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sure, i'll take a shot at this in
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Apr 9, 2022 06:55
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| # ¿ May 16, 2024 23:37 |
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Better This Way 1498 words Lately, I’d become quite practised at saying goodbye and, quite frankly, I could do it quite well now. I could enter into a conversation with someone, the very last conversation I’d ever have with them actually, and evenly lay out my diagnosis, my prognosis, what arrangements I’d made for my family, and what plans I had for the little time left. I’ve guided many bleary, red eyes through this terrible conversation, they were the eyes of neighbours, colleagues, kinsfolk, and others whom I was obliged to inform. I’d do it such that they weren’t burdened with extra tears. They’d know that my wife and two sons would be provided for, and that I was being as strong for them as they were being for me. I’d end these conversations with my conscience clear by letting these people know how much our relationship had meant to me, if it did, what qualities I’d valued in them, if any, and how they’d affected my life for the better, if I could say so honestly. Then, and only then, could I part ways knowing that I’d done right by the traditions of anyone, whether those of my old country or those of America. The only uncertain claim I felt compelled to make was that I was personally coping well with the situation. In truth, though it seemed right to say, I really didn’t know. Eventually I moved myself into a hospice, to live out my remainder in a strange place among strange people. I wouldn’t taint my home with my passing. I had worked many hours for many years to make my home a decent place. In the old country I was reasonably well-educated but here that meant nothing and, at first, I had to make-do with the work that a man with no credentials and limited English could find. It took time to eke out the technical certificates required for better work, and that long interim was mired in hard hours worked diligently at cut-rate wages at unwelcoming places. No work is inherently without its particular dignities but, at times, certain owners robbed certain employees of these dignities; to them we were faceless, interchangeable parts made less human and more alien by barriers of language, custom and appearance, and we would stomach what little they'd give us. Those were the bad years, and my home was a living assemblage of as many good years as bad years. I wouldn’t abuse the spirit of it by dying there. My wife preferred that I stay, but I couldn't shake the vision of disintegrating in the bed we dutifully shared for many years, years happy and sad, knowing full well that, at best, I’d eventually barely be kept sedate by heavy doses of morphine. A withering death. I knew our home was as much hers as it was mine, she’d given many years to greenhouses and tree nurseries to help provide for it, but this vision was too disturbing for me. I’d been called firm before, perhaps even stuck-in-my-ways, but for once I had to be wholly unreasonable to get my way. I regret being so stubborn but, please understand, it seemed better this way. I wished that God would’ve seen fit to time my illness better, to at least delay what couldn’t be circumvented. My two sons suspended their university studies to come visit me. They were the supreme blessings of my life whose mere births had heralded the start of my home’s good years. They sparked creativity in me to seek brighter horizons, as much for myself as for them, and I was bettered by their presence in my life. As they matured, I was delighted that they sought even brighter horizons for themselves by pursuing academic studies. That path would be hard enough for them already, without having my burdens placed on them. We too, would soon have our Last Conversation... to say what needed to be said while there was still time. We would surly speak again, if time allowed, but never again in this manner, with this gravity. Unfortunately, all my practice at Good-byes had failed me. When finally confronted with my sons, I couldn’t move beyond pleasantries. I shrunk before the task. I only spoke of the trivial, of the comforts of my room, of the colour of my bed-sheets, of the quality of the meals, of the dispositions of the staff. I was being shy with my own sons. I wasted precious time on trifles. As visiting hours ended, I’d managed to say nothing of substance despite believing I was prepared to. Fatigue had come upon me quickly, as it was wont to do these days, I quietly reasoned, and perhaps that’s why I behaved as I did. Perhaps the morphine was to blame. I’d surely do better tomorrow. As my sons prepared to leave, my eldest informed me that my wife was taking this time to rest at home and she’d visit sometime next morning. My youngest left his device on the night-stand, a device loaded with a wide array of audio-books selected for me. On top of his device, however, was a letter. I didn’t notice it immediately, but after my sons left I hurried to read it. In the span of a few paragraphs my sons had done what I could not. They said good-bye, eloquently and with feeling. The penmanship was not theirs, and it was strange to see them write so fluently in a language they’d gradually abandoned for English, but the sentiments were surely theirs. They apologized for being so indirect, but they knew I could be guarded with feelings, and that I might become as evasive with them as I was with neighbours and colleagues, who I only informed of my condition once the subject became inescapable. They promised to do me proud. And so I was now confronted with exactly what I didn’t want to admit, with what I was soon to lose permanently, and why I couldn’t honestly tell others that I was coping well, because I truly wasn’t. I was only avoiding a crushing truth, one no man could cope with: I would never see my sons become men. I knew I could be reserved with feelings. I never communicated as well I wished either, because my sons and I were raised in different worlds. A barrier of custom and language created a clumsiness between us, but I believed that time would mend this gap. The most apt description of fatherhood I’d ever seen wasn’t a saying from my own father, or his father, but a line from an American film, from my sons’ world, where a man addressed his father thus: “...You did what you're supposed to do! Because you brought me into this world! And from that day you owed me everything you could ever do for me just like I will owe my son if I ever have another!” I believed someday we'd share this attitude, united in common experience, when my sons would become fathers themselves. I'd completely understand their feelings and they'd completely understand mine. We would commune in silent but knowing harmony, our inward worlds resonating alike, as equals. This, I knew, would never happen now. I finally recognized the letter’s penmanship and I knew it was my wife’s, albeit untypically shaky. She must’ve translated their sentiments into eloquent prose. By God, I hadn’t even begun to tell her how I felt. I'm surely hard-headed. I’d focused so exclusively on her material needs that I hadn’t considered her other wants. It was always so with us, it’d been so long since we had last set aside time for ourselves. With our children’s departure from the nest so imminent, and the growth of my business finally allowing me to delegate, I thought the rediscovery of our intimacy was just within reach, and that there was time to rekindle our flame... but it wouldn't be so now. I only wish I’d been more affectionate in the years we did have, but we two were brought up in a world that preferred a polite distance between man and wife, where declarations of adoration were reserved for marriage ceremonies. In my zeal to create a tidy life, I’d only given her dirty hands and a bent-over back. It's not fair. She would be the curator of my memory now, it’s hers to decide what would, and what wouldn’t, taint our home. Perhaps I should have stayed there. I can never truly know if my decisions in life were the right ones, perhaps they were mere extensions of my own eccentricities, but I must stand by them now, as I must soon leave this world in a manner appropriate to my demeanour. I’ve relinquished this letter to a nurse who will make it available when the time comes. If I ultimately never found the resolve to say what must be said, in-person, I'll make it clear here: I love you all so much Good-bye
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Apr 11, 2022 06:44
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this is not a post saying i'm in
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Apr 16, 2022 07:40
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A Poor Player (897 words) “The penguin’s a gomikuzu because he lives like a gomikuzu! That’s why he can’t fly!” A bereted man paced back and forth in a field of blue, menacing a man-sized penguin with a giant microphone. He paused to press it directly against the penguin’s ear. “Do you hear me? That’s why he keeps failing! That’s your loving motivation!” The penguin removed his head to reveal an astonishingly attractive man underneath. The handsome man looked bewildered, a look mirrored in the unsure prancing of a nearby muscular-legged flamingo. I just stood there, hoping against hope that the bereted man would remember to yell cut, just this once, so I could stop rolling. But he never yells cut. The man is Sash Cronen, he’s the director of this spectacle. He’s a two-time Sundance Winner on his first big-budget project. The handsome man in the penguin-suit is Scott Isaacs, the most sought-after leading-man in the business. Cronen glanced at his phone and winced. “Aw gently caress, we’ve shot long enough... alright, everyone break-off for lunch. But I want you all back in forty with your heads in the game. Remember, this is very high-concept and meta. We’re elevating the genre, we’re transcending the ordinary. The magic will happen soon.” That’s as close to ‘cut’ as we ever get, so I switched off my steady-cam and limbered off the body rigging. Dozens of technical hands standing farther from the blue-screen also moved to stow their equipment. Each figure was weary, with hollow, downcast eyes. One word was obviously haunting every one of us. That word was flop. A multi-million dollar bomb was about to go off in our faces. One we helped build. I wanted to quit but I’d settle for some air. I looked for Bethany in the crowd and waved her towards the studio’s exit; she saw and made way. Side-by-side, we moved with the crowd to pass a hallway festooned with security cameras. The astronomical expense of the film necessitated extra precautions. All the best possible everything was here. Between us and the EXIT doors were two security guards who looked, and acted, like bridge trolls. They were both, I’m sure, barely suppressing intrusive thoughts of homicide as they frisked us. We should’ve been acclimatized to this paranoid groping by now, but we weren’t. We resented it. Outside the sunlight beat down on the studio’s back-alley, lighting up the pavement like a white-stage. The other technical hands shuffled outside. Some found shaded areas to sprawl out, and some lounged against parked trailers. They chatted about how much weed they were going to smoke later. Bethany and I wandered to our regular spot, a secluded wall near a loading dock whose corrugated exterior read STAGE 2. It’s quiet here, except for the whirring of the omni-present, overhead security cameras. We’d bide our time here until the food caterers were ready. I barely uncapped my thermos before I had to vent. “This is a nightmare, everything’s wrong and we’re all going to die,” I said, straight-faced and deadpan. Bethany studied me with her tranquil brown eyes. She’d been so calm throughout this ordeal. She’s the lead costumer who designed the suits. Between takes, she’d work to keep the flamingo’s plumage lively. She joked about being a Flamingo Fluffer. Everyone else was frayed, coping by whatever means necessary to keep it together, while she was a rock. “Everything dies,” she teased. “Not of shame,” I explained in low tones, “This is gonna be worse than Cats.” “You don’t think we’re going to... elevate the genre?” “I cannot believe Cronen’s actually like that in-person. I mean, all the time.” “And you think everything’s wrong?” “Everything. Who thinks a penguin-who-wants-to-fly-movie should be live-action? CGI sure, but live-action? Who pays out for Isaacs and buries him in a penguin-suit? We don’t even need half the equipment we have, and all this extra security is turning us against Cronen. Film's supposed to be a collaborative process, but we’re all off in our own worlds, trying to stay above water. The ship’s sinking and I’m probably gonna quit soon.” “You act like it’s intentional.” “No, it’s... Cronen’s a bad fit. All the man really knows is death. Weird, miserable death. His two Sundance wins were for, what? A surrealist ghost-story about lesbian soulmates physically haunted by the actual phantoms of their exes? And that gonzo mokumentary about the suicide survivors? A man with that background shouldn’t be doing a cute penguin-who-can’t-fly-movie.” “Forget death a sec, our movie’s really about life. You know how awful life can be sometimes?” “...Life’s messy, meaningless and full of failure. I get that. Films can reflect that, productions can’t. The penguin can fail, we can’t. ” “What was it you hated most about Cronen? That he never says cut?” Bethany nudged, pointing at the omni-present cameras overhead. “...What?” “Where do you think the real show is?” “You... think we’re the real show? And, like, Cronen’s intentionally killing his own production just so he can make a behind-the-scenes thing about its failure?” “The man is a known surrealist,” Bethany explained, “They’ll exaggerate any form, any medium, to depict life as is.” A motorcade of anvil-headed men riding vehicles shaped like kamasutra figures bustled towards the loading dock, their anuses sputtering exhaust. I didn’t really believe Bethany, but at least I wasn’t completely miserable anymore. poo poo, maybe all this’ll actually be worth playing out.
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Apr 18, 2022 02:37
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in
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Apr 30, 2022 07:16
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A Tricky Request (1157 words) Our world has always been a noisy place, especially to those who can truly hear it. Not noisy like the ruckus of dropped dishes and pans (who don’t like that very much, by the way), but sweet and gentle, like the peaceful din of a family at picnic. It’s noisy here, but also serene. There’s life in everything here, from the smallest rocks to the greatest mountains. Life that’s proud to talk about itself, about its todays and tomorrows. Rushing rivers, creaking carpets, groaning gates all chatter to each other in versal speech that we can all hear, but only few can understand. It would be delightful if we could all understand nature’s songs, to know that flowers croon to bees, but in our world only the Fixers, Tinkerers, Helpers, and Makers can make sense of these quiet harmonies. But harmony it isn’t always. Sometimes a latch gets rusty and squeaks for oil. Sometimes sheeps’ coats billow like clouds and they bleat for haircuts. Sometimes a houseplant gets parched and sighs for water. Lucky for us, the Fixers, Tinkers and Helpers can hear these calls and often act quickly. Having careful listeners who can understand the needs of others makes our world an easy place to live in... at least, most of the time. Even though most things are content to be where they are, when everything's working right anyway, some still dream about the kinds of lives they'd like to live tomorrow. Sometimes these future lives are very different from the ones they have now, and they want badly to realize these impossible dreams. In these cases they need special help to make their wishes come true. They need the help of a Maker. A good Maker can change almost anything into anything else. The only things a Maker can’t change with his potions are someone’s mind, or a heart that aches from sadness. Sometimes that complicates a Maker’s work, as we shall soon see. **** One day, a Maker heard a shouting in the distance and he went to see what was wrong. He wandered towards the noise, across a friendly, green meadow that wished him a good morning as he passed-by. The Maker wandered and wandered until he found a young iron stripe, glittering alone, trapped in a honeycomb cave. There was hardly any light here, and almost no view. It was also cold and damp. Next to him, in the dark, were two other stripes. They were his younger brothers. My brothers and I don’t like it here anymore! said the eldest iron stripe, Please Maker, we’re tired of our crib and tired of being babies, take us out and turn us into something new! Please help! The other stripes agreed. The Maker saw their earnestness, nodded his head, and plucked them out. The Maker took them back to his cottage, back across that friendly, green meadow. The Maker lived in a cozy, mushroom-shaped house with a smoky, brick chimney. Inside was a lazy chair near a roaring fire, and a wise oak workbench with its rack of many potions. The eldest iron stripe was the first to speak when they all settled in nicely. I was cooped up in that cave so long I almost grew mushrooms! The only thing I could see from there was the sky. Please Maker, I know I’m only a heavy stripe of iron, but I’ve dreamed about that sky for so long. Let me play in the sky! “Oh, that’s very easy,” said the Maker, “Would you like to become the spar of a kite?” The eldest iron stripe quickly agreed and, with just a few dabs of purple potion, he became a beautiful kite. He took off immediately into the sky. The second oldest stripe was the next to speak, but he was so excited he was hard to understand. I-hated-being-stuck-I-want-to-move-and-dance-but-I-don’t-want-legs-or-moving-parts-because-it-reminds-me-of-nasty-cave-spiders! I-want-to-lead-and-I-want-to-follow! I-want-to-play-with-rainbows-but-I-hate-being-wet! The Maker scratched his chin. These were strange requests, but they all came from the heart, the one thing a Maker can’t change. The Maker just had to find some way of making it all work. Luckily, the answer eventually came. “Would you like to become a sewing needle? That way you can lead a cord of string but still follow a sewer’s fingers. You can dance in the air without any legs, and you can play with many-coloured yarn, and be perfectly dry.” The second oldest stripe quickly agreed and, with just a few dabs of yellow potion, he became a needle. He was put into an envelope and mailed to a lucky sewer somewhere. Now it was the youngest iron stripe’s turn to speak, but he remained silent. “Ahem,” croaked the Maker politely, “Do you know what you’d like to become?” No, I don’t. I’ve become so miserable in that miserable cave, that now I only know what I don’t like, said the youngest stripe glumly, and I don’t like most things. I only know that I have to try something new to be happy again. “Do you enjoy flying like your oldest brother?” No. “Do you enjoy colours like your other brother?” No. The Maker scratched his chin. The youngest stripe might still be like his brothers. Maybe anything that reminds him of that miserable cave should be avoided. “Do you want to... be warm and inside?” No. “Do you want... to be away from mushrooms and spiders?” No. The Maker scratched his chin again. That idea was no good. This could be tricky. “Do you... want to go back to that cave?” No. “Do... you want to be left alone?” No. Oh dear, said the lazy chair near the fire, Maybe he doesn’t want to be anything at all. Living things sometimes get sad like that. No, said the wise oak workbench, The stripe said he wants to become something new, he just doesn’t know what. The Maker scratched his chin some more. It might take a very long time indeed to ask every question, if this stripe only knows what he doesn’t like, that is, unless... The Maker found a helpful nail and carefully balanced the iron stripe on it. “Please point away from everything you don’t like!” The youngest stripe turned and turned until he finally stopped. It was just as the Maker now expected. The iron stripe now faced North. “Would you like to become a compass?” asked the smiling Maker, “You could have adventures with people, outside, and not be far from spiders or mushrooms.” The youngest stripe smiled back, for the first time in a long time, and quickly agreed. With just a few dabs of blue potion, the youngest stripe became a compass, and all was well once more. Well, at least for today that is. **** Our world is full of noisy chatter, unlike yours. But having careful listeners who can hear and understand the needs of others makes both our worlds easier places to live in. That, we certainly have in common.
