

Available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FCSD356V

🕯️ A glimpse within the pages…
When destiny is written by the gods, what becomes of those who dare to rewrite it?

From Memories of Atlantis: Divine (Book One) — a tale of rebellion and prophecy.
📖 Available now: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FCDSQKPP
Follow the journey: https://www.facebook.com/alexhvale

🌑 The gates have opened. 🌑

Memories of Atlantis: Divine (Book 1) is now live on Amazon:
📖 https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FCDSQKPP

She was meant to live quietly.
The gods had other plans.

In a world where divinity is decay, and love walks hand-in-hand with ruin, a forgotten girl begins to unravel the threads of an empire—and herself.

If you feel drawn to the dark, to myth, to memory… this story is for you.

Thank you to all who stood with me in the shadows. The journey begins.

– Alex H. Vale

Memories of Atlantis: Divine (Book One) In a city built by gods and ruled by sacred blood, memory is both a weapon and a curse. Cynara was born into a lineage bound by ritual and prophecy—an heir to power in a world teetering on the edge of collapse. But when forbidden visions awaken within her, everything she was raised to prot...