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Tag: drabbles

Nightmare Fuel October 2012, Day 16

Image courtesy of Shelby Goatz at Google+

Chests heave. Knives are dropped. Plates stop spinning on the checkerboard floor. The cellar door bangs shut. As the dust settles from their last fight, Marianne hides where no dust has ever even been stirred. Except, something stirs. There, down between two crates filled with Fragile somethings, something moved. Could have been a trick of the light if there was any light down here. Her pulse quickens. She sticks to the classics.

“Hello?”

Unfortunately for her, so do I.

“Don’t you just wish,” I say, voice sweet and slow and dark like molasses, “that he could understand how it feels?”

Nightmare Fuel October 2012, Day 15

Swarming

There will be worms, maggots, and eggs in everybody else’s corpse but your body will smell of rosewater with a hint of tangerine and cinnamon. When the others rot, when their skin will iris open everywhere to let the insects and dirt in, your skin will glass and smoothen and you will only grow more beautiful. Every eyelash you lose is a step to perfection; you cannot bruise, blacken, or blister. Your deep green eyes will keep staring unintimidated toward the sky when I dig you up from your grave and this time I will be right; you will last.

Nightmare Fuel October 2012, Day 13

Twice as long today to make up for having nothing for yesterday’s picture, or something.

Glass Shard From Steve's Foot

There is a TV commercial which no-one else has ever seen. Going for 6 years now. It is about this miracle powder called Pristine. It is a dumb commercial. Completely unrealistic, I tell myself. I’m often shaking when I tell myself that. I am out of sleeping pills now and it seems to happen more often recently. I do not often realize until it is too late to turn the machine off, but even if I try, I stumble, the TV is sluggish, or if I pull the plug it still runs until the commercial’s 45 seconds are all done:

A simple scene, without dialogue.

A home. A soft white mat. A window shatters. Two pairs of boots climb in– everything’s filmed from the floor. They go into the kitchen; a barefoot man is presumably cooking. His yelp’s silenced. He’s dragged into the living room. One of the boot-clad men bends down for a big glass shard and then it’s just boots and trembling feet again. Cloth rips. We hear the slick, sloppy noise of cutting meat. That continues for a good while, until my head falls upside-down in a close-up, and the men who killed me start cleaning up.

Nightmare Fuel October 2012, Day 11

WTF

Most of us lived with them. For many years I had a clamper bite into my thigh, deeper each month. Sometimes it walked for me, felling me clumsily. Maggio from Gargoyle Street had a liversphere, leaking poison from him.

One avoided the factory grounds. It was the kind of place where even the dumbest teenagers would not dare each other to go. Only accumulators went there.

Recognized by clampers on their skulls, which bored deep into their eye sockets, extending antennae and radars to the air. Accumulators furtivated there as often they could, trading bone and blood for spare parts.

Nightmare Fuel October 2012, Day 6

Unknown Source

“Who buys a fireplace for a chimneyless house?”

“Just shut up and help me. It’ll make me feel more at home. Guy at the shop said it’ll transform all this urban stuff into a proper forest house.”

“Don’t they usually have like, installation offers?”

“No. Shut up. Lift on three. One, two–”

“Huh. It does feel more woodsy. Is that pine I smell?”

“They’ll appear, guy said.”

“Whoa. Did you see that thing’s eyes?”

“Don’t fuck around. Help me with this instead. Why are you locking up?”

“Miriam, don’t freak out but something’s watching us. If you turn, turn slowly.”

Nightmare Fuel October 2012, Day 5

They called the monster ‘the suicide box’.

“Just burn it down. Don’t talk to it.”

The suicide box was hardly big enough to sit in. It had no legs or wings or anything else that moved when it shouldn’t. A warning label said ‘will trap you in it with what you’re afraid of most’. Gus looked at the chair there and sat down in the chair, sweat breaking in his forehead, matches right there in his hands. A gust of wind and the door was shut. It was dark but he could make his own light. He opened his eyes.

Nightmare Fuel October 2012, Day 4

fear_ancient

Sometimes at night when all the electric equipment is on standby, Carey likes to shut her eyes and pretend it’s midday and she can remember everywhere she needs to go without blinking lights of machines that hide behind strand-of-hair-thin strings and spindly doll’s limbs.

Carey has a similar feeling now but she has never been on this bridge before. There are fish and deep things in the water, which she can ignore if she closes her eyes. She has walked a while and cannot remember how the bridge looks. Her shoe hovers and she needs to plant her foot somewhere.