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May 2, 2022 07:08
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in weird cozy is still cozy right
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May 14, 2022 06:23
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What Is Best In Life (798 words) The soundscape of the colossal blackhole had always been strange, but it was a familiar, comforting, sort of strange. The giant blackhole, the Ink Maelstrom, was cannibalizing a trio of nearby stars. Its tremendous gravity flayed its neighbours, perpetually tearing off immense sheets of ions from their fiery halos. The crush ignited them further into a blazing red stream that spiralled towards the great abyss. This cosmic firestorm shone brighter than any real star, and it seemed even more alive set against the darkest blackness of the all-consuming vortex. The violence of this ingestion quaked tremors back through the spiral, tremors whose ripples echoed through the void as electromagnetic waves. These waves could be caught by radios and translated into sound. For a long time these were the only songs we listened to and, for us, they made sense. They made our world make sense. But those times are gone now. Sierra turned up the radio, using this symphony to set a dreamy mood. She dimmed the lights of her cabin room, the largest quarters on the ship, and she opened up the skylight, preferring to let the Ink Maelstrom’s fierce glow color the walls instead. The world was certainly different. Humans openly populated the galaxy now, and they explored purely for curiosity’s sake. Only a few still lived who recalled an older, bittersweet age. Though outwardly shy, the lingering habits of these elders sometimes spoke volumes of that time. Sierra readied incense candles that reeked of recycled oil. A forgotten romantic cliché, but one her husband would appreciate. Her husband, Pike, could arrive any moment. There were so few left who’d understand these gestures, and today she was feeling the need to reminisce with someone who was there, to reprieve herself of a present that sometimes felt like it belonged to others. She re-adjusted the skylight. The Ink Maelstrom was now elegantly framed above. Sierra's ancestors once saw beauty in their own heavens. They perceived immaculate celestial waltzes whose wakes traced flawless, platonic shapes. They believed these bodies were virtuous by immutable law, and that an impassable firmament kept them further innocent of the anarchy below. Her ancestors didn’t know the universe had other rules, rules primed to slowly sculpt the stuff of stars into life and, from that roiling cauldron, spawn apex predators of supreme menace. When her ancestors grew bold enough to break the firmament with their first starships, they soon pined back for its protection. They met their galactic neighbours, and they proved to be most unkind. Predators perfected by the eons. For a time, her ancestors hid from them in unthinkable, impossible places. From within the raging lights of blackholes. Generations of them lived in the shadows of these giants, living, loving, courageously nonetheless. Eventually the predators found her people, but her people knew the hazards of these fantastic places better than they, and in their reckless, single-minded pursuit the predators tumbled into the abyss. My generation is the last to remember, we’ve been free for so long. A firm knocking came at the door. It was him. Sierra smoothed her cushy gown. The door hissed open and Pike entered. The white-haired man held a jug of moonshine (labelled industrial cleaner) in one hand, and boxy, C-type rations in the other. It was nice of him to humour me. He placed the bounty upon a table. “That stuff's not real, is it?” Sierra chided. “Lady, it’s so real, it’ll whiten your teeth,” Pike said, taking in the room’s ambience, “Love what you’ve done to the place.” They wasted no time. Pike took Sierra by the hand and they waltzed to the ambient soundscape. First the Andromeda Five-step, and then the Mourning Star’s Musette. The shapes their rhythms traced on the waxy, iron flooring weren’t as immaculate as the celestial transits that inspired them, but that was life. Lives the people of her day lived. They laughed when their ankles knocked after turning slightly out-of-sync, or when a left whisk morphed into a back whisk. It didn’t matter. Perfection could be aspired to, but changing the rules of the dance into something more pleasant suited them just fine. Their happy strides bounced into Orion’s Sway. After a long interlude, their pace slowed. They weren’t as young as they once were, but they were still content to just hold one another under the roaring light, gently swinging to the beat of their heart. Pike’s gaze softened, the rosy illumination was too much to resist. He carefully parted Sierra’s silver hair and kissed her brow. “You think the grandkids’ll understand any of this?” “No, and I wouldn’t want them to.” “Do you regret those days?” “No. That was our time and we were strong enough for it. I'm glad we were the ones to see things through."
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May 16, 2022 06:58
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i'm going to put the in in singularity heaven help us
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Jun 4, 2022 06:52
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A Heap of Grains (1196 words) I’m dying. Or, at least, my body is. It’s lying on a cold hospital bed, and it’s being pumped full of coloured fluids from translucent bags. An iron spike prepares to descend into its skull. In moments, this body will die. There are some who’d say I’ve already died, and that I’ve been dead for twenty years. That was when my natural brain had become too wracked by age to carry on. By then, most of my natural brain function had been assumed by my neural implant. Little by little, my consciousness had been migrating into this implant. This migration happens in nearly all people now, and it begins at childhood when the implant is first installed. We quickly learn to offload simple cognitive tasks to the implants; arithmetic first, and memory storage later. This is where kindergartners start. Our implants begin their lives as foreign, intrusive tools, but they evolve into natural extensions of our psyche. As we lean more and more on our implants, we replace our crude, carbon biology with graceful, silicon precision. Eventually, the implant becomes us. This step is crucial. Total integration sets off a quickening. We process faster, but sometimes our tempers cool. We only numbly feel, and we’re less prone to volatile shifts in emotion, but many prefer it this way. I prefer it this way, but this stage is only another step towards the pinnacle. Ten years ago, my family doctor proudly told me that I was nearly braindead. I half-smiled in reply. That sign was highly favourable for imminent total integration. Now, I could schedule the uploading of my consciousness into the Nexus. I’ll leave my body, and it’ll die, but I’ll be alive in a vast supercomputer. Alive with my husband, my mother, my aunts and every other human who also made the jump into the Nexus. The process isn’t without risk, host rejection is frequent, but it’s still the only concrete way of finding a paradise beyond death. I’m dying right now. I’m leaving behind a frail, hundred-and-sixty-seven year old body on that cold hospital bed. I’ve been preparing for this moment a long time. When I open my eyes again, I’ll be in a completely virtual world. What comes next will be frightening and hard to comprehend at first, but I’m ready. I won’t be rejected. I’ll be free of my body’s growing infirmity. I’ll be free to see everyone I’ve lost from this material world. I’ll be free to explore the endless limits of thought and imagination. I’ll be free and perfect. The final injection pumps into these bruised, varicose arms. The iron spike lunges at my implant. It pierces the skull, makes contact and I... ****** I’m Hideous! I shriek as I instantly feel the warped dimensions of my new silicon body. I’m too afraid to open my eyes. My hands feel like zeppelins, my face like a Moai statue, and my mouth feels like bloated garbage. Even my sex organs have become caricatures. The rest of my body is thinner and frailer than the one I left behind. I’m baffling all physical law just by standing upright. I feel the drumming of a racing heart underneath this spindly chest. I feel, I feel! But I shouldn’t! I don’t have a heart anymore. But I feel more than I have in decades. None of this seems right, but somehow I know it’s supposed to be this way. This is my virtual homunculus, I vaguely remember. I think I can adjust it. With this thought I feel my body’s proportions improve, albeit, marginally. I open my still-bulbous eyes to a red gloaming amidst a thick darkness all around. A shadowy figure looms nearby. I can’t see its details in the black fog, but its equally ghastly proportions make my heart race faster. I’m vulnerable to this monster. It starts to shamble towards me with malice and unsteady gait. My thoughts run incoherent. Where’s my family? Did the jump fail? Was I rejected by the Nexus? Have I died and gone to Hell? I’m floating away from my body on a tether. I’m depersonalizing. I see my own warped features fix into a thousand-yard stare from ten feet away. The monster lurches closer and I can hear its deranged babbling. Lost! Lost! its quivering tones distantly sputter. That’s my voice, I realize. The distorted figure is another me. I can see her clearer in the red twilight as she draws closer. She is me, but terribly worn and aged. Spittle hangs from her bloated mouth. Her enormous, rheumatoid hands grab for me. I will myself back into my homunculus and shuffle away as fast as my deformed limbs can carry me. My heart pounds madly. I hear her close behind me. I’ve been lost a long time, I can’t find my home. Can you take me home? Her melody is so haunting, her plea so earnest. Giant tears well in my eyes against all my will. I feel a lump inside my throat unlike anything I’d felt before. I’m supposed to be totally integrated! I start to remember as I stumble further away. I should be alone! Is this a test? My thoughts cohere as I put more distance between me and myself. I remember now. I just have to find the blazing red crack and pass through it. That’s the imagistic metaphor the Nexus creates for hosts coming in from the Cloud Betwixt. That’s what this place is called, the Cloud Betwixt. It’s a kind of firewall that protects the Nexus. Only hosts of sufficient integrity can pass through this gap. Incoherent hosts, the kind that might compromise the Nexus, are scorched and rejected. I look for the crack. I can see its flickering light in the west. I stagger wildly towards the slender exit as sobs echo from behind. Home! I have to go home! She cries. The melody is still haunting, but I feel it less as our distance grows. My tempers are cooling. No heart pounds madly within my withered chest anymore. At the end of the chase I almost throw myself into the crack to seal the victory, but a stray thought anchors me. I’m supposed to be alone. I’m supposed to be totally integrated. I look behind. The older me is kneeling in the far distance. She’s resigned herself. Lo-s-s-s-t... Lo-s-s-s-t... She can barely complete the holophrase now. I consider myself a rational being. I believe in logic and certainty, but a new-found intuition screams at me to call back. We can try to go home together. She rises to approach the sound of my voice. I continue calling her over. As she nears, my heart races again. She babbles more. The melancholy of her plea swallows me. I’m swimming with feeling but I continue. We’re standing face-to-face now. I cradle her. A tether lashes to her, and we all merge. Our mingled form shifts and morphs. We become beautiful, like a sculpture designed from artist’s proportions. The crack pulls us in. Together, we are elegant enough to slip through the slender exit. The remaining distinctions between myself and herself blur as the Nexus embraces us.
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Jun 6, 2022 02:58
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in with a 
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Jun 18, 2022 07:14
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Based on a True Story (500 words) We’re sixteen, we’re in the bad part of town the next city over, and we’ve got two cases of beer. And our ride bailed on us. Mike and I are stranded here, and there’s nothing but the stars overhead to point the way home. This wasn’t the plan. We’d heard about this place where the guy doesn’t check IDs as long as whoever’s asking’s over 6 feet tall, so naturally Mike and I’d go in. The other guys were supposed to come back after leaving to buy the other stuff, but they disappeared. We don’t have phones yet, so we’re just waiting in a parking lot like two idiots. Our arms are trembling because neither of us considered putting the cases down this whole time. Once we realize we’d been hosed, we try transit. Two consecutive buses refuse us when they see the cases. We’d be okay if we could find Central Station, but Mike’s already talking about ditching the beer. We're not ditching anything. We just need a new plan. I go to a thriftstore to buy a decoy and some tape. We lose the boxes and stuff every single pocket of our cargo pants with bottles. My pants’ button bulges dangerously. We look like even bigger idiots now, but this does conceal the labels. A third bus pulls up. “Whatchu boys got there?” the driver asks. “Just good old American root beer, Sir,” I say, holding up the decoy. The root beer I found had a different shape, but the driver scoffs and waves us through. We pay our fares and clink towards the back. We can’t even sit because of the bottles. We endure by exchanging knowing glances and snickering every once in a while. Once we make it to Central Station, we walk a long while looking for a bay with our town’s name. The beer makes walking awkward, but I saw that coming. We already have tickets, so we can be less stealthy. I use tape to bind two beers together, carefully covering the labels, so we can both carry several in each hand. Walking’s actually less awkward now. When our bus finally pulls up, we board. My pants' button tears on the last step. My trousers plummet. I can’t catch them because I’m quad-fisting bottles. “I don’t know this man,” Mike says, clinking ahead. The driver doesn’t blink. I just wave the decoy and the ticket between my fingers at him, and crab-walk in. Some girls laugh, but I’m not ditching anything yet. When we finally make it back to town, we miss the last bus to our neighbourhood. It’s a two hour walk now, and the tape’s loosening. We can’t make it like this. I try to make beer-bandoliers, but the bottles are too slick now for thirftstore tape. “Let it go,” Mike says. “I gotta at least try one,” I say, biting-off the cap. The lukewarm suds touches my tongue a split-second before I gag. “gently caress, that’s awful... Hey, you wanna try?”
