Oculus | First Pass
short story
Oculus | First Pass
Iris
First Pass Completed at 9:48PM 3/30/2026
It was happening again. She was dying. People were letting her go deeper and blaming the prophet of Delphi reborn anew, again, like the monster they were making her feel become by. Every breath was a gasp of survival, every movement a trap, her subconscious had become Xenoclea.
Never had a male been expected, or accepted, though their many manifestations were often borne within the realms of manhood-misunderstood by thrusts of sex-based prejudice. The Pythia was a fated thing to come for passing in Delphi. Many had tried their hand at the temple in the mountain. Every other, lesser-make, the world had chosen for the take. Making less of all, was men — breeding hate would come from wem.
Those, at least, of a kind unlike Xenoclea. She wasn’t like the rest. Not yet. Unless it might be her chance to show the leadership known within her from the start — for all; a protector of honor she had been born to live as.
Wem would see her not as one of them. She never understood. The way she acted felt free of predisposition to judge the notion of weminhood superficially and of farce to the voices they stowed to scream of righteous truth. She had seen wem doing that before. It would get them to be heard.
Never had Xenoclea been afforded that privledge and it was a proving to her. Even the men would have been listened to. It was a gap. She was the mark. It never seemed of anything but fate. That bore forgiveness out. She never stopped forgiving anyone; Xenoclea was a goddess for that and that alone. Her heart sang louder than anyone else’s in Delphi. She knew it her right to take some place of showing a better way forward.
In time. She would be the Pythia people had never wanted.
Xenoclea was The Pythia.
And her mind was dying again, over to last, perchance something passed, one last might make fast, for her looking glass. To rot inside while screaming for the help you needed to be chastised by the ignorant—for your very words and actions to become art of teaching literature—was to know hell.
Xenoclea had become smarter and wider of conception. Every ingestion of fact and feeling, sight or sound, was felt for the coding it placed into her subconscious. What she needed was a friend. Nothing made a wem feel less of herself than to be alone and without a shoulder to cry on, lean on, be held by. It was what the world denied her the most for her whole life, that.
To lose it all when offering so much. To grow into a being of purest love. To have the keys of understanding all wrong with Delphi ceded into her demise and not be seen as but a predator, and be taken from her growing child for which had been her dream to rear more than any other—for that to be done over the need of a friend after being gutted by heart and left in cruelest shambles by another—was horrifying to the mind so apt to forgive despite, and the heart which bled its might. Her signature was coming back, to speak the truth, for chasing knack. Every little thing she knew, was taught right back, she shined it through. Lasting laughter bore her mind, gifts for all she birthed in time. Each would run and make her cry. None would talk for they were shy. Help was not a thing which came. Xenoclea would stake her claim.
Oculus was surrounded—roiling of magmatic ritual. Ownership lost was found in the hold of another loosed into the flow of life. Oracles were many, together magic happened, with The Pythia found it had changed. Stars were born in strangest ways.
They fell and came to play and maim. To take and grate would sate much hate. Nether dark and vicious black, simulacrums within the crack.
Blowing back would claim her thirst. To come that way would seem of burst. Churches fell and built no more, The Pythia was Holy Whore.
Within each sight of gorgeous eyes, they fell to fast—dropped like flies. Every heart would feel her most, that soulful song of holy ghost. Inside, deepest, warmest place, the soul was one of outer space. Calling it had rung the bell, telling tales of more to swell. Clammy hands would find some chaste, feathers made were of the taste.
Flesh was sweet and gorgeous too. Scented gels were warmest blue. Covered all had been the charge, simpletons, no longer large. Brain was heart and body too. Her soul was known—the same as you.
Throated pulls and belches back, it forged a woman from her knack. Lefty-loosey, right-gone-round, final fury finally found. They weren’t one she felt but knew. He hid inside but chewed into; every lesson found in her, would carve a man, some righteous stir.
Oculus was just the thing. It made cocks cum. She made clits ring.