Nightmare Fuel October 2012, Day 3

Untitled

This is how it happens.

Make love in seedy parts of town like teenagers again. Ignore the hip pain, hitch your breaths. “No-one’s going to use this for its intended purpose,” one of you says as you step into the glowing box.

And one of you disappears.

The one who stepped in turns around to no-one; the one who stayed outside sees you vanish when you walk in, like there’s a filter over your eyes. Going in after won’t help. You try. (It doesn’t.) You can never explain it. No reason, no explanation. ATMs have cameras. The recording shows nothing.

~

(Nightmare Fuel October is a Thing you can learn more about over here: https://plus.google.com/u/0/109187322359266879884/about)

Worldbuilding 0: Intro!

This might be a series, or it might be a one-off, but I put the (Intro) thing in the title because it would be nice if it was a series. I’m going to build a new world! That is definitely the best part of storytelling. First I’m going to do some analysis of two of the worlds I write in though, because I’m like that. The other worlds are either too small to make comments about, or (in the case of the Vailverse) secret!

Drabbleverse

A lot of the drabbles I write take place in the same universe – henceforth called the drabbleverse –, because it’s fun to have continuity and I wish I was Cordwainer Smith*. There are a few small things that separate this drabbleverse from ours, and they all grew forth pretty organically over the course of the year or so I’ve drabbld intensely.

The first thing of these is fate-days. On a fate-day, everything smells of iron, and you get one chance to change your life. Fate-days are allotted seemingly at random, and one can tell that one is coming up if the rate of coincidences one is encountering. Most people in the world knows this.

The second thing is the Immortal God of Death-Fate, who is channeled through the Machine of Death, which is basically two floating bowling balls with an EKG-line of electricity between them. It speaks directly to our hearts without going through our ears. It’s very cryptic and not very helpful, and follows the rules of other machines of death that exist**.

Another thing is that practically everything has been given agency again. This is not that very present but it is still noticeable in cases such as this one: http://kewangji.tumblr.com/post/12254790760/on-the-7th-of-may-2012-the-sun-found-its-goal, or this one:  http://kewangji.tumblr.com/post/24968807842/cosmos-channeled-eyes-toward-charles-who-started. I say ‘again’, because, see, far back in time, through the eyes of humans, everything was given agency – the moon wanted to arc across the sky and the rivers wanted to flow. But with the advent of determinism and stuff agency’s been sort of slowly retracted to something only humans and certain animals have, but even that’s been called into question. Obviously the sun can’t be waiting for  anything.

I like that these things exist in that world.

The Anyworld

The world with the variable, the vessel and the vermin. The variable travels the universe and deletes unwitting or sturnfleen races of  biologically or technically immortal idea machines. It does so in the vessel, also called the Anywhere Machine. Nobody remembers what the vermin is/are/was/were except that it’s bad for everything. The stories written in this universe are all titled “The Anywhere Machine [something something]”. Only story currently live is The Anywhere Machine, Appendix I – Futureful Skyful***, but believe me when I say that this setting is stuffed. And also dark. Many words have to be invented specifically for this world, like sturnfleen, and dymphnatics, and meaninglet.

~

So, what makes these worlds fun?

Probably contrast. The contrast of those worlds and the one I exist in right now (just passing through). Hopefully they are fun to read because of this – most everything that makes you want to read anything is contrast; any scene, any sentence needs conflict. And contrast is the confliction of metaphysical concepts. Next time I will think up a few details about this new world. I will leave this topic for a little while, though, and think up exciting subtitles for posts that start “Worldbuilding [x]:”.

Below you can find a list of failed ideas for what this world should be about.

  • Instead of babies, humans lay eggs.
  • Extraterrestrials have already invaded and brought us under their yokes: it turns out capitalism comes from space.
  • Genetic memory is totally a thing, and people’s heads are becoming too large with all that information in their skulls.
  • The walls of reality are but eggs and literally world-shattering things are waking up.
  • Monsters.

Actually, that last one is probably on the right track. Next Worldbuilding post will be about monsters.
~

* Cordwainer Smith has a Wikipedia article you should perhaps read: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cordwainer_Smith

** if you haven’t yet read it, read it: http://machineofdeath.net

*** https://zombiesintelligently.com/vignettes/the-anywhere-machine-appendix-i-futureful-skyful/