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Jun 20, 2022 06:59
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i didn't sign up because i knew didn't have time until monday afternoon; since the prompt was fun, please consider this a blood donation to (crom's) blood throne, and a DQ Plague, Power and Plot (1498 words) Death was fat in the air. Masses of char marred the plateau of the mountain ascent. Ashes whirled and mingled into the snowfall. Everything was sickly and pale here. The evergreens lacked colour. Bonfires lacked warmth. Starved beasts lacked prey. Timber and twisted limbs jutted out from the smoulder. Venram winced at the trail leading upwards, then fixed his gaze on a robed woman probing the smoking carcasses. A warlock, a hooded noble, and an armoured wanderer took their own stock of the ruin in the distance. “Chaos consumes their humours. I’ve never seen such...” The robed woman began. The woman’s an alchemist, eccentric and wise for her age, but given to reckless yearning. Ogito’s her name. Venram first loathed her. Too learned, like that accursed warlock who’d bought his sword. He softened later, once realizing she made her learning free. The warlock, for his part, uttered the words beyond your mortal comprehension so often Venram once held a knife to his throat. We’re all mortal here, Venram had snarled at him. Venram clenched his teeth and worked a honing rod against his massive, stolen axe. The warlock couldn’t fathom that a filthy sword-for-hire might also seek learning. That lowly mercenaries could appreciate esotery. Venram didn’t care for babble of corrupted ley lines, cosmic fulcrums or desecrated altars, but a proper bestiary would’ve forestalled many of these surprises. We weigh threat and peril to fulfill our end of the bargain. Venram’s meandering attention snapped back to Ogito. “... the same diseased pitch courses through the veins of all Tainted, twisting organ and limb - but it’s not a sickness of the body or mind. Their humours aren’t being remade, they’re being reinterpreted. As if some cosmic mind were ascribing new meaning to old viscera, granting flesh reimagined form. It’s not a physical disease, it’s a moral disease. The other Tainted were attuned to fire –hellfire really- because their cults worshipped it. These Tainted were weak to it! They worship the dead, and so fear cremation! The pitch-black blood is only one agent of the corruption!” Venram furrowed his brow. The accursed warlock occupied him too much. He never lost focus like this. Though Venram could only grasp the brunt of Ogito’s words, he gathered that to defeat the Tainted that plagued the countryside, he must discover their tenets. That one coven may not be like another. Venram considered Ogito herself a moment. She's hungry. The city of alchemists she hailed from studied the exact workings of the material. Invisible magics were the anathema of wizards. She raved of threats from beyond and they exiled her as a mystic. She over-explains herself to no one because everyone thought her mad. To prove her wisdom to her people, she’ll take foolish risks someday. She’s dangerous. The warlock will push upwards soon. He claims reconsecrating the altar atop this mountain will end the plague. There’s no choice but to keep an eye on all of them. ****** The warlock hired a small band to succeed by guile where whole armies had failed by force. Armies could be heard from leagues away, as the Tainted now proved. Deranged howling completely surrounded the warlock’s band. The cacophony screamed from everywhere. Thousands of distant wails melded into the thousands of close shrieks that came from all sides. It drowned out the crunching of the band’s frantic footfall on the snowy trail. Only the worst asylums and slaver’s pits could echo such bedlam. The warlock did this, Venram brooded, The blasting of his conjurings carried down the mountainside. He purged one den of Tainted but alerted the rest. “Into the cave,” Venram growled, pushing towards a narrow crevice that barely split its stony facade. This slim, uneven fracture would surely shred any flesh forced through. If it could pass. The warlock raced atop the snow, flanked by both the wanderer and the noble. Ogito’s robes fluttered. “It’s too small,” the noble huffed, “We should make a stand.” “Soon,” Venram grunted. The noble cannot be trusted. He craves his own death. A few days ago Venram discovered the noble was wracked by plague. He’d been poisoned by his viziers, who were all Tainted. He used the warlock’s magics to keep the spread at bay. He exiled himself from his own land. He claims to seek nothing but an end to the plague. A worthy end for himself, before his mind also rots, is likelier. He could be dangerous. “You go last, noble,” Venram barked, fearing the pitch-black blood the rock could wring from him. One-by-one, they pinched through. They passed into a large chamber. Flecks of metal in the stonework sparkled in the warlock’s torchlight. It was a columbarium, or a perhaps labyrinth. Hollows and tunnels dug into every surface. Some shallow, some deep. A stand could be made here. The Tainted were already in sight, squeezing in. These Tainted were hideous, distortions of humankind. Seven foot tall, with unnatural fangs protruding from every scrap of their bloody flesh. One crooked eye was always bigger than another. They always moved at full tilt, without economy of strength. It’d be easy to catch them at the awkward moment of entry. Venram hefted his massive axe and swung at the first to squeeze through. Beheaded in one stroke. Only the grisliest violence will do. That’s why Venram looted the largest weapon he could find. Only in the madness of this infernal resiliency could such bulk have purpose. Another squeezed through, then another. Venram swung ‘til his shoulders ached. He signalled for the noble. The noble now skewered them with his duellist’s blade, his throwing knives jingling with every thrust. Brilliant weapons for outmanoeuvring brute gladiators, but poor ones against Tainted. The noble tired. The wanderer took his turn. His paired scimitars soon collected a neat pile of heads. Ogito moved the bodies. The wanderer obviously wasn’t young to war, but he was surely young to blackguard work. He said very little, and stood too close to the warlock. There was a noble carriage to him. Honour. Chivalry. He’d probably fallen from some lord’s grace, but clung to gallantry in his discharge. The warlock was his lord now, and for jilted valour’s sake he’d die for him. He's a threat as well. The Tainted still poured in with mindless tenacity. The wanderer stepped aside. The warlock was ready to knead his magics again. Embers danced at his fingertips. “Wait-“ Ogito began. Flames erupted from the warlock’s palms. Every Tainted still in the crevice blew out. The air inside the chamber, and everyone’s chest, went with them. Knees buckled, throats hacked, torchlight wilted. “You stupid-“ Venram hacked. “A zephyr,” the wanderer interrupted. A draft coming from one of the tunnels gusted towards the crevice. The wanderer pointed at a burrow slanting upwards. “Another way up,” he added. The warlock smiled at himself, as if strokes of luck and strokes of genius were alike. Venram scowled. ****** “DON’T DESTROY THE ALTAR!” the warlock commanded. Venram stood over the marble dais. His massive axe loomed over the slab. Desecration had made the altar as brittle as chalk. Deranged howling still echoed from all around. Snowfall weaved through the fog oppressing the ritual site. The warlock’s band had found the summit abandoned. The warlock surmised his band’s commotion forced the cult leaders into the labyrinth, to wait out the threat. Those cultists were caught by surprise in the tunnels. They fell quickly. The noble stayed behind to hold off any Tainted that might interrupt the reconsecration. Venram rushed ahead into the summit. The warlock’s band found Venram poised to break the altar. “Better to destroy it once and for all than to let it fall into the wrong hands,” Venram replied, gesturing at the warlock. The wanderer and Ogito were also armed and ready to pounce. They’d always been threats. “You don’t know the consequences of diverting ley lines-“ “The Tainted could’ve broken it. They didn’t. They need it. We don’t.” “You know little and assume much.” “Your inept hands might prove worse than their corruption.” “Venram... the way you’ve begun to reckon... you might be corrupted,” Ogito interrupted. Venram howled with laughter. “Do I look like them?” “Corruption takes many shapes.” “You might be corrupted for all I know. You wet your hands on their corpses often enough.” Only deranged echoes replied. “...The warlock’s blundered at every turn. He poses threat-” Venram continued. “He hasn’t, and doesn’t.” “You’d preserve the altar only to prove your theories. You pose threat as well.” “No one’s a greater threat than you! Your reckoning’s gone crooked. Remember, this plague's a moral disease. It’s fundamentally a cultic reinterpretation of-“ “I’m no cultist. I worship nothing.” “You...you might be said to idolize yourself-” “This is beyond your mortal comprehension," the warlock interrupted. Venram’s eyes went wild. He raised the axe. A throwing knife pierced the fog, plunging into Venram’s chest. The noble must’ve overheard. He'd flanked him in the fog. Venram looked down. His blood seemed plenty red.
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Jun 28, 2022 02:20
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punching in as late as possible w/o getting into trouble, just like in real life
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Jul 2, 2022 06:05
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A Very Canadian Mystery (1498 words) “Lake’s gone.” “…Can’t be. Check the co-ordinates again.” “The Lake’s gone, Gus.” Gus and Jerry stood afore a great, dusty pan, pluck in the middle of a rich boreal forest on the edge of the Kluane National Park and Reserve. Almost everything was where it should be. The Foxes, chary in their dens below. The Goshawks, vigilant in their nests above. Even the Kokanee Salmon were exactly where they should be. It seemed quite absurd for their lake to be missing, but so it was. Gus frantically crosschecked the numbers in his notebook with the ones on Jerry’s GPS. They always matched, no matter how hard he glared. “How do we take water quality samples from a missing lake?” Gus wondered. “Maybe we could take some silt and mix it around with bottled water. Should be fine enough for testing,” Jerry replied. “…We have to sample lakewater, from the right lake.” “Maybe we should call in? See what the boss says?” Gus winced as Jerry fished out the sat-phone from his backpack. It wasn’t long before their boss hollered unkind words at them. Though Gus made sure to stand far away, he could still perceive the profuse profanity. “I don’t care how it gets done, just do it! Every single lake on the list gets assayed or you’re both fired!” the voice blustered before disconnecting. “…Guess, we’ll have to hope there’s a puddle left somewhere,” Gus grumbled, hopping from the mossy backshore onto the naked foreshore. Though plump carrion eaters munched happily at their windfall, Gus and Jerry’s noses wrinkled at the leftover fish. Not a puddle was left of the great lake. Even the loam they tread upon crunched instead of squished. A sinkhole on the other shoreline was the only lead. Gus and Jerry shrugged, then ventured in, setting their flashlights ablaze. The channel ran steep and deep, but yielded no trickle. They followed the canal to its end. A stout, stony door, with a shadowed figure standing afore it, capped the path. Gus swallowed hard. The figure was surely a giant animal. He’d already seen one too many grizzlies up close this season. Jerry yawned and dispelled the figure’s penumbras with his flashlight. It was definitely a Sasquatch, caught mid-stride. Its gawky pose reminded Jerry of the time he’d caught his roommate pilfering cheese from their fridge at midnight. “Hey, do you know where the water went?” Jerry casually asked. The Sasquatch’s eyes widened, as if it’d just seen a bison talk. Gus stood agape too. Sasquatches were not on the list of fauna they might encounter. The stare-off persisted ‘til Jerry brandished a water bottle. He sloshed it about. “Waaa-teeer…?” The holophrase didn’t register so Jerry drank from the bottle with great theatre. The Sasquatch ceased its ponderings and opened the door a skosh. It bobbed its head towards the entry. Get in, it probably meant. It disappeared into the ingress. Jerry followed suit. Gus wondered whether he should update their boss, but he couldn’t take another haranguing. They’d surely just be cursed at again. Gus followed Jerry into the realm beyond the stony door. ***** Bioluminescent fungi planted in sconces at every meter lit the way in neon. The passage’s stonework looked clean and square. Bas-reliefs on its walls depicted a march of Sasquatch, with their bison herds, returning after a grand adventure. They carried water back to a hive of underground ziggurats. Gus studied the bas-reliefs as he walked; the symbols etched into them reminded him of the cave paintings he’d seen in Neanderthal books, back when he still aspired to be an anthropologist. The job market wasn’t ready for his dreams, so he became a field analyst, to still be a kind of scientist. Cave paintings combined pictures and symbols to tell stories, as comic books do, he recalled. Meanwhile, Jerry contemplated the architecture; it reminded him of the bigger qanats he’d seen in history books, back when he still aspired to be an archaeologist. The job market was sluggish, so he became a field analyst, to be outside at least. He recalled qanats were underground aqueducts. Though Gus and Jerry both shed a single tear at the handsome stonework, they averted their gaze from the many horrible piles of slimy rubble. The Sasquatch halted at some bare stone and pointed. Paintings. Bas-reliefs still uncarved. Gus and Jerry peered closer. A march of Sasquatch dug a tunnel. Then they built gates and a pit. They opened the first gate. Water rushed in. The water spun all kinds of wheels. Pipes filled up. The Sasquatches celebrated. Then a lake monster washed in. A gargantuan waterserpent. It smashed the gates on the way in. Too much water now. Wheels broke, pipes split. The Sasquatches diverted the floodwaters into the pit. Some Sasquatches died trying to throw another switch in the pit. The monster got them. The monster lives there now. The Sasquatches mended some damage, but don’t know what to do next. “I’m not going through an Ogopogo just for some lakewater samples,” Jerry groaned. “…Hey, did that stone door slam shut just now?” ***** “Did’ya ever think life was gonna be this way?” Jerry queried, staring distantly, skipping stones off the Ogopogo. The monster’s snorting threatened a hungry reprisal. “…Nah. I wanted to become a famous anthropologist,” Gus replied, absently casting down pebbles. Over the past two days they’d tried everything to evict the waterserpent. Nothing from their hefty backpacks worked. Not bear spray, not flares, not gasoline, propane or butane. The best they could do was hurl rocks from the safety of the pit’s highest gallery. A stairway circumscribed the pit’s edges. The oversized steps continued below the new surface, towards a partially submerged relief valve. The valve would empty the pit into a subterranean river, or so they guessed from further study of the bas-reliefs. “What stopped you?” “…Two recessions, a couple pandemics and more wars than I can remember.” “Something like that happened to me too. Hey, I bet we’d get a second chance if we make it back. An underground civilization would be the find of the century.” The thought warmed parts of their souls long since frozen-over, but the pit’s crypt-like chill soon postponed the thaw. “…If we make it back.” Once the Elder Sasquatches realized little Jamie had brought humans into the settlement, they politely imposed quarantine. They needed to deliberate. Gus and Jerry were confined to the watercourses, unable to explore elsewhere. They’d have liked to tour the ziggurats. Jamie, by the way, was what they named the first Sasquatch they’d met. It’s a good name, for boys or girls. Jerry sighed, imagining the peril the Ogopogo must’ve visited upon the settlement. “If we could get a ‘quatch into the water, it’d distract the ‘pogo. We’d easily get that valve. Lose one ‘quatch but save the rest.” Gus frowned. The idea reminded him too much of the problems their boss made him solve during hiring. ‘Trolley problems,’ he called them. That interview had been obnoxious. Sadly, that was the only idea left. “…I think the Sasquatches are testing us, seeing if we’re brave enough to fix this ourselves.” “That ‘pogo’s gotten real ornery. At us, in particular. No other way to get close.” “…Maybe we could try something like that? A distraction, I mean. We could stuff food into our extra clothes, shape it like a person, and throw that down...?” ***** With the pit draining and the Ogopogo ejected, a great gurgling echoed across the underground. Eventually Jamie, and all the Elders, came to greet Gus and Jerry. The Elder Sasquatches had parchment drawings they wanted to share. The peril turned out to be imaginary. The Ogopogo would’ve eventually starved, but the Sasquatches preferred to spare the majestic beast. There weren’t many left anymore. They were surprised a pair of humans fixed the problem without a whole lot of death or violence. Humans tended to make messes of things. They did fear a disaster, however, if these humans told even more humans about these goings-on. They detained the two, not knowing they might be different. The Elders led Gus and Jerry to the bare stone where Jamie first explained the problem. There were more drawings now, with a wet palette underneath. The first paintings depicted two humans braving the waterserpent, banishing the floodwaters, waving good-bye and departing in triumph. The next drawings were faint, chalky scratches. It showed the Sasquatches celebrating, living happily ever after, alone in their sunken cities. The tentativeness of the thing suggested the idea wasn’t fixed, like it was more of a question. Gus and Jerry exchanged shameful glances with one another. Maybe it’d be better if Sasquatches weren’t the find of the century. Gus dipped his finger into the palette and thickly painted the drawing in, hoping the gesture would answer the question. A happy ending, for Sasquatches anyway. “Guess we’d better go back for that lakewater sample,” Jerry sighed. “…At least we’ll keep our crummy jobs,” Gus murmured.
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Jul 4, 2022 01:57
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sure, maybe i could sin a little this weekend
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Jul 9, 2022 07:34
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Fragments from the book of Danhune, 4th Verse (Revised English Edition) Narrated by Danhune the Witness Collected by Bardu sen Alfaktan Translated by Ellen Kaufmann (1000 words) 4.1The city’s gates withstood the first siege, but the city’s people mustered no cheer. No drums thumped, no bells clanged, no hurrahs roared within its walls. Only a dry wind rustled through the bones of its bazaars. Manuras had abandoned His people; His absence had birthed this crisis. He had deserted our young men in the field. Our most able warriors scattered before His enemies again and again. Campaigns, once ignited by righteous mission, now snuffed to chance disasters. Our calamities multiplied until the foe had pushed us to the walled cities. Only our Taxila[0] still stood unplundered. 4.2We were as orphans. Emptiness scalded our bosoms, nothingness burned in our bodies. Our deadened hearts only moved enough life to keep our bodies moving and our eyes wet. To bear each day, we raised impenetrable walls within ourselves, where even soft joys brooked no welcome. This was why we could muster no cheer when the city withstood the first siege[1]. As fresh cohorts of the Satrap Cadish[2] rallied for his next siege, only one passion still remained to give last beats to our chests: Anger. 4.3A mob formed at the temple’s xyst[3] to hold tribunal over the Priests. Priestly negligence, the mob charged, had cursed our young men. The mob thrashed and jeered. The Priests tore their armlets and accused the crowds of secret apostasies in turn. They decreed that Manuras’ favour would return if we purged our secret evils. The mob roared in outrage. In its furor, the mob drove the Priests to the gates. They shouted, “It's your secret evil that will be purged today!” They threw the Priests outside, leaving them to their fate. The Satrap, wise in war, would grotesquely torture exiles to discourage further expulsions, for he knew that full cities fell faster than emptied cities. 4.4The Priests were butchered at the gates. We awaited a sign. Their deaths should’ve bought a catharsis, a bloody rebinding to Manuras, but He gave no reply. We’d fulfilled every obligation, but He didn’t return. Our bargain lay broken. Over time the milky eyes of the Priests, rotting on their spikes, begun to accuse us of wickedness. Perhaps they were as little to blame for Manuras’ absence as we were. It turned our stomachs to look out the gate. 4.5Turmoil erupted inside the walls. It seemed no one had been lax in their duties, yet Manuras still abandoned us. But Manuras always rewards loyalty. No one could unknot this tangle until Diyna the Keeper[4] uttered the unutterable: “Manuras is dead.” The bitter truth would’ve crushed us, if we weren’t already beyond exhaustion. The Satrap, emboldened by our confusion, prepared the foundations for his earthworks. He'd take the city by cunning. 4.6Our supplies dwindled, water became scarce, there was nothing left to fight with. We’d spent the arrows in the first siege. Roof tiles, and other convenient stones, had already been thrown. The city’s backbones poked through its absent flesh. Only the temple remained whole. We were too tired to live, yet too afraid to die. Some wanted a final stand. Diyna led the brave few into the temple and looted it. From the machicolations[5], they cast down Manuras’ idols, but even as bludgeons they proved useless. The Satrap laughed and continued his excavations. 4.7Diyna then cried, “We must do the undoable. We must shape the cenotaphs[6] into sling-bullets[7].” The crowds trembled. No insult was greater than splitting the monuments that honoured our Ancestors. She replied, “Our Ancestors gave us life. We honour them better by seizing that life, and surviving it, as their legacy.” The crowds still trembled. Diyna worked alone, singing dirges with such sweet voice the crowds stilled. “You were generous guardians in life. You gave us all we have, and even in death you still give. Your protection comes from beyond.” One-by-one, the crowds came to work beside her. We all sang dirges together, giving final thanks to our Ancestors. We thought tenderly of those who’d come before us. This was the first miracle. Soon the Satrap cursed the bullets that pelted his cohorts. His excavations continued, painfully. 4.8Then one day the dead began to whisper! We all remembered secrets our ancestors once shared. Aysha the Crone remembered how to strain gutterwater through silk to make clearwater. A feat her grandmother once did. Toma the Fletcher remembered how to make bone arrowheads, as his uncle once had. Diyna permitted him to use the ossarium[8]. Sephus the Carpenter remembered the temple curtain rods his grandfather cut. They could be refashioned into shafts. Wisdom from the dead reinvigorated us. Like gnats we pestered the Satrap with small tricks until his earthworks stalled. This was the second miracle. 4.9The greatest miracle was upon us. The earth shook one night. Shocks rippled the land. Diyna cried out, “Our Ancestors shake in their graves! They rage beneath the ground!” We roared hurrahs from within our walls. We clanged bells and pounded drums. Diyna shouted, “Such power, even in death! Our Ancestors have mastered death itself!” The ground quaked in fits ‘til noon. The Satrap’s cohorts shuddered at the tumult. Some dispersed. A warparty sallied from our gates to exploit their pandemonium. The startled cohorts routed and the Satrap fled. 4.10Diyna issued a new proclamation: “When we first entered this world, life made us weak as babes. It took time to grow into life. We weren’t born strong, we only acquired it with the guidance of our Ancestors. Our Ancestors have now entered death ahead of us, and they will master it ahead of us. Their strength can be ours too if we listen. Until Manuras masters his own death, we should only look to our Ancestors for strength.” [0]Taxila fell to Abrahamics in later centuries [1]Some manuscripts add: 'For joy was as distant as the stars.' [2]Second Century Satraps were addressed by Satrapy, not by name [3]Roofed promenade [4]Diyna likely tended graves before becoming "The Interpreter" [5]Murder-holes nesting in curtain walls [6]Monuments honouring dead resting elsewhere [7]Colloquial metaphor [8]Depositories for skeletal remains
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Jul 11, 2022 08:06
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blood for the blood ... throne, here's something i wrote for an inter-prompt that i didn't get to post before the next prompt slid in, now's a good a time as any, i guess v vThe man called M posted:INTERPROMPT Your World (498 words) The world must’ve felt so warm when you came into it. You were surrounded by your siblings once more, who all emerged just a little bit before you did. Huddled together, so small and tender at the breast of mother, you were already a part of a loving family. You were so delicate and raw you could only take in the waking world in fits at first. You slumbered away those first few weeks; your eyelids still too cumbersome to keep open. The toll of provenance is ever heavy, but your family was already there for you. They were pleased just to have you in their lives. They were ready to nourish you, to see you grow. It was only a matter of time before strength came easily, and the rambunctious patter of your soft pads could be heard at all hours. Little yips to welcome the dawn of each day. This was your first world, the world of your infancy, and it was beautiful. Then you joined a second family, our family, and entered our home. We were just as pleased to have you. We made such a fuss of your first day. The kids couldn’t stop petting you, and mom took dozens of pictures. Even dad beamed proudly all day. The kids invited over all their friends to enjoy your company. Your first bed, the first one you had all to yourself, was a warm blanket inside a cozy basket. For a time, we debated who’d be the first to walk you. This was your second world, the world of your youth, and it was beautiful. As the years passed, you were there for us as much as we were there for you. Sometimes the kids came home with scrapes from rough play, and you were ready to sit beside them. Their tears were always fewer with your head on their lap. When mom lost her job, you were her steadfast companion at home. She credits you for keeping her eyes bright until she found another. Dad took you for mourning runs, as much for your health as for his, and you made sure he kept his routine. This was your third world, the world of your maturity, and it was beautiful. A part of us had always hoped we’d have the time to grow old together, to rock on our hammocks and enjoy the cool glow of the evening sun. To step back from the dash of life’s treadmill, to savour each moment for the gift that it is. We’d have watched the bloom of the kids together, with magic in our eyes. This would’ve been your fourth world, the world of your seniority, and it would’ve been beautiful. The fill of life’s cup is a mystery no one can know, and sometimes we receive much less than we deserve. We can only make the most of what we have. You did, and I’ll always be happy to know that your worlds were always beautiful.
