Pangea and the Earth Machine

The story and characters behind Venona's concept album "Pangea and the Earth Machine"

Chapter I: Give me truth

“Only you can save us!”


Shutter. Flicker. Penetration.  The sting of morning light as it pours in from the room into awakening eyes. The world comes into focus and reality begins to settle in.

Vironus rose in his bed.  As he sat, he surveyed the scene and gauged his bearings.  The room was dark with a single ray of light shining through from the window and onto the pillow his head occupied moments earlier.  In truth, there wasn’t much to look at.  His bedroom, very similar to the size and shape of the two other rooms in the house, was very small.  A few articles of clothing accented what remaining floor space he had around and in front of his bed.

Startled, anxious, and unnerved, he swept his hand through his long brown hair hanging just above his eye brows, took a breath and wiped the tears from his eyes.

The visions had come to him again while he slept.  They plagued his unconscious existence night after night; too lucid to ignore and too vague to understand.  For months this carried on, no, for years.  In fact, when he thought about it, he couldn’t remember when he was ever without them.  It became a sort of nightly ritual, the one constancy in his life, and when he would wake in the morning he fought consistently to disregard their meaning. 

But this morning was different. 

On this morning, there was a fire alight in the deep bellows of his stomach and a very immediate urgency that sat in his throat and made his heart flutter.  For what seemed like ages he sat there and listened to the infernal beat.  As if on cue, the sound of screeching steel and machinery arose in the distance and provided a grim underscore to the parade of emotion carrying on in his mind.

Quickly, he swiveled in his bed and laid his feet upon the ground.  He felt the cool stone under the flesh of his heels and toes, the slabs of rock that was the structure of this place dubbed “home.”  As he rose and began to take his first steps, his left foot made contact with another sensation, that of leather.  Sprawled across the floor beneath his bed, he reached to recover his journal, and after closing it, returned the book to its usual hiding place under his mattress. 

“I must have fallen asleep with it.”  He thought to himself, recounting the previous night’s events. 

As of late, Vironus spent considerable time making entries upon its lightly browned pages all the while constantly reading over the many passages already written down.  Only on rare occasions did they not consist of the images he saw night after night. 

Silently, he cursed his foolishness while fixing the sheets in order to conceal his book.  He cursed the sounds of grinding steel, echoing in the background, he cursed the cold, dark cage that was his room, and the visions that plagued him continuously, but most of all, he cursed Atlas and his machine. 

Vironus calmed himself and once again took a breath to collect his thoughts.  His mind was still muddled with the lights, sounds, and grisly images he thought he escaped from when he awoke.  Truthfully, there was never peace, and it could take hours before he was able to let go of what he saw during the night.  The emotional impact ate at him, bit by painful bit, and he would suffer in solitude. 

As the months progressed the toll became greater and the weight harder to bear.  Often he felt as if he was standing at the foot of a storm, desperately waiting to be swept away, all the while remaining motionless in the torrential downpour.  He yearned for relief, and whether or not that meant to suffer the waves or to wait and pray for the break, when the clouds gaped open their massive jaws revealing that beautiful sun, piercing all darkness, he was unsure.  What he wanted was not material, but it was still very much alive and real.  The tragedy was that he had not the slightest idea of what that was. 

And then, he thought of his mother, Erin.

“It’s time to listen.”  He thought, standing there motionless at the foot of his bed.

            Vironus quickly dressed himself and ran out of the house, praying his idleness would not cost him dearly.

Soon silence will have passed into legend. Man has turned his back on silence. Day after day he invents machines and devices that increase noise and distract humanity from the essence of life, contemplation, meditation. Tooting, howling, screeching, booming, crashing, whistling, grinding, and trilling bolster his ego. His anxiety subsides. His inhuman void spreads monstrously like a gray vegetation.

Jean Arp

Author’s Note.

Now entertain conjecture of a time when creeping murmur and the poring dark fills the wide vessel of the universe.  When the universe itself was an idea, an idea not written down, but one found on the tips of the tongues of great men that have long since passed on.  For it is still an idea, even now, because like all great ideas there is no controlling it or making it law, but rather embellishing in it and accepting that it is not only great, but that it exists. 

Abandon all preconceived notions and myths of what was in favor of the trust that nothing was or is as it seems.  And, please, check any history books you may have on you at the door with your coats and caps, for they hold no weight here.

Many years ago, on a planet much like this one, but substantially younger, all land was comprised into one grand mass.  There was civilization, fragile and young, but on the very cusp of breakthrough.  However, breakthrough comes with its price, and through their success the planet began to suffer.   Alas, this is no mere rock that we sit on, and while it may itself sit, it is never idle.  War ensues, discoveries are made, and casualties are taken in a tale that is as old as time itself.  But, rest assured, this was the first of its kind in a trend that would repeat and will continue to repeat throughout the ages until it is successfully dubbed “history.”

And like a delicate and beautiful flower very much alive as the first frost of winter tempts to threaten its existence, love is made in war.

What you have before you is a chronicle, if you will, a myth, an idea, a whisper of a time that has seen its end many ages ago.  You decide what it is you believe.  But let me leave you with this:

No matter the time, life continues to do what it does best; live.  Life is occurring all around us and all it asks is to open our eyes to it. So, please, open your eyes.  Take in the majesty of this world and become a victim of all the good and evil that humanity possesses.  For as dark as the night may become the earth will rotate, and you will soon find yourself basking in that familiar sun, but it is up to you to decide what will happen in those few precious moments before daybreak. Nature always finds a way, and so must you.  Fight for love, fight for truth, fight for life, fight for growth, and most importantly, fight for us.  For as flawed as we may be, there is a potential there that rivals any act of nature that this world can muster.  I would be willing to stake my life on it. 


I already have.





History consists of a series of accumulated imaginative inventions.