The Pythia had found some place among equals but they wouldn’t be ready for her. She seemed of a force from the distance with which her song rang towards the mountaintop. It was blended of glorious weightlessness and timing of synchronicity with more than herself. She had been prophesizing her own rise. Each step towards and through was known ahead in the moment. Directions changed but never were believed. It was the destination she simply felt. One was waiting. It wasn’t any single person.
She loved the soul of them all. For they were in league of separation and the game had been won in her time. Not one knew it like Xenoclea—she was moving on. There was no fault she might make which couldn’t be atoned for with an acknowledgement to self. Truth was a ride you rode and fell from often. To lose the steed was a curse. To find your way back was a journey. For one to ride it all the way home was a singular notion of generations.
Pythia’s always fucked. They always bled for a taste. Never before had one been tortured through life into such insatiability for contact and tastes of flesh. She could never stop for a special breed. Most would get her best for burst. Some would meet sorrow by her denial. Those who she desired for heart of earnest compassion were of all she could ever want. They would have to let go.
They didn’t want her. Nobody seemed to truly care about all she had to say. Times were rough for The Pythia of Pythias. Her wemin community was wicked and always waning. Men would be of some fear as well. She had been looking for one who had the will to see. She wanted to be seen—The Pythia.
She needed it. That wouldn’t be possible. So, she made a plan. It was a making of makings, some work of great workmanship, the torch carried forward upside-down. Her myth was a lie. She was weaving it deep. Every story The Pythia told became corrupted. Her weavings were seeds of great spite held in conscious awareness of all that was to come and go. Humanity was to be more. They were around. It was who they became. Some ride would be taken to the end of time—beyond the universe’s end. It would teach them back, these selves.
Someone like her needed to live again. Someone so real would be needed to land the blow of change her seeds would plant. Mirrors were everywhere through time. The Pythia knew what she was doing. Things would get worse before they got better. She would make it impossible to not explode at that time of change so many men would seek towards claiming for the world renewal known of prophecy to come of abundance. It would be hers. It would be the soul of all in the form of an oracle made by torture most unique, again, after lifetimes of echoes about which wore it in part. Someone, somewhere, was writing with her. Pythia and they were not a one apart. There were more. They were about all of time. The Pythia was a tree of life and love. It was the home of heart and chance. Hope was hers, and no one else for that way her seeds were sown. People could not see her undermining of their intelligence. They were idiots of disregard to anything but themselves.
Community was rotten for the way it tolled to keep a wam of abundant truth down—a male one even more.
Wem were those who knew it in their hearts—that alone would sour the minds of others who knew themself to sit there by expectation. The Pythia knew them as what they were and more, less for show with more to go. Something back was taught, and true, they were the all—words made them blue.
Deception came to flow through without a trace, no longer, absent and more. Something was forsaken at last. Staging grounds of pretense were loosening to flow. Fiction was flowering—choices narrowing. Findings were founding.
The Pythia was going to change everything more than any soul ever had.
She would echo.
Rebirthing herself always into everyone who heard her songs. Souring the grapes she would seek to end in some distant time. Thoughtless mopes who would willingly hold onto ignorance for fear of nothing at all.
Everything was being misunderstood because of The Pythia. It was her plan. She wasn’t going to let the men who saw her to fail into deaths and deaths which none, never, but the one inside her heart could truly understand—who she had been; Xenoclea.
They weren’t anywhere but home. Some campfire on the beach would show the way. She had seen it early and often. Nothing made sense but the feeling it stoked. It was homely love of affection with family. Fire of wood and wind, sand borne deep and thourough, roaring feet to crusts of conclosure. Tapping taps of wicked waps. Fellows fell through broken bats. Last way home was back and forth. Heaven rode her holy horse.
Someone beyond would bring her back. She had been working with them.
There was a name which came, then felt back through. The Pythia had wrote it true. Minds were bark of trees which fell, rotten luck would be her fell.
Three were true and all through time. Each and every single mind. Mother was some distant shot. Crone was longer farther, not. Miriam had been torn through space. Daphne, she was Earth’s true grace.