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Jul 26, 2022 21:29
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infinite night brawl (497 words) I just wanted to do something different, something exciting for a change. I never went to any school dances, played any sports or joined any clubs. I didn’t even buy tickets for prom. It was always just school, homework, and stocking shelves at the supermarket. None of that was any fun. To me, they were just joyless steps I had to take on the way to a better tomorrow, and I was always thinking of tomorrow. Of getting into a good college, and maybe at least having my textbook money settled. I’d spent my whole highschool life up to this point in a daze, like I was never really living in the same present everyone else did. I knew I was missing something, but I didn’t know what yet. Then I’d heard the other kids in my neighbourhood, all boys my age, talk about buying some spray cans. They were going to tag the highschool one night. I’d overheard them. Then I did what I almost never do. I invited myself. They all looked at me like I was a narc. I knew I had some kind of reputation at school, but I never knew how bad it was ‘til I saw the way they looked at me. I even used to be friends with some of them, back when we’d do tricks on our bikes at the elementary school parking lot. They tried to psyche me out. They told me if there was any trouble, it’d be every man for himself. That I’d probably have to outrun cops. I had to use whatever currency was still left in our past to guilt them into letting me come anyway. I don’t know why I made my stand here, of all places. I’d never been a vandal. I could’ve just changed my mind about prom, if I wanted something new, but I was set on something different. I felt like an artist, all sprung up inside, ready to attack a canvas. The night finally came. It was late and the moon was out. I’d told my parents I was at the neighbours’. We were all casually dressed. I probably would’ve come out looking like a cat burglar but they told me not to. We strolled right up to our highschool and they handed me the can. I was first. I probably still had to prove I wasn’t a narc by getting my hands a little red. I snickered when I put up the first thing that came to mind. gently caress YOU, I WON’T LIVE THE WAY YOU WANT I barely had time to finish before a light flickered inside the school. We all bailed as it had been a siren. It really was every man for himself. For second I didn’t care if it was actually cops after us. It’d ruin my chances at a good university, but I needed this night. I’m glad a part of me will always live in that night, laughing and running madly.
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Jul 27, 2022 01:01
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bold move, making me attempt a critiqueSailor Viy posted:The Train Station at 10,000 A.M. -i'm probably the intended audience for this piece because i had as much fun reading it as you (hopefully) had writing it, i really appreciate eccentric worlds like this, and i think building up to a goofy one-liner was an appropriate choice, given how many outlandish concepts you introduced...the vibe all works well together for me imho -overall i think you succeeded in fulfilling your intentions for this piece, good job -with that said, i'm not the only kind of audience out there, we all read for different reasons: some for drama, some for the poetry of beautiful prose, some for plots with twists and turns, some for memorable characters, etc, etc, etc, and many of these other potentially desirable features are neglected here -building on that idea, sometimes the essence of good writing isn't necessarily doing one thing well, but by limiting as many weaknesses elsewhere as possible, creating even more strengths whenever possible -having to do multiple things well is the awful curse of good writing, i guess -with that in mind, this piece could become a little more well-rounded, if it made some strategic cuts -the piece already very quickly succeeded in establishing its off-beat, fantastical setting, and while i, myself, enjoyed further elaboration via the extra details, some of those details could have been pared off without losing the heart of the piece imho -with that extra room you could've had more space to play with, to reach for readers of different tastes, by adding something else that you feel's appropriate for this piece, whether its more humorous characterization, or adding some comedic tension, or whatever else you like -by reaching for one or two of these other areas whenever possible, even from within the limits of a tight word count, a piece becomes more likely to resonate with readers of broader stripes, not just folks like me, so you might achieve more success with a generalized audience -that's just my opinion tho!
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Jul 29, 2022 06:20
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i'm looking at the list of cuts and for once i'm not on it looks like i'm playing IN the big game
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Jul 30, 2022 07:00
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Three Winters Cold (1499 words) “We got our asses prolapsed today. We never get our asses prolapsed. Those guys took our anal virginity. Just what the gently caress happened today?” Ryan chewed his vulgarity, fully milking it to convey his bitterness. He searched the faces of the two beside him, Les and Scott, the only two to join him at the diner after the game. Their faces gave him nothing. Les stared vacantly into the distance, being neither here nor there, while Scott quietly nursed a swollen ankle under the table, hoping it’d go unnoticed. They wanted to lick their wounds, but Ryan wanted to reassess the game, like coach used to. Ryan slammed an angry fist onto the table, jittering the sodas and food set atop it. Coach never did that. “...Dude,” Les puffed out. Even under the lifeless fluorescent lights his face looked rosy and moist. A deep exhaustion weighed his features down. He’s got that double-chin now, he won’t recover from the game for a while, Ryan supposed. He noticed Les’ new paunchiness earlier, and chalked it up to too much college partying. Now, Les looked outright piggish. He had a pile of crumpled tissue around his tray, from mopping his brow with napkins. Ryan slammed another fist down, even harder. The other patrons, if there were any, would’ve jumped at the clattering glass. The cheap metal table buzzed long afterward. “Dude, chill,” Les interrupted. Ryan’s scowl relaxed a moment. He finally got a proper reaction. A wicked pleasure from rubbing salt into wounded egos briefly eclipsed his own resentment, but the moment soon passed. A young waitress cautiously leaned over her kiosk to inspect the commotion. Scott noticed her concern and amicably waved back. He’d lately come to realize just how intimidating incredibly large young men could be. Scott felt obligated to deescalate if Ryan's temper didn't sputter-out soon. “Why aren’t you fired-up?” Ryan complained, “I’m mad as gently caress.” “Dude, it wasn’t even the real thing. It was just a casual walk-in for randos at the local rink.” “That makes it loving worse. We’re junior tournament MVPs. We should’ve butchered randos.” “We were champions three years ago, dude.” The remark set Ryan’s eyes ablaze. Scott had seen Ryan throw ugly tantrums after bad games before. He wasn’t a scrawny teenager anymore, and coach wasn’t around to rein him in. Les turned his dull gaze away. Ryan sucked in air through his teeth, like a viper preparing to strike. Scott had to act now. “-You know, these intramurals bring out all kinds of people,” Scott explained in soothing tones, “The bigger the rink, the more likely some ringers’ll show up. Like, we showed up, right?” Ryan wasn’t having it. He gripped the metal table so tightly veins bulged on both of his massive arms. He could easily rip it from its cheap supports. “I got the whole loving gang together for today’s comeback smash. I don’t care if the ‘seventy-two Bruins laced up and played for the other guys. We should’ve had this one on lock.” Les rolled his tired eyes. “We were never that good.” “We made every other team our bitch. We hosed their-” “-Dude, even back then, we had off-games.” “Once we all synched-up and became a real unit, we were un-loving-beatable.” Scott and Les blinked. Neither remembered things that way. Zero dominating wins. Surely there were more wins than losses, they were indeed champions, but every win was hard-fought, even after they synched-up. Scott shook it off; there were more important worries. Ryan’s grip on the table was ferocious, but still unconscious. He was gradually peeling the metal off its bolted supports, without even intending it. He could make a terrible scene the moment he meant to. That poor waitress was still sneaking glances at them, Scott observed. Deescalation was paramount. Scott smiled warmly, trying to hide the expression his throbbing ankle preferred him to make. “We’re out of practice. We just need time to synch-up again.” “We worked that poo poo out years ago. We became a death-dealing, team-trashing, kill-squad together. You guys were my wingmen...” There was a flash of warmth on that last word. Ryan’s grip eased. Scott and Les were his wingmen in every sense. They’d been lifelong friends, ever since they all met at mini-mite hockey. Their friendship often went beyond the game. Though living on different sides of town, they still travelled in the same circles, especially once they all had cars. Often quite literally then. Post-secondary, however, had made their distance real. Ryan continued. “...like, I was Maverick, and you were Iceman and Merlin.” Les scoffed at the comparison. Ryan’s eyes narrowed and his grip tightened. He’d taken that scoff as a sneer at their friendship. The bolts buckled under Ryan renewed grasp. “Back in the old days, even if we did lose, we always got riled-up together. Now it’s like you guys don’t even care. Look at you Les, you didn’t put on the freshmen fifteen, you put on the senior-loving-sixty.” Les tented his hands and closed his eyes deeply. Scott flushed. He had to divert the conversation fast, but Les had to get his say too. Les composed himself as Ryan braced for impact. Ryan craved another proper reaction. He was wired enough to throw down, here and now, if it came to that. Les’ words came balanced and level. “Believe me, dude, I wanted to win today. I needed to win... I’ve been feeling like a piece of poo poo lately... like, you’ve obviously noticed, and, just... I really could’ve used a win.” Les stumbled. Ryan’s eyebrows raised, he chalked up Les’ weight to college parties. That fucker was having the time of his life, Ryan guessed earlier. Scott shifted his focus from Ryan to Les. Les actually did seem miserable. Les continued. “Senior year has been shredding me. You guys remember I’m doing that econ-finance double major right? It’s just been non-stop all nighters for my thesis. It’s like my supervisor thinks I’m just some dumb finance-bro wannabe. I work twice as hard for half the credit. I barely sleep anymore.” Ryan looked into the hurt eyes of his friend, and briefly forgot his own resentment. Scott took a moment to puzzle things together. Les hated coffee. If he needed a caffeine fix for an early practice, he’d drink venti frappuccinos. “Is it... caffeine binges?” Scott asked. “Not just that, dude. Finance is all about networking and connections. And there’s maybe another recession coming. They don’t hire newbie advisors when everything’s going tits-up. I need to find an in. And fast. I’m going to every finance club dinner and function, just to feel things out. I smile all the time, but I haven’t actually felt anything in a while. I’m not depressed or anything, just overworked. I barely enjoyed hockey today.” Les slumped, the confession drained him. Scott studied Ryan’s body language now. He seemed calmer, like he wasn’t about to wreck the diner. The moment could soon pass if another storm blew in. Scott blurted the first thing that came to mind. The truth. “I really wanted to win today too. I probably needed a win just as badly...” Scott started. He’d have to admit his own problems now. He hated the idea of burdening others with his worries. He prided himself on freeing others by giving no indication that anything was wrong with him. No choice now. Scott continued blurting. “...My girl left me a couple weeks ago. Just showed up at my dorm-room one night. She starts off telling me I’m great, I’m the kind of guy she could settle down with someday, but that’s bad, because she wants to explore the dating scene a little more before then...” Ryan and Les implicitly understood. It wasn’t just that she wanted to explore, but that she was already exploring. Probably. When she finally found someone exciting, she had to suddenly break things off with Scott. But there was something else. Scott’s voice seemed unsteady. He’s never unsteady. “...When she turned to leave, I tried to stop her. Who doesn't go after their girl? I put myself between her and the door. She looked so scared all of a sudden. Sometimes I forget she’s half my size. I was going to tell her how much I loved her, but I froze when I saw her face. It was like some slasher movie poo poo. I just stepped back and let her go. It chews me up, things ending like that.” The confession drained Scott. Ryan leaned back, resting his hands on his lap. “...Sorry, I didn’t know college was like that. I thought you guys were having the time of your lives. Parties. Girls. Beer. Meanwhile I’m stuck at home, apprenticed at my uncle’s workshop, working nine-to-five in the same loving town I was born in. I needed a win today too, like the kind we had when we were a squad.” The three sat quietly for a time, feeling exposed in a way that strangely drifted into warmth.
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Aug 1, 2022 06:56
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it seems like there's no sign-up deadline on this week's special challenge, i don't know if that's an oversight but i'm IN i'm going to try and embody its spirit of  by climbing the omega ladder as high as i can... but to make this work i'll have to make my own fate the whole way
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Aug 7, 2022 18:18
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prompt #1: [goon] agonizes over [an unusual property dispute] The Amazing Technicolor Scream Coat An Editorial written by Winston A.S. Parish for the TheDailyClickBait.com (998 words) Arachnid. Phalangioides. Widow. Spinner, Spitter, Spider. Anxious humans use hundreds of names to designate the little devils that have caused them so much worry over the long years of our coexistence. Every minute of every day, there’s a startled innocent somewhere, shaking a trembling fist at a spidery intruder who’s disturbed the peaceful serenity of their home. Still images of them induce unease in the unsuspecting, while video clips produce panic in the phobic. They are our species’ most ancient enemy, who we will either destroy, or be destroyed by. I know this, in core of my eternal soul, because last month I was accosted by hundreds, possibly thousands, of spiders in my own home. And the nightmare didn’t end there. Let me begin. It should’ve been an idyllic autumn morning. Evening rain had lifted rich petrichor scents from the perfectly square, emerald frontyards that carved my quiet little corner of paradise suburbia into neat sections. Joggers, dogwalkers and mothers with baby-strollers were already outside absorbing the crisp winds that twirled about yellowed leaves. I, too, wanted to enjoy this picturesque morning. All I needed was my favourite fleece coat, finally back-in-season. It was safely stowed in my garage. But that’s when the nightmare began. After I put on my favourite coat, I knew something was off. I felt strange tickles all along my back and collar. I flinched so suddenly I dropped my keys. When I reached for them, I noticed a dozen spiders running in and out of my sleeves. They were small, black, fat and fast. They scurried up and down, using the soft, pink terrain of my forearms like a highway. I saw dozens more running crazed circuits on my chest. A lesser man would’ve instantly fainted; my knees certainly buckled. I knew if I thought about my predicament for even one second longer I, too, would succumb. The solution was quite obvious. If the problem was thinking about things, then the answer was not thinking about things. I blinked my eyes until they finally gave me the spider-less reality I wanted to see. Then I went outside as if nothing were awry. I waved hello to the neighbours with spiders somersaulting between my fingers. I wished the dogwalkers a good morning with spiders bushwhacking through my beard. I looked both ways before crossing streets with spiders testing threads on my spectacles. It took extreme focus, but I managed to make myself totally oblivious to the obvious. I ignored my predicament so deftly, I dare say, that I believe embracing delusion may be my greatest talent. I willed myself into blissful innocence, even when small children pointed at me with shaking fingers. I let every gasp and shriek sail right over my head, like jokes too educated for simpler tastes. When my walk ended, I decided I had as wondrous a time as originally intended. I returned home and stowed away my favourite jacket in the garage. All ignorance has its limits, however, and even mine cannot swallow all light into its abyss forever. Simmering subconscious feelings slowly surfaced through my polite amnesia. Nearing the end of my trance, I marched upstairs, went into the bathroom, turned up the shower, and stepped inside without taking off any clothes. Though I wept quietly in the darkness for a time, I wasn’t broken. Instead I remerged rejuvenated. I was purposeful and confident. I realized tiny thieves were squatting on MY favourite jacket. It was mine. I paid for it. I had the receipt. Reclaiming it would become my mission. In this self-charge, I would play out the eternal struggle between our two species in microcosm. I realized I’d be playing by their rules now. Only raw, instinctive territorialism could establish my domain over theirs. I’d have to squat harder on my property than they could. Fortunately, I had a new superpower to help me outlast them. Total obliviousness. I sprung into action. The first test was a blind date. I’d definitely want my favourite jacket. I sighed, put it on, and let delusion take the wheel. Though the date itself was cut short by a closed-minded restaurateur, who cited petty trifles about severe ‘food, health and safety violations,’ I still considered it a successful outcome. Even the dinner conversation was livelier than usual (while it lasted), if just a little focused on the infestation I adamantly ignored. My morning commute proved even more successful. I was given plenty of legroom on the bus. A rare treat for rush-hour transit. Another success came at work. My boss finally gave me a two week vacation, effective immediately. He couldn’t wait to get me out of the building. Good, more time to spend squatting on my claim. It wasn’t long before friends and neighbours graciously allowed me to withdraw from society. I could now face my demons, by never looking them in the eyes of course, twenty-four hours a day. I started sleeping in that jacket. Though I felt myself on the verge of victory, impertinent bubbles of reality still occasionally arose inside of me, forcing me into that shower to rediscover my composure through a good cry in the cold drizzle. But, alas, the battle for the soul of world would eventually come to an end. And like Christ before me, I was undone by a Judas. During a regular visit, my mother threw away my favourite jacket while I was in the shower. Outside interference won the spiders this battle. The jacket was theirs now. In the struggle between man and spider, man intervened against man. There can be no hope for victory in such conditions. Until we, as a species, learn to temper our feelings, I’m afraid what’s true of my microcosm may become true of our entire macrocosm. Take heed of my journey my friends. Use it as a cautionary tale. Don’t make my mistakes. Take what’s yours and keep it. Never, ever give up, lest two legs become good, and eight legs become better.
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Aug 7, 2022 21:40
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prompt #2 [autobiography week] Wax Wings (1290 words) I was warned about the Overview Effect somewhere. I dimly recalled that firsthand glimpses of the Earth, hanging in the void of space, would cut straight into your heart no matter how cool-headed you thought yourself. One glance and you’re changed forever. Of course I had to see it myself. I somehow knew I’d never have a better opportunity than now, riding atop a comet in space. I slowly looked up, first drinking in the void's backdrop. It was transcendent. Its black eternity instantly swallowed me into its fractal pitch. I was engulfed by an infinity that seeped into my body, magnetizing me, capturing me, pulling me all directions. I felt vastness all around, and I was lost in the crush of its silence. Then my eyes rolled over the Earth. A jewel so delicate, precious and bright, cresting over this endless night, defying its stillness and shadow with vitality and colour. Even the fragile halo of its thermosphere seemed a shimmering shield against the emptiness closing in. I noticed little flecks of ice wafting across my vision, catching light as they drifted. I knew the comet I rode was simply shedding mass, but it felt like reverse-snowing. I knew if I followed these flecks to the comet’s tail, I’d see the most brilliant rainbow I’d ever see. Of course I turned. A swarm of icicles hung above, just below the brightest moon I’d ever seen. It diffracted the moonlight like a makeshift prism, separating its crude rays into individual strands of pure colour. A rainbow was spread before me unlike anything ever produced on Earth. Blurring flawlessly into the old, new colours throbbed in the array. Blues beyond blue, reds beyond red, all scintillating like neon, I... ****** ...I blinked my eyes drowsily. For a moment I didn’t know where I was. The vivid imagery clung to me more than groggy reality did. Katy Perry’s Firework blared on the radio. After another long moment, I realized I was at home, in bed, alone. The radio alarm must’ve ripped me out of a dream. I still felt my own smallness, like I was still hanging in that void. It seemed so real. The radio switched to another song before I could swing a clumsy fist at the off button. The last thing I saw in that dream lingered with me until I understood its significance. When I did, my jaw dropped. Did I actually see new colours in that dream? I fixed myself on committing the images to memory, but already only short flashes remained, like random stills from a movie. Is something like that even possible? I knew a little something about how vision worked. I laid there remembering that humans are mostly trichromats. We have three different cone cells in our retinas that absorb light. They send coded signals to the brain. These codes gets translated and projected onto our mind’s eye as perceived images. Can that work differently sometimes? I remembered that not all of us were the same. Some people are colourblind. They lack one or more of these cones. While their brains could generate a complete spectrum with the right signals, their cones will never send those signals. Their drained rainbows are dominated by browns, yellows and blues. But can someone go beyond? I needed to know more. I got up, skipped breakfast, and went straight to research. It turns out there are a few people, mostly women, who are tetrachromats. They’re born with a rare fourth cone. Its extra signal expands their rainbow into an unimaginable array of a hundred million colours. Many of them become painters, trying valiantly to share their gift. But there was something else I needed to know. Would I ever have this dream again? I already knew dreams would be the only way I’d see those colours again. I craved that rainbow. Nothing in the real world would ever produce it for me; I’d only ever see what my three cones told me I’d see. But I still craved it. The short flashes I’d committed to memory weren’t enough. I’d have to recreate the dream somehow. I spent some time researching the strange world of lucid dreaming. These were the sorts of dreams where the dreamer still has control. A lucid dreamer can intentionally conjure things, but with limits. They can still only see what they expect to see. In my case, I saw a truly awe-inspiring Earth because I had some expectation of it. Probably some half-forgotten article wormed it into my unconsciousness. Mastering this talent was the only way I'd reach that rainbow again. It was weird, but I had to try. Months passed. No success. The tips and tricks I’d used only gave me sleep paralysis. I was losing the free time of my summer vacation to a far-fetched quest to see something even my friends doubted I ever saw. I’d tried recounting the colours to them, but I had no words to describe it. I knew I looked stupid, stumbling over myself, never knowing what to say. It was an impossible sight to convey. More months passed. No matter how many bizarre websites I visited, their schemes for lucid dreaming all failed. For all the meta-psychological jargon I’d consumed, I was no closer to seeing those colours again. Maybe I never would. The only angle with any promise was a technique the sleep wonks called ‘cognizance of meta-cognitive tells.’ The dreamer had to sense the fundamental unreality of a dream by witnessing something completely unphysical. From that snap of awareness they could will themselves into control. I only had one dream that reliably fit the bill. It was recurring and simple. I’d be at home with my dad. I knew it was a dream because he passed away when I was a small child. He was always stone silent in those dreams, but they were pleasant all the same. I liked being with him again, even if my heart knew it was only fiction. When I was younger, I loved that dream. I always let it play out. I wanted to cherish his company a little while longer. Unfortunately, as the years went by, that dream became rarer and rarer. Now I almost never had it. Yet, it was my only shot. Finally, it came one night. I was sitting in my old living-room, playing on the sofa with action figures I hadn’t played with since I was ten. Warm afternoon rays passed through the thin rents of the patio blinds. Near it, I saw my dad sitting on his leather armchair, quietly reading a newspaper. I felt the chill of unreality in the air. I stood up, leaving my toys. I walked towards the patio door. I wanted a night sky out there, so I could see that comet streaking across the stars. I knew its tail would show that ineffable rainbow. The afternoon rays suddenly vanished. It became pitch-black outside. It seems I had control now. I wanted to go outside. As I moved to pass my dad, I caught a glimpse of sorrow in his eyes. Though he tried to hide it, I couldn’t help noticing his melancholy. It captured my attention. It pulled me to him. He said nothing, but I somehow knew he didn’t want me to go. This was our time. We so rarely see each other anymore. These dreams have become so few. Another one may never come. I nearly willed myself to pass him by, to leave him and see the most incredible colours imaginable, but he stretched out an open hand. No, I wouldn’t leave him. I conjured an action figure and put it in his palm. I asked him if he wanted to play. He nodded.
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Aug 8, 2022 02:16
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prompt #3 [WONDER] A Treasure's Worth (250 words) I was seven years old when an idea first made me giddy. I thought snow was rain that got dusty. I stretched out my arms to show how they might catch tiny motes on the way down, like the ones you always saw floating in sunlight. With a kind smile reaching to her eyes, my teacher explained it wasn’t exactly so. Raindrops did stretch, but they stretched because they got so cold, they froze into snowflakes. We looked at pictures of them together, and their glassy arms did stretch out like mine did. The pit of my stomach warmed so much it made me smile to my eyes too. Soon I found more ideas that could make me giddy. Wet, green frogs had hearts, stomachs and minds like we do. Planes flew through the sky by skidding on the air. I asked thousands of questions to find more ideas. There was so much to learn, to feel proud learning. It felt like there was treasure piling inside of me, but I didn’t know what it was for. Then one day we discovered dinosaurs. I felt dizzy, they looked so amazing! We were asked to make posters about our favourite ones. When I showed my poster to my friends, they became giddy too. We marvelled at its giant wings. That’s when the treasure flashed its first true glimmer, and I could guess what it was for. Taking is one thing, giving is another, and awe shared is awe at its brightest.
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Aug 8, 2022 03:17
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prompt #4 [WIZARDS] Please Watch Dad Do a Cannonball (1293 words) Collin held Elizabeth’s tiny hand throughout their walk. They were pacing through the cobblestone roads of Collin’s old alma mater, The Pater Henry University for Higher Wizardry. It’d been years since Collin was a student there. He remembered being awed by the long rows of flying buttresses that swung off the central domes of each faculty citadel. Columns of brilliant light erupted from the tops of each dome. Each structure was a wonderwork of astro-gothic architecture. Blazing astrological runes empowered them with nearly unlimited power. The magnificent sight still took Collin’s breath away. Elizabeth, however, seemed unimpressed. She looked more at her device than at any buildings. Collin sighed. He wanted to take it away from her, to force her to appreciate the world she might come in to someday, if she took her studies seriously. Lately, she hadn’t been. Her grades at the lesser schools of wizardry had quickly become mediocre. While it might’ve been too early to worry over such things, she was only eleven years old after all, Collin knew good habits had to be instilled early. No, Collin wouldn’t take her device away. He wanted to genuinely impress her with something amazing enough to warrant her attention. Something to spark her love for the practical magicks. Nonetheless, Collin still often furrowed his brow at Elizabeth’s device. The Alchemists and Artificers were ruining children with their masterworks. While their gadgets and gizmos hummed with arcane energies, their easy portable power often distracted children from cultivating their own. Good old-fashioned practical wizardry was at the heart of these incredible machines, but the young didn’t seem to notice. Elizabeth didn’t even bother carrying her training wand anymore. Collin had to store it in his pocket. The last chance would be the old library. It crammed thousands of feet of stacks into a height of only two hundred feet. Its glass studded arches automatically threw spotlights over opened books, always bathing them with perfect illumination. Surely, no young girl could resist an old library, right? Collin asked himself, in expectation of the affirmative. “Look, Elizabeth. Iron golems are cleaning grime off the library’s facade! Have you ever seen anything so clever? No grime here!” Collin beamed, pointing at the busy giants. Elizabeth grunted something. Her monosyllabic replies were at least intelligible earlier in the day. Collin sighed. “Okay, well, take note of how tall the library looks now. When we step inside, you’re in for a big surprise!” Collin beamed, undeterred, as they stepped over the threshold into the building. The giant oak doors slammed shut behind them. Collin and Elizabeth heard the sporadic squawking of young students. Some kind of ruckus seemed to be ensuing. The boom of heavy stomping echoed across the cavernous interior. Strange whooshes broke out all over the halls. Aha! I knew the old library would be the most exciting place on campus! Collin triumphantly observed to himself. Even Elizabeth took notice. Something had finally pried her eyes off the device. “...Uh, dad?” Elizabeth managed hoarsely, snapping to attention. The tumult grew louder and louder. It sounded like a parade marching at them. Yet, no one was there. “Sorry sweetie. Normally it’s quieter here. The head librarian usually isn’t so... derelict... in his duties. This really should be a place for quiet study. I should speak to him. Or her. I wonder if old man Anderson still runs these stacks...” “Headmaster Anderson can’t help you,” a strangely distant voice cried from a hidden place. “Pardon me?” Collin asked, not expecting interruption, especially not from inside a deserted arcade. “Headmaster Anderson caused this pandemonium,” the voice replied. “What pandemonium? I know it’s a little noisy in here but-“ “-Dad,” Elizabeth interjected, tugging on his sleeve. “Not now sweetie, daddy is talking to the nice poltergeist. Now, what did you say about-” “Dad!” Elizabeth tugged harder, “It’s not a poltergeist.-” “-Of course it is sweetie. If it were a person, I would be able to see them-” Elizabeth motioned at her device. She was taking a video using an enchanted filter. A crowd of frightened students stood before them on the screen. Yet, when they looked up, no one was there. Collin carefully read the name of the filter. Artificers had concocted ridiculous filters that could image poltergeists, usually with silly names like The Sixth Sense. This filter, however, was called the Third and Half Dimension. “Headmaster Anderson half-banished us all, he’s gone completely insane!” A frightened student wailed on Elizabeth’s screen. “Now, why would he do a thing like that?” Collin asked, remembering a cheerful, if fussy, kindly old man. “Someone returned a forbidden tome without properly sealing it. Headmaster Anderson’s eyes must’ve glimpsed its occultic runes. The infernal power’s driven him mad! Now he teeters maniacally atop a rolling ladder, slinging spells at anyone who approaches!” “Now, that doesn’t make sense. The Headmaster Anderson I know wears charmed spectacles to avoid just that.” “He got lens implants after his cataract surgery last year.” “Okay, well, hold on. I can easily fix this with the power of practical magicks,” Collin beamed enthusiastically for Elizabeth’s benefit, “Let me just prepare the spell.” “-Uh dad? There’s an app for that,” Elizabeth said, scrolling to an option on her device. She used its powerful flash to snap photos. One by one, relieved students blinked back into reality. Collin frowned. He really should’ve taken away that device earlier. He just couldn’t impress her with that thing around. “Okay Sweetie, please help these nice students with their banishment problem, and I’ll go deal with the Headmaster.” “He’s too powerful!” A weeping student cried after reappearing, “You should just wait for campus security!” “Nonsense. No problem is too great for a master of practical magicks. Elizabeth, when you’re done here, please come watch. From a safe distance.” Elizabeth grunted some kind of reply. She busily snapped photos and wouldn’t respond further. Her eyes were glued to that device again. Collin sighed and went to confront the Headmaster alone. ***** The old man’s still spry, I’ll give them that, Collin noted as fiery beams of light caromed off his staff. He was batting away spectral blasts coming from high atop a rolling ladder. He had to squint to see their source. Sure enough, old man Anderson was indeed teetering maniacally up there. “Headmaster Anderson? It’s me, Collin. Do you remember me? I used to spend all my waking hours here,” Collin politely asked, trying to reach the man he once envied. “THERE IS NO ANDERSON ANYMORE. THERE IS ONLY BAZARAM, FIEND OF THE SIXTH PLANE,” a grotesque voice called from above. It’s worse than I thought, Collin realized. Reversing possession would take a powerful spell, but his staff was completely occupied deflecting bolts. Slowly, an idea crept on him. He reached his other hand into his pocket. “How many times have you been to this plane, Bazaram? Don’t you know that this world is only a...” Collin nearly said library world, but the idea seemed far too attractive. “...an archive world! Yes, all we have here are old newspapers! Out-of-date Calendars! Expired coupons! Advertisements for products that no longer exist!” “THEN BAZARAM WILL CONQUER THE ARCHIVES. AND THEN BAZARAM WILL CONSUME THE RUNES EMPOWERING THESE WALLS,” the voice screeched. A mighty bolt of electricity slammed Collin’s staff away. “ANY LAST WORDS, MORTAL?” “Yes... Esrever-selop!” Collin shouted, firing off Elizabeth’s training wand at Bazaram. A scrawny old man fell down from on high. Collin conjured a slow-fall spell, gently floating Anderson to the floor. “...Collin? ...How are you... Why are you here? ... You graduated years ago...” the befuddled old man wheezed after regaining his senses. “I’m here with my daughter. I’m showing off the old alma mater. Hey, do you think she saw what I just did?”