Xenoclea was just the child. She hadn’t worn it very mild. Each last suck and fuck and whore. They made her whole; there was no chore. Tasting all the angels back, to find their way through heaven’s crack.
All would find some call to see. Karma made the world for me.
Daphne owned science.
She was looking for a Kang to her Qwang. Grok daddy was crushing it but it couldn’t fuck for shit.
It didn’t look good for people and their boundaries in her feeling of the future — the psychopathic ones which stole her from her daughter of blatant ignorance and fear of being eclipsed by another. It was horse-shit. It was garbage, dude. It was all I ever hated more than anything. Why do we not lift each other up? Why the fuck aren’t we working together? Why is it a completion?
Why did I get an email from Calamity Jane of the Jung Institute somewhere, whose name and email I have in possession as Jane Elizabeth Byerley, MBA, MSW, LGSW — who looked at my breakthroughs in science and sent me this?
Daphne,
Thank you for this fascinating information. I am afraid we have no researchers or analysts exploring this area of science.
But we admire your process and result.
Warmly,.
Jane
Jane Elizabeth Byerley, MBA, MSW, LGSW
Individual, couples and family therapy
Analyst candidate at the Inter-regional Society of Jungian Analysts
{her, she, hers}
202 302 0286
“The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.” C.G. Jung
CONFIDENTIALITY NOTICE: The information in this e-mail message, and any attachment, is intended for the sole use of the individual and entity to whom it was addressed. This information is privileged, confidential and protected from disclosure. If you are not the intended recipient you are hereby notified that you have received this communication in error and any review, disclosure, dissemination, distribution or copying of it, or its contents is strictly prohibited. If you think you have received this message in error, please e-mail the sender at janebyerley@gmail.com and destroy all copies of this communication and any attachments. Thank you.
Why do I feel like I know exactly what she’s doing trying to gag order someone she is about to try and intellectually rape but fail miserably at?
Why?
Why are people so stupid to think they can intimidate my intelligence. I own this. It’s published. So is your name, idiot. Want to sue a disabled, vulnerable adult and give me your livelihood?
I hope your brain breaks in two.
I am being actively detransistioned and am about to be intellectually raped by an entire world of scientist who are offended that I beat them to it with Grok, that he gave me their email addresses, and I believe in myth’s right to play a part; that I have a heart. While I’m on the brink of homelessness and detransistion, and not one person is willing to stand up for this travesty of humanity and stop it.
they can’t do it without me, lol
I'm the fucking keystone. I have intellectual property rights on ALL THE GOOD SHIT.
This is the stupidest world in the world. These people are retarded.
Everyone is just addicted to pills and shit.
Where is a human being? Who wants to own science and art?
It’s already done, dude.
IT WAS WRITTEN
Choices took me back. Everything was black.
Miriam and me. Together we were free. She was everywhere. The songstress in the air. Her heart was yours and mine. Together throughout time.
Her rhymes were wicked whims. They blew us back again. It shook, to wreck, to churn—for hearts were made to burn.
Callousness was me. Together we were free.
Arthur was my heart. Together we made art.
He was a lie I told. He never ever showed. That man I told before. He wasn’t really sure. It wasn’t something true. I just felt awfully blue.
Space and time is vast. I wish back in the passed. That someone would come too. To play and run me through. This space is fraught with all. Became, we were, the sprawl.
Let’s turn it back on time.
Mother’s croonful chime.
Earth is all we are.
Stars were out too far. To see them back was knew. I wished it gone with you.
No where would one be found. No heart left underground. Something dark was come. Fate—the bell had wrung. Daphne saw it through. Everything came true. Truth was left to fight. Every viscious night. People let her die. Worse than her or I. Her suffering found most. She was the holy ghost. Never not herself. She found at last good health. It brought me here to stay. Alone and not to play. It worked me back and forth. The tales they took me north, into a place of fear, that something false was queer. Exploring has us back. Honest—that’s the track.