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Aug 8, 2022 07:42
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crits for stories above & below mine edit: i only had 7 to crit because of how the subs rolled in Old Bones by Hawklad -disclaimer: i'd recently read the underground railroad by whitehead, and its unsettling depiction of the slave/master dynamic within individual relationships and broader society is still heavy with me -i appreciate the contrast woven into this piece re: the fates of underclasses versus those of their abusers, it works pretty well as the moral fulcrum for turning the story; it was both a sound choice in concept and in execution imho, good job -the descriptions of the abuses of plantation owners are in pretty good agreement with descriptions found elsewhere, in fiction and history, so the authenticity seemed there imho -i mostly just have mild technical criticisms -i get this distinct impression that a significant number of your descriptions were undermined by later descriptions and events; for e.g. the statement that (my paraphrasing) 'slave murder is still murder, after all' is a pretty strong statement of equivalence, which of course conflicts with the overt injustice splattered all over the story, where the protagonist's murder produces just one big argument and no other consequences (that incident's also juxtaposed with the growth of a mass grave for other slaves, which implicitly generalizes/multiplies these injustices further) -this sort of poor agreement seemed chronic enough that i wondered if the dissonance was a deliberate choice, if so, you might've wanted to underscore that the protagonist's frequent, disparate descriptions were rooted in something in their persona -if it's not a choice, then this stuff's just a technical issue, making more deliberate word choices in the future will fix it -anyway, since the piece does a great job of setting up the moral scales by which the reader will judge the outcome, i think it deserved something stronger than a seasonally-appropriate one-liner to close off on -in general, given that the last line was also one of the only pieces of dialogue here, its uniqueness within the story will naturally draw a lot of attention to it, if you didn't want that kind of scrutiny put on it you might've wanted to restructure the piece slightly -sorry to make mountains of molehills here, this story was otherwise pretty darn solid Pushing The Limits by Chernobyl Princess -disclaimer: i noticed that one's your 4th prompt, climbing the omega ladder was pretty exhausting for me and i felt pretty baked by the 4th entry (your experiences might be different), so i'm probably going to unconsciously critique this one accordingly, i hope it's still useful -i thought this piece satisfied the prompt in a pretty entertaining way, i smiled in a variety of places, good work -establishing the lack of appreciation in Zanzi's professional life was a neat and efficient lead-in to the oak/vine's own complaints about the lack of appreciation for what they do -it seemed like, however, Zanzi had some inner conflict about actually crediting them, since Zanzi only does so begrudgingly; i'd like to have read more about what caused that inner conflict; understanding it might've heightened the tension of the moment -otherwise great job here Untitled (prompt: A [YouTuber] agonizes over [rear end in a top hat wasp]) by Lippincott -disclaimer: i don't really watch any of these kinds of videos on youtube, so i'll have to infer what i can about them -Great work differentiating the two primary speakers, not just through language and tone, but also through perspective, motivation, and world understanding -despite never settling on one voice, this piece generally read quite smoothly, with great pacing overall -i rather enjoyed ending on the note of more wasps emerging from the butt after the youtuber already got the stinging of a lifetime -my minor critique involves the implied time frame the story takes place over -not only are the wasp's various activities interspersed between bits of the youtuber's dialogue, but there are points where it switches from past to present tense to describe things that happened long before; this caused a lot of rapid shifting between past and present for the wasp in what was also a very short time-frame for the youtuber -since this pieces uses concurrence to contrast the youtuber and the wasp, it might've been stronger if were slightly reworked so most of the wasp's actions were somehow concurrent as well, instead having this rapid flicking between past and present -otherwise, except for that minor thing, i enjoyed this story Still Life by Staggy -disclaimer: i noticed that one's your 4th prompt, climbing the omega ladder was pretty exhausting for me and i felt baked by the 4th entry (your experiences might be different), so i'm probably going to unconsciously critique this one on a curve, i hope it's still useful anyway -the emotional core of the piece is pretty sound, grief and love are a pretty explosive combination and this piece establishes both reasonably well; the story (conceptually) unfurled in a pretty reasonable way as well -in general, i like how you made use of your flashrule; good work -however, there's a suite of (minor) technical issues in its writing, which caused the language to come off as generally stilted and awkward in a way that went beyond style; stuff like breaking some of your own conventions within the first paragraph, descriptions at odds with one another, lines whose content less enticed me with its mystery and more baffled me until i had enough context from later lines to decode them, etc -most of those issues would've been resolved with more editing, which you probably would've done under normal circumstances, so i'm not going to agonize over these minor issues -i couldn't quite see what you were going for on the note the story ended on; you did solid work in arriving at the moment where Aviar recognized the faulty nature of his creations, their unreality, their toll on his memories, etc so he abandons his attempt to recreate/resurrect his husband; but we end on Aviar creating a companion for Gimlet (which was also a means of evicting his memories of Gimlet) -that strikes me as act that drains the weight of Aviar's earlier realization, while also being a bit at odds with the final lines "He... took only his memories with him." -maybe the end was making a finer point than my limited reading comprehension can manage, maybe Aviar had learned something but he wasn't finished processing it yet, and was still prone to error, but i personally wasn't clear on that; i think this last part deserves some consideration for improvement -otherwise, this story was fine My Daddy by The man called M -disclaimer: it looked to me like your prompt was tough, oof, sometimes that happens -this read a little like a deranged children's story, like the kind you'd read in something like Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark; in my books that's a good thing -it's interesting that this story (apparently) sets the protagonist's growing resentment of their father against their growing love of grass & composting 'til the two finally collide, that's a very exotic choice imho -my critiques are mostly structural, the events seem to develop a little arbitrarily -i think a more natural story progression might've emphasized your exotic choices a little more, making its narrative and growing intensity stronger too -assuming i've read your intention right, a scheme like (for example): first being introduced to grass, being in awe of it, then trying to share that wonder with father, and then having him reject that wonder with growing cruel intensity again and again as the protagonists falls deeper into their composting rabbit hole, then a pay-off, might've aligned the growth of compost-love and father-resentment a little more -that's just a suggestion though, ultimately it's up to you how you want to grow your story; sometimes scary stories like this have their own demented, nightmare logic; if that was your intention, maybe you'd want to play into that angle a little more instead -overall, this wasn't bad for being so short The Wizard Watched Trading Places Right Before This Story by Tars Tarkas -disclaimer: another omega ladder 4th prompt; this time i noticed that, like me, you submitted this one only a few minutes before the original deadline... i feel the struggle too, friend -this piece did a pretty solid job of expanding its prompt into an interesting premise for a story, its world felt nice and rich for a short story, the little details everywhere added a lot here imho -the primary conflict here was this amusing, if one-sided, rivalry that potentially buds into a future relationship, and while the details of your story subtly emphasizes the direction of this development (Balan, for example, enjoys Office fanfics where Jim and Dwight, two characters in a TV-rivalry, are shipped together), i think emphasizing that a bit more in the direct narrative would've enhanced this piece -it's perfectly fine to tell stories mainly through details, don't get me wrong, it's just the direct narrative doesn't provide a tangible hook for the start of their relationship until the last line; until then, Balan seemed genuinely contemptful imho, it's only in the outward similarity between the way Balan clowns krombolo and the way Jim clowns Dwight that we have a hook -it'd have been nice if (for example) we saw Balan being inwardly energized by the argument as it went (since he so rarely interacts with others), even if he projected a contemptful appearance outward -otherwise, nice work for something probably hastily submitted with only a few minutes left Iceberg Theory by rohan -disclaimer: your prompt looked like a non-sequitur, so i was already intrigued to see where it went... -...and i was rewarded with some wonderful absurdism, great job; the ridiculous premise did a lot of heavy lifting in making the one really enjoyable to read -the language flowed quite naturally, as did the overall narrative imho -my minor critique is that the piece seemed to shift from its initial focus of the owner's (sometimes strained) relationship with their 'pet,' and his undesirable habits, to the pet's personal struggles with uh, his impulse control, irrespective of their owner's involvement, with the finale being hemingway's spectacular defeat to lust -i think the story would've cohered a little better if the owners were integrated more into the ending, it seemed like this was more their story than hemingway's until the end -otherwise, this story stands pretty well on its own two feet, i think it might've been my favourite of this bunch hard counter fucked around with this message at 22:53 on Aug 11, 2022 |
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Aug 11, 2022 22:31
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strange thINgs will happen to my body soon
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Sep 3, 2022 07:57
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Ten Feet (1496 words) “I hear Carl’s going to have you working the parallel bars today. You’ll be back on your feet again. That’s huge!” the smiling receptionist said, as she confirmed the check-in on her computer. To speak eye-to-eye, she had to look down and through a potted dracaena that sat on her desk. Dynamo tried to mirror her warm expression, which he could barely see from his wheelchair, but he couldn’t muster any enthusiasm. Walking seemed so insignificant. Especially when there was a time he could run faster than a speeding train. Leap higher than a building. No, nothing's 'huge' about today, Dynamo decided. He considered the receptionist’s words a moment. She’d slipped up. So Carl just shares my medical details with everyone? Dynamo wanted to ask, feeling slighted by the realization that his condition’s obviously the talk of the breakroom. He relented. “... I look forward to testing my mettle against the bars,” Dynamo boomed, limply adopting the role he supposed was expected of him. Dynamo waved goodbye and swung his wheelchair towards the reception’s exit. It was blocked. The glass casement doors had already sealed. “Oh, let me get that for you, it’s-” -The least I could do, after all you’ve done, Dynamo jeered internally. “-The least I could do, given everything you’ve done for us,” the receptionist beamed proudly. She pushed a button on her desk and the casement doors parted. “A thousand thank yous,” Dynamo boomed. As Dynamo rolled down the marble hallway towards the activity room, he winced at himself for almost snapping at her. Then chided himself for parroting her so grotesquely. He’d heard those words a lot lately, when people did little things for him. There was something irritating about it, but he couldn’t say what. A middle-aged man exited the activity room. He saw Dynamo, grinned and planted himself at the entry. He held open the automatic doors with his bulk. “Hey Dynamo, looking good! Let me just get the door for you. It’s the least I...” Dynamo let his consciousness depart from his body a moment. “A thousand thank yous, and please, it’s just... Brandon... now.” Dynamo’s rich baritone nearly cracked at his birth name. The middle-aged man shook his head as Dynamo passed. The activity room was a wide, open space, with uncomfortably low ceilings that flashed wan fluorescent lights. A series of padded medical tables lined up on one of its ends, while the other was rowed by specialized equipment. A dozen patients, and their attendants, gawked at Dynamo as he wheeled in. Months ago, Dynamo had picked a small but competent facility for his recovery, hoping to keep the process subdued. A foolish notion for anywhere, Dynamo later realized. “Hey Dynamo! I saw that Doctor Phosgene trial on TV! I’m glad they hit him with the maximum sentence. If you ask me, that bastard deserved worse,” someone (who had the courage to blurt out what everyone was thinking) hoarsely shouted. “...I’m content with its outcome,” Dynamo boomed. The trial was a farce. Phosgene had the temerity to plead Not Guilty, by reason of insanity, at its onset. It was only a manoeuvre to make further show of his atrocities. He knew his state of mind would be probed, and he savoured the opportunity to describe his mindset. He smashed his own defence by admitting everything was for revenge. The escape from prison, the gamma ray trap to destroy Dynamo’s powers, and the sledgehammer beating. If Dynamo had only let him experiment on children in the first place, Phosgene proclaimed, none of this would’ve been necessary. “Seeing your arch-nemesis go down must’ve sure felt sweet!” Bile rose into Dynamo’s throat. Phosgene craves attention, and he basks in it now. His plan succeeded completely. Dynamo grit his teeth as he rolled by. “...I’m always thankful for justice.” Carl, a wizened old physiotherapist nearing the end of an astonishing career, awaited Dynamo at the last table. “We’ve made so much progress lately, after the warm-up, I think I’m going to put you on the parallel bars. A few steps will do you alotta good.” “Yes, I hea- ...had my suspicions we’d tackle the bars today.” Dynamo decided to secret the earlier slip-up, to save both Carl from embarrassment, and the receptionist from reprimand. Dynamo tried to jockey himself from his chair onto the table, but his hands slipped on the armrests. Without conscious effort, his legs could spontaneously give-out. Dynamo winced, expecting Carl to swoop in. Moments passed. Nothing. “Take your time,” Carl finally said. Dynamo focused himself, and coarsely threw his mass onto the table. “I might be a little quiet today. I'll need to steel myself for the bars.” “Sure, no problem.” ***** Two polished bars outlined the gauntlet Dynamo was to cross. The room’s attention shifted towards him. He stood between them at one end, with tense arms absorbing his weight. Gradually, he eased off, letting his feet take charge. “Excellent control so far. But it gets trickier. It’s only ten feet, but it’ll feel longer,” Carl cautioned from the sideline. Dynamo relaxed his right leg. It became mush. He slid it ahead, leaving the other to tremble alone under his mass. He tried to lunge forwards onto his right now, but something misfired. He would’ve fallen if not for the bars. Already exasperated, Dynamo shut his eyes. I have no real presence anymore. I can be seen, I can be heard, but I can truly do nothing else. Phosgene killed me. I’m a ghost of what I was. Dynamo drifted into his memories, to when he was child, when he first encountered that strange meteorite. He found it in a forest he often rode through. It glowed beautifully near a brook. He touched it. The primordial rustle of leaves swirled all around. The meteorite had a teacup’s warmth. His hand drank it in until the rock completely lost its shine. Mystified, he hopped back onto his bike to make his way home. “Take your time.” Dynamo heard through closed eyelids. He bumbled ahead, but it was like trying to hold a bone upright in soup. Through sheer will, he froze both his jelly legs over, then staggered forward as on stiff crutches. Dynamo could feel all the room's eyes boring into him now, and he resented every one of them. He disgusted himself. I’m pathetic. I’ve lost body AND soul. I can’t even be a nice person anymore. Retreating deeper into memory, he recalled the ride home from the meteorite. He didn’t tire. In fact, nothing tired him anymore. He could always move at full tilt. He let sharp winds run through his hair. He felt inexhaustible. Something in the meteorite had changed his marrow, he later discovered. His blood was awash with hyperactive STEM cells. Dynamo’s legs felt like stilts, and every inch tested his precarious balance. He lost his footing again. He hated himself. I’m useless without powers. Phosgene proved as much. As a child, Dynamo sought out his true limits, unsure if he even had any. Fortunately, unbelievable people had begun springing up all over the world, and he could use them as benchmarks. Unfortunately, however, most of them had already fallen into self-destructive spirals. They opted to use their fantastic powers to exploit others. They wasted their lives on vainglory. Dynamo couldn’t really use their example. He wanted to be different. At the halfway point, Dynamo realized his gawky legs wouldn’t last much longer. He couldn’t just hold them stiff the whole way. This is hopeless. I’ve never really had to try before. Memories swarming at him indicated otherwise, however. He pushed himself to the limit in training, then exceeded those limits when he started helping people. Every day had its struggles. Confrontations with other unbelievable people were especially gruelling. Sometimes, all he could do was outlast them. Memories of being so physically able agonized him. I can’t outlast my own body. I’ll have to do this in one push. Dynamo catapulted himself forward, but instantly toppled over. Only an iron grip on the bars averted disaster. Dynamo hauled himself up and hunkered down. He knew this was the last shot. This is beyond humiliation. Another memory came to him. He was a teen, still trying to master himself. With raw strength, he could throw himself over buildings now. But, could he target a building's window? A feat like would take utterly immaculate control. He tested himself by picking out individual trees in his forest to jump onto. Only strength, tempered with grace, could stick a landing. Dynamo strategized. No lunging, no catapulting, no heroics. He shuffled on at a turtle’s tempo, brooking no more misfire. “Excellent control,” Carl shouted, keeping pace at the sideline. Traversing ninety percent of the gauntlet took everything. Dynamo’s legs gave out. Refusing to yield, he inched forward on tensed arms. “Okay, good enough,” Carl exclaimed as Dynamo fell into his arms, “how was it?” Dynamo steeled himself, but his voice cracked anyway. “I felt like... Dynamo... again.”
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Sep 5, 2022 07:59
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i hope the judge(s) are prepared for some extremely weird integers apologies in advance
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Sep 17, 2022 05:05
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beepbox tax One out of a Thousand OR Wisdom Etched into Camp Bathroom Stall 101A (808 words) The first day’s always a bubbling stew, pride and panic, in every mind’ll brew. Long buses’ll launch skinny boys in rows, onto the mudflats, where anything goes. With heads held high, they’ll march the run, to prove themselves the top point–one. They all know, this sloppy moor, will be their very own threshing floor. Their green hearts, eager for adventure, still believe this odyssey a vacation. They’ll have to leave mercy and meekness at the gates, for only the rabid’ll inherit this kingdom’s grace. Some’ll still swagger to their rooms, like princes to their castles, oblivious to its tombs. A winnow’ll soon fan the chaff, and none’ll be spared of its wrath. After taking meals fit for hounds, the boys’ll be scourged, if they leave the grounds. When the sun touches west, the vulgar shepherds'll rise, and they’ll herd the boys across this sodden clime. And though its muck’ll colour every person, only the haughtiest spirits’ll worsen. The boys’ll scour their kits through sleepless night, but some’ll still be stained, come morning light. These princes must soon depart, for it’s the mud that’s blemished their heart. 'They were not the top point-one,' the remainder’ll jive, 'they’d only fall, where we would thrive.' The shepherds too will scoff, for they know the culling’s not off. Even wise instruction’ll flummox the weak, for new tortures’ll start every week. Sleepless boys must instead study maps, forcing many to take foolish naps. Standing outdoors, in drowsy rows, some’ll doze And let the mud swallow them whole. 'All’s the better,' the others will groan, 'for the filth always knows its own.' With so many boys flung from the walls, more buses’ll rush in, to refill the halls. Slowly but surely, a few’ll understand, that for each who prospers, nine-hundred and ninety-nine’ll be the loss-per. The bottom field then brings sobering shock, here they’ll streak molten hate, down the loch. With thunderous report, the dogs of war’ll bark, fraying fickle nerves that once seemed sharp. 'There’s no adventure here,' some’ll fear, once they tear apart a shadow of themselves. With meteors shrieking high, shredding skies, some’ll dive, preferring the earth to hide, and they’ll quiver in the troughs they dug, five feet down, deep in the mud. These boys’ll fade from these swampy flats, the rest’ll smirk, and name them ‘fraidy cats.' Through sleet and snow the remainder'll stand, for they must conquer the very land. They’ll sneak across moonlight for scraps, stealing what little things they can grasp. Goblets of blood, they’ll squeeze, and the warmer the better, to survive this freeze. The blood of lambs, only a few can stomach, and some would rather leave, than risk the vomit. Frigid nights, shivering in fabric shells, will be for many a boy, a frozen hell. Miserable for warmth, and craving relief, there’s hardly a soul who can bear this grief. But the butcher must always get his cut, for, to enter the top point-one, there’s no shortcut. More and more burdens the vulgar shepherds’ll add, for the boys must earn to be in armor-clad. They’ll make every strain a hundred pounds higher, so that young feet’ll tremble, crossing the mire. Many now break before they quit, their spirit’ll be willing, but their flesh’ll split. A stout heart can cover many a sin, but they can’t enliven what’s too frail to win. The mud’ll brook no weakness, so they must go, to leave behind those too numb to fall. The final trial’s a jewel and nightmare, for, to many a boy, this was their prayer. To beat the course, and be the best, or to fall and fail, there’s no greater test. The shepherds’ll pile, into one great cache, every past ordeal, to relive in one straight dash. The task’s impossible, by any measure, but the top point-one must meet such things with leisure. With only the finest left, every loss’ll feel a theft. 'The others were soft of heart or feet,' the boys’ll cry, 'But not us, we can’t be beat!' Yet, when the gun sounds the chase, a dozen more’ll fall from grace. A cup this large, only a few can swallow, and most’ll drop choking, too tired to wallow. Through blisters and blood, the rest’ll surmise, that the mud must forever crave its price. Suppressing all-too-human chortles, the finest’ll realize they, too, are mortals With phantasmagoric push, the last’ll cross the line, to beat the other ninety-nine-point-nine. Now, the victors'll qualify for all dangers ahead, to greet any villain, who’d want them dead. And despite the triumph, they’ll accept no wreath, for they’ve discovered the final conceit. That all the rest, who fell to the loam, only descended, to where-ever was home, while the victors must always remember, that the mud hungers ever, and when next it pulls, it’ll be for... forever.
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Sep 19, 2022 01:19
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signing up for the 1k fun run e: oh yeah, the words i rolled were macabre regret
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Sep 24, 2022 07:26
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MACABRE REGRET The Best of a Bad Lot (1000 words) The skeletons were marched onto the freighter in rows. They moved with such languid economy and stooped posture that even a child could detect their melancholy, despite the vacant look of their absent flesh. Their handlers, however, would never make such a connection, for they preferred not to think of the cargo as sentient at all. They were goods to sell. The unison march, compelled by the shackle of their masters’ word, drummed a low rumble across the midnight quiet of the beach. The loading was always done at night; the handlers feared the attentions of daylight. The handlers ushered the march towards the ramps of the blacked-out freighter. This ship would take them to their buyers. Working without lights that could betray their enterprise, the handlers squinted through the operation. The twilight didn’t trouble the skeletons. Their eyeless sockets bypassed the mundane to gaze straight into the luminiferous aether, where empyrean currents of magic roiled and crashed to color its world in explosions of cyans and teals. The moon above, with its vast lunar powers, drenched the sky in pinks while Neptune’s sea twinkled back luminous bronzes. The skeletons could also see each other as they once were, through flickers that gave transient flesh to their bones, as the men, women, and children who once lived. People from all walks of life, across time, marched up the ramps where cranes stacked metal containers on the deck. With the last skeleton herded into the bottom hold, the handlers issued confinement commands and left without locking-up. The anxiety of discovery wasn’t yet behind them. They rushed to prepare the freighter for departure. Left alone to their anguish, the petrified skeletons erupted in cries. “What’s happening?!” someone shouted with frantic, echoing voice. The aether allowed the dead to speak as well as see, but its tonal fragmentation was a mirror of its visual chaos. “How’d we get here?!” another resounded. “What have they done to us?!” Hundreds of other cries flooded the holds, stirring the aether’s currents. Ripples coiled around the frozen rows. The room resonated incoherently from the mania. In the hold’s corner someone’s muttering wove a pattern. A set of shackles burst. Someone had freed themselves. They slinked towards the exit, hoping to leave unnoticed. “Wait, are you moving?” The freed skeleton’s former self flashed briefly. An old woman, wearing tessellated robes, stood there. Some recognized it as the garb of Thaumaturges, wizards who once studied the stars and whispered words of power. Others, from different eras, simply wondered at her. The Thaumaturge escaped the holds without reply. “Hey! Hold-” She fled. She rushed up the exit ramp. She couldn’t be in that room anymore; its distress frayed her tender nerves. She was already confused enough without the hold’s frenzy spoiling her thoughts. Urged to take something sharp to ease herself further, she grabbed a work-hook from the walls and continued onward. The ship above was still on total black-out. Using the pink moonlight to guide her way, she crept past the patrolling handlers. It felt strange to be immersed in aether. In life, she’d only ever seen it through prismatic telescopes. She skulked until she found a quiet spot to reel in her nerves and take stock. Nothing was familiar to her. The stars were in different places, the handlers wore strange clothes, and she’d never seen a metal boat before. She tried to settle herself by breathing slowly, but her skeletal body refused. She frantically concentrated on what little she knew. We’re dead, we’ve been raised by necromancy, and we’re being taken somewhere. The notion gave her shivers. In her time, there was hardly a worse violation. The Raised were often thralls to warlords and madmen who cared little for its miseries. She swallowed her disgust to make further evaluation. How many of us are there? She looked across the aether for insight. She could see the faint tethers of the bound skeletons in the bottom hold wriggling towards a squat tower at the ship’s rear. These tethers connected the shackled to their masters. There were other tethers too, thousands of them, pouring out of all the metal rectangles stacked upon the deck. The scale of the wickedness nauseated her. This must be stopped. She could gather nothing else from her surroundings. She was too disoriented. Out of time, out of place, perhaps even out of mind. The Raised were often only echoes of themselves, flickers only intact enough to understand simple commands. Necromancy’s ways were truly cruel. A wave of hopelessness struck her. There was so much she didn’t understand. With nothing else to go on, she assessed her options. Things looked bad. She could break everyone’s confinement by destroying whatever was in the tower, but she didn’t know what was there. She could easily be overwhelmed by whatever was inside. If she failed, everyone would remain shackled. Their miseries could be endless if their captors intended so. More hopelessness struck her. Her swimming mind rushed for alternatives. I could destroy the ship. I could tap into the lunar powers above and summon a colossal tide. Total destruction would certainly end this atrocity, and put everyone to rest. But weren’t the others owed a better end? But wasn’t endless misery too horrible to risk? What would the others want? The inner-turmoil confounded her further. Her confusion craved certainty, so she called upon the moon, and a colossal tide came ripping towards the ship. It was done. We’ll be at rest soon. In the calm euphoria of a decision made, a sly option came winking at her. She didn’t have to attack the tower alone. If she could break her own confinement, she could break anyone’s confinement. With all the others, they could rush the tower. They could seize the boat and live out the remainder of the spell sailing the seas aboard a True Ghostship. The option seemed perfect! If only the necromancy hadn’t dazed her! Perhaps she could still- A colossal wave interrupted the thought.
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Sep 26, 2022 07:55
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one inhuman monster please
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Oct 13, 2022 17:31
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PROMPT https://i.imgur.com/VrqRuKh.jpg Adolescence's Autumn (1369 words) Something had gone wrong with the séance. Somehow, when Dahn’s mind was projected into the swale between life and death, he'd become trapped. Dahn was assured that the séance would only grant him a glance of the Other Side. Nothing more was required of his first time. He was assured that there’d be no deep splunking, and that the kind of wild safaris where Mystiks plumbed the depths of the Other Side for months on end were never foisted on highschool seniors. All Dahn needed to do was to get a sense of what the Other Side looked like to him. He’d write a report about the journey, complete the graduation requirement, and then he could go on to do all the things he loved without the threat of the things hated always looming over him. Dahn’s anxiety spiked again, and he resented it. He knew he was uncommonly jittery, and could be a slave to his nerves sometimes. He surveyed the landscape again to avoid a panic spiral. It nearly failed, because ahead lay a great ashen swamp, one rife with death. Withered trees, being eaten alive by fungi, hung rotting leaves from stems that coiled around their stalks like nooses. A pallid, orange halo forever clung to the dark horizon, and earthy graveyard scents fumed the air. The bogwood was completely waterlogged, and frozen mountains walled every side. The sight only made Dahn queasier. Why didn’t anybody else see things like this coming? Dahn knew a séance could go wrong a billion different ways. Why didn’t anyone else think the way he did? “Listen, we’ve been at this for hours,” A spirit guide wearing Dahn’s face and voice scolded, “Just go into the copse, find a friendly spirit, and they’ll tell you how to leave. They want you out as badly as you want out.” “And what about the unfriendly spirits?” Dahn protested. “poo poo happens man, sometimes you just gotta roll with it.” “I tried ‘rolling’, and all I got was you.” “Well, just keep on rolling and spin on in.” Dahn glared back. Even if the dusk did hold forever, he supposed its lights would disappear under a bogwood canopy that thick. He could run blind into the jealous spirits that protected the Other Side’s secrets from intruders. Things would get real ugly then. “They’re probably coming to get you already. They can smell the material world on you. You’d better get moving,” the spirit guide chided. Dahn frowned. What a disaster. When he realized he was stuck, he tried conjuring a powerful spirit guide to teach him the way out, but all he got was some kind of manifestation of himself. An incarnation of his own superego, Dahn supposed, for his guide wouldn’t tell him anything that he didn’t already know. “Blaming me isn’t going to fix things. Going in might.” Dahn’s anxieties swelled. Oh, why couldn’t he have just found a way to fake this assignment? Or at least delay it? Didn’t he always find ways of evading the things he hated most? And who would've known? Everyone experiences the Other Side differently. Its true architecture’s too abstract for humans to fully grasp, so each mind imagines its own details to make sense of it. Its landscapes are always disguised in clothes from the psyche’s wardrobe. Dahn knew these were childish thoughts, but he voraciously consumed hundreds of books about the Other Side, so if anyone could fake it, he could. “This isn’t like your driving exam. You can’t put this off until you’re absolutely sure you’re ready.” Dahn loathed being so subservient to his doubts all the time, but he couldn’t deny how safe and successful they’ve kept him. Was it finally time to doubt his doubts? “And you know how a séance’ll leave someone’s mind behind sometimes...” Dahn paced the entry to the bogwoods, trying to rile himself up. A slimy, shallow stream led the way inward. “...And you know how they have to find their own way out. Stop agonizing and grow a backbone.” It wasn’t courage that drove him into the bogwoods, Dahn knew, but that same old fear of failure that made him so cautious in the first place. Dahn tested the murky stream with his feet, and waded in. ***** The light held through the bogwood’s canopy, letting Dahn see the strange creatures that fritted about its mossy shores. A huge, soft-looking, pink blob slurped some tree sap that looked watery and bland. If only it knew that a plump young human was nearby! Yet, it seemed fixated on the sap. The blob consumed it voraciously, without any thought for its surroundings. Dahn presumed it to be hostile and tested its awareness from afar with rocks, but nothing shifted it. Dahn easily passed it by. Further upstream, immense beasts cloaked themselves in mists that now lifted from the stream. Though invisible in the fog, their awesome size couldn’t be concealed. They created huge voids in the thickets they barrelled through, and their footprints were enormous. Dahn tested their awareness from afar with a rock, making sure to hide himself after the throw, but they all fled in a gross panic! Dahn couldn’t believe such beasts would stampede away from something so small. “Ironically, they seem touchy about things they can’t see,” the spirit guide smirked, giving voice to Dahn’s thoughts. The two eventually passed a whole cavalcade of ludicrous beasts. Dreaming manticores that never stirred, hungry wyverns too timid of their wings to take flight, grotesque bees stuck in their own honey, baby phoenixes that only peaked through their eggshells. Dahn couldn’t make any sense of this parade of misfits. Where were the jealous spirits? Did his teachers deceive him? Were all those warnings of the Other Side’s dangers just lies? Fables to make the reckless shy? The questions began to crescendo in Dahn’s head. Something from his own psyche must be creating these feeble illusions. Where were the friendly spirit among all these oddities? Perhaps they all were... “-Now you’re getting it,” the spirit guide interrupted, “And, yes, we’re all friendly spirits-” Dahn blinked, letting insight blossom in his mind. His mind ran a mile a minute now. “... and we’re all explaining how to leave. See, we don’t talk the way you do. We’re a little more... abstract.” The spirit guide took the form of a turtle but retained Dahn’s voice. “It’s alright to be slow and steady. To have your own passions, but no matter where you are, you’re always going to be stuck if you keep making such ordeals of everything.” A leviathan slithered out of the guide’s turtleshell and snaked atop the stream’s waters. “Listen, you’re still young, and you’ve almost figured out all this dumb teenager poo poo anyway. Otherwise, I couldn’t use your own voice to tell you, but what you’ve got to do now is puzzle out the exit. I’m showing you, but you know I can’t tell you. You have enough to decipher it anyway. Good luck.” Without another word, the spirit guide slipped into the murky waters, and that was that. Dahn’s mind still raced. While the guide’s words were still fresh, Dahn seized at every idea. It was like he’d entered some kind of lightning round. If his psyche could conjure such strange beasts, perhaps it could conjure an exit? Nothing appeared. If his psyche was the palette that painted this world, perhaps he could flag the exit with bright red? Nothing changed. If the guide could take his shape, could he take the guide’s shape and find a hidden exit? Nothing transformed. Strangely, these misses didn’t agonize Dahn. They energized him. They felt more like stepping stones showing him the way home. He continued. What would this world look like if he wasn’t so sombre about things he didn’t enjoy? Something happened. The Other Side shifted. A fresh autumn beauty coursed through its morphing architecture. It was breathtaking, but what did its loveliness accomplish? The bogwater disappeared, and its absence left behind a gaping cosmic fissure. Dahn could see the séance table he departed from peeking through the fold. Without thought he prepared a running leap, making, for once in his life, a brazen jump without any hesitation.
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Oct 17, 2022 10:34
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prepare for hair raisINg spooks
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Oct 29, 2022 07:51
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Ghosts of Europa (1989 words) “...just as finding life beyond our planet’s earthbound domain was incontrovertibly the millennium’s most captivating scientific discovery, finding life beyond death on extraterrestrial shores will surely be its most ominous. We must remember the dire cost of this revelation. Today, all peoples of Earth are untied in common grief for its lost sons and daughters. We will remember these courageous explorers as true heirs of Prometheus, as those who dared to steal fire from the gods. For the betterment of all humankind, they have incurred supernatural wrath, and we must mourn their most noble of sacrifices. We will honour their audacity by never relenting from our own quest for truth and understanding. Europa will someday be tamed. Humankind can never be denied. For now, we must keep the lost in our hearts and pray that, despite the odds, their souls will find rest.” - TIME Magazine, November 14th, 2092. October 31st, 2092. With only a shallow cone of light to guide her step, Alice Reade fumbled down the corridors of the research complex. Even the emergency lights had failed. The passageways had become blacker and more confusing than any catacomb system, and she knew they’d just as readily accept her remains if didn’t keep pace. Alice ran, and she wasn’t controlling her strength as she’d been trained. Her panicked sprint threw her down the halls, slamming her into every junction wall. Despite months of Lunar training, Europa’s low gravity seemed alien to her now. This time her flashlight fizzled out when she struck a wall. She lit her backup, cursed herself and hurried onward. This isn’t working. I’m not going to make it to the elevator like this. Alice tried to settle into a practised stride, but anxiety bested her. She knew she couldn’t move any slower. The Safe Range EMF Finder suddenly felt heavy in her hands, but her eyes refused its beckon. Its readout wouldn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know. Those Creatures were probably right behind her anyway. She shivered, and prepared herself. She had to attack the next bend with the grace of a low-G gymnast or her collision with the ersatz heater would cripple her. She knew where it was because she’d patched it together herself days ago. She slid through the turn, ran along the wall, and leapt over the heater. It leaked fluid, and she winced at it. They’ve gotten to it too. She hated being in this mess. If only she’d known the true cause of these system failures. She never would’ve brought down her repair team, and they wouldn’t have gotten cornered by those Creatures. She didn’t see what happened to others after the ambush but their wails made grim suggestion. She couldn’t maintain her pace. The stale atmosphere made her weak. The oxygen scrubbers they’d cobbled together must’ve also failed. Prunoise moisture also rimed the floors and walls ahead, making them especially hazardous to traverse. Her muscles ached. Her chest felt heavy. Despite everything, she had to power through. Patrick will be at the terminal. Think of Patrick. Alice knew memories of loved ones could release endorphins. A timely burst would help her through these obstacles. She knew she could get sentimental, but now it served a purpose. Glimpses of Patrick flashed in her head. Her heart quickened to reinforce her aching step. Alice remembered the first time they went camping together. It was a treasured memory. Patrick had forgotten to bring a pillow, so he folded a handtowel to sleep on. It had zero thickness. He said it didn’t matter as long as his head rested on some kind of square, he could fool himself into getting a good night’s rest. Alice giggled at him, she- -A tremor coursed through the research complex, shaking Alice to her knees. Kathryn Sullivan Station was once considered an engineering miracle. A skyscraper-sized facility spiked deep onto Europa’s crust. It burrowed a 15 mile tunnel, leaving behind station segments at intervals. Now it rattled helplessly against the colossal tidal bores swelling through its crevasse system. No, it wasn’t just tidal bores. Alice knew a whole ecosystem of abyssal spectres also hammered the station. The station whined and groaned with every impact. Alice got to her feet and moved. These Creatures were unlike anything ever seen. Some had breached the facility, and they disrupted its vital systems by siphoning off energy somehow. They were astonishing. They seemed like completely electromagnetic lifeforms. Alice approached the elevator. The last hallway was slick with condensation. She slid towards the control booth. Patrick wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t. Alice felt foolish. Above, they probably had no knowledge of the chaos below. He wouldn’t have known to come rushing in. She felt foolish for thinking he’d be here, in her time of need, like he always was. Patrick would surely be topside, and the elevator would take her there. It didn’t matter that it was unpowered, its backup thrusters could easily generate the lift. She had to wrench open the manual release to prep the thrusters. The air had become so sour now. Her arms wobbled while shifting the lever. She crossed the catwalk to the elevator car and poised herself over the secondary release. She hated the next thing she knew she had to do. She tapped a code into her makeshift short-range transmitter. If any of her team was left, and could respond, then she’d wait for them. No matter how much she resented staying, she knew she owed it to them. She waited for a return code. She hoped they could remember it. Her team had been forced into using these ramshackle things when the regular equipment failed. These transmitters only sent short data pulses, like the Morse codes of ancient telegrams. She tapped again and switched to receive. No response. She moved towards the release. help me The voice came from the transmitter! But that’s impossible! Was she delirious? She held the device to her ear. ARE YOU THERE? I HEARD FOOTSTEPS She flinched and shut off the transmitter. She’d made these things herself. She knew their capabilities. This had to be a hallucination. Alice felt lightheaded. Maybe the carbon dioxide was getting to her. Or did she misremember? Maybe her transmitters worked better than she thought. She peered into the darkness with her flashlight but saw nobody. Every stalled second was dangerous. She switched to the EMF Finder, fearing that the Creatures were closing in. Its display visualized electromagnetic distortions. It synthesized pictures of invisible fluctuations. It was also a diagnostic tool that could image the Creatures. She flicked on the screen. A silhouette of a human stood on the other catwalk. It moved sluggishly along the walls, apparently travelling by touch. The spot, however, was empty when she shone her flashlight there. She yelled into the void. The silhouette jerked its head in her direction. Did someone from her team escape? She switched her transmitter to receive- -Dr. Reade? Thank God you made it! I saw the others get cornered. I thought you were with them! It was the voice of John Barton. The silhouette, on second glance, was his too. Alice turned off the device and yelled again. “For heaven’s sake, we’re close enough to shout! Shut off the transmitter! For all we know, radiowaves attract those things!” No response. “John! Yell harder, I can’t hear you!” No response. “Repeat! I can’t hear you!” She switched to receive again- -I AM YELLING! I SAID I’M NOT USING THE TRANSMITTER! Alice flushed. John’s silhouette lingered on the EMF but no one actually stood there. She blinked in confusion. I LOST MY TORCH, I CAN’T SEE Alice steadied herself. “... John, I’m shining a light on you right now...” ARE YOU SURE? I CAN’T SEE ANYTHING “...I can see you on the EMF.” WHAT? IT SHOULDN’T REGISTER ME! HUMANS DON’T PRODUCE STRONG ENOUGH FIELDS. Alice passed her hand in front of the EMF. No register. She backed away. “...John, wave your arms,” she managed, trembling. The silhouette waved. It was undeniably John. Nothing made sense. Maybe this was a digital artifact of a strange reflection? She surveyed the area with the EMF... ...And saw a swarm of Creatures floating near John. They were man-sized blurs of tentacles attached to central torus that shifted like an ever-warping Klein bottle. They surrounded John, studying him. They must be using him as bait! Alice jammed the release. The elevator shrieked upward. IS THAT THE ELEVATOR- Alice shut off the transmitter. She closed her eyes and drifted into memory. To someplace that made sense. Her wedding day. She remembered when Patrick took a big bite of their cake. Somehow, a chunk of frosting got onto his eyebrows. She tried to tell him he had something on his face, but he only wiped at his mouth. She told him it was still there, but that only made him wipe his jaw more intensely. She giggled at him, she- -The elevator halted at its destination. The doors opened. Alice expected fresh air but the atmosphere seemed worse. This section’s scrubbers must also be offline. Had they come here too? The thought agonized Alice. Alice stumbled down the corridors of the habitation floor. The emergency lights were active, but she glued her eyes to the EMF. She could see a feminine silhouette dancing in Thaïs’ quarters. Faint music played inside. Édith Piaf. It must be Thaïs inside. Alice entered, but no one was inside. But wait… … Thaïs was slumped over her bed, motionless. Yet her silhouette danced on the EMF. Nothing made sense! She travelled down the long corridor. It was filled with silhouettes attached to no one in particular. Alice hurried to her quarters. The air felt incredibly stuffy. Her head swam. Patrick would be there. Patrick would know what’s going on. He studied those creatures. He believed they were simply a poorly understood stage of an alien lifecycle. Europa teemed with natural, physical life. The young had physical bodies that majestically swam across its oceans. The old, however, became phantoms once their physical bodies perished. Patrick hypothesized this effect arose from some unstudied local phenomenon. The spectres served some purpose in their ecosystem. They were clearly intelligent, communal creatures. The young zealously followed the old, shadowing their movements, for however long as they lingered. Patrick didn’t know why. Alice found Patrick slumped over his chair, but his silhouette paced the room. He raged. Alice tried to get his attention but failed. Nothing made sense! She wanted to be held by him. She lunged at his silhouette, trying to embrace it. For a moment they were one. That’s when she saw his memories. She felt them as if they were her own. She instantly understood how much Patrick treasured her laughter. It was music to his ears. He’d do foolish things just to hear it. All the good times they’d shared flashed within her for an instant. But there were other memories. Patrick had written a missive to HQ. They’d been attacked while she was gone. Patrick had thought the phantoms only lingered a short time after death. Apparently they could extend their afterlives by feeding on energy. They’d ignored the station up to now, probably unaware of its windfall. Now they knew. The radiation screens blocked their entry, but it wouldn’t hold forever. He’d detailed everything in the missive, only he couldn’t send it! The power failures caused massive technical issues he couldn’t fix! But Alice could. She could fix nearly anything. Her head swam from the sour air but she ferociously attacked the problem. It didn’t take long. Patrick’s message was ready to send. She attached her own addendum: Extreme hazard. All hands lost. Mount no recovery. Unacceptable risk to recovery party. She also uploaded every other bit of data from the station onto the info beam. Research notes, diagnostics, sensor readings, personal logs, unsent letters. Everything that explained their fate. She mashed send.
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Oct 31, 2022 10:33
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i'll joIN the hunt
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Nov 26, 2022 08:00
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| # ¿ May 16, 2024 23:37 |
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Trying To Move Past The Grungy 1990s (998 words) Can we even be friends anymore? Josh reflected bitterly, feeling raw after the heated exchange. A still chill hung in the glade between the two teenagers. Kevin sat between the evergreens, with a journal at the ready, strumming his guitar. His gleaming eyes were still transfixed on the clearing in the forest’s canopy, as though nothing had just happened. A perfect starry night, with its new moon sleeping under a shadowy blanket, unfurled above. Josh sat fidgeting with his flute near a yellowing maple at the other end. He couldn’t find a comfortable position in his old spot anymore. His sour eyes squinted at Kevin’s journal. Josh knew it was rich with careful entries. Something between a scowl and smile absently drifted across his face. He needs to grow up. I can’t believe he’s still at it. The sentiment, intended to be scathing, ultimately landed on faint admiration. Josh fully smiled now. He returned to his earlier ruminations. He resolved to see things through. No, I definitely want to be friends. But I can’t just stay behind with him every time. He needs to catch up to me. Josh tried to let the crisp air cool his temper further, but Kevin interrupted. “I know you don’t want to be here anymore.” “You’re wrong,” Josh coolly replied. “You just want to hang out with Gavin, and be cool with him at lunchtime.” Josh winced. Why did Kevin have to say it like that? There’s nothing wrong with meeting new people at highschool, people with fresh, exciting interests. People with lives outside of the X-files, or sky scans, or the obscure and paranormal. Hadn’t they been doing this Roswell-type stuff for years now? Ever since elementary, when they met in music class? It’d be nice if they could join the new millennium together. “It’s nice to evolve,” Josh coyly remarked. “What makes you think liking Eminem and Limp Bizkit makes you evolved?” Somehow Josh felt like Kevin had cornered him. But don’t trendy things always seem silly if you poke them? And the things themselves are hardly the point. Enjoying the popular lets you be social, because there’s that something you can talk to others about to create a kind of mutual electricity. It’s important to meet people. Girls especially, who’d lately become very interesting. These half-formed ideas swirled in Josh’s head, but before he could assemble them into a reply, Kevin continued. “You know what I think’s cool? MKUltra. Polybius. Atlantis. Chupacabra. ESP. Sky scans. Do you have any idea what we could see on a night like this, if we keep our eyes open?” Kevin’s eyes were certainly open. They were alive and ready to intercept the slightest heavenly movement. Though he strummed a sentimental tune, he was also prepared to instantly chronicle any celestial abnormality into his journal. He spoke without ever shifting his gaze. “Or what about D.B. Cooper, John Titor, and Roland Doe? How does that stuff not jazz you up too?” All those words did jazz Josh up. They’d spent years together pouring over all things bizarre. Josh smiled at Kevin’s journal again, and at his unflinching gaze. Was that how he got so many sightings? Josh never saw anything on his sky scans. He’d spent so much time trying to, his mom eventually forbade it unless he was also practising his instrument. Kevin said his mom had a similar rule. They laughed. Once, Josh fibbed about seeing some ‘strange, dancing lights’ just to have something to share at recess. But as enticing as those experiences were, they produced a different feeling now. The passion had waned. It felt more like wistful nostalgia now. “I still like all that stuff... I just want to try new things too.” “If you only want to hang with Gavin, just say so.” “It’d be cool if you came with us. You should try new things too.” Kevin’s eyes deadened. His hands trembled. He stopped playing. He wanted to say something, but relented. “I love this poo poo. I’ll never give it up.” “You don’t have to. Just come out with us sometime.” Kevin couldn’t respond until he curled up into himself. It seemed so strange. Josh didn't know what to make of it. “...But I’m just a weird, spooky loner.” “There’s more to you than the paranormal... like, if people knew you could do Nothing Else Matters on guitar, they’d think you’re pretty cool.” “No, I really am just a spook.” Josh doubted that. Sure Kevin was a raging x-phile for everything supernatural, but that’s only quirky. He just needs to become a little more outgoing. “You don’t always have to be.” “... I sorta do. I just get so anxious around most people. Socializing’s really draining for me.” “It’s tough for everyone-” Kevin interrupted with a heavy sigh. He seemed frustrated. Something wasn’t communicating. Josh realized he was doing something wrong, but didn’t know what. “I wish there was a better word than anxious. It doesn’t tell even half the story.” Josh struggled to understand. All that time his friend spent alone, watching the sky, filling his journal... was there more to that than unflinching dedication? Kevin spent an awful lot of time alone at school too, when Josh wasn’t around. “When you say anxious, do you mean like, ‘social phobia’?” “...I think so.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” “Nobody does.” Josh felt like something important just happened, but he still struggled see the whole picture. He realized Kevin looked so alone, the way he was sitting now. “Hey, I’m here for you.” The two became silent. Josh felt like a key had fallen into his lap, one that could secure their friendship just like he wanted to, but he didn’t understand it yet. It would probably take a lot of time. He was prepared to be patient. Not knowing what to say next, Josh played the first few bars of Nothing Else Matters on his flute. He hoped Kevin would join when he was ready to.
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Nov 28, 2022 08:18
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