Tuesday, 21 May 2013
Friday, 03 May 2013
This is the preface to my story, as the premise is borrowed from a relatively famous online book called Machine Of Death, in which the premise for each short story is explained as below:
The machine had been invented a few years ago: a machine that could tell, from just a sample of your blood, how you were going to die. It didn’t give you the date and it didn’t give you specifics. It just spat out a sliver of paper upon which were printed, in careful block letters, the words DROWNED or CANCER or OLD AGE or CHOKED ON A HANDFUL OF POPCORN. It let people know how they were going to die.
The problem with the machine is that nobody really knew how it worked, which wouldn’t actually have been that much of a problem if the machine worked as well as we wished it would. But the machine was frustratingly vague in its predictions: dark, and seemingly delighting in the ambiguities of language. OLD AGE, it had already turned out, could mean either dying of natural causes, or shot by a bedridden man in a botched home invasion. The machine captured that old-world sense of irony in death — you can know how it’s going to happen, but you’ll still be surprised when it does.
Spontaneous Human Combustion.
He kept the slip of paper in his wallet. He'd kept it there for the last 7 years, ever since he first went to the The Machine. He'd done it on a dare, after a rousing series of bets at a bar between friends. They'd all been taking wagers on the ways they'd all end up dying. Strange things can happen when you start a conversation off with the pretense of death, and between the accusatory jokes and ruminations of deaths thrown around, eventually a real debate started up. From a simple statement made by his friend Phil, who in earnest claimed that talk was cheap, and if they all really wanted to make their bets and in turn, their lives count, they'd find out.
"Let's just do it then, Alex."
Everyone knew what Phil meant when he said it back then. They'd been more or less ignoring the thought, despite it being on everyone's minds. The Machine's existence pretty much brought death to the forefront of every late night drunken bar conversation there was. But Phil was the first one to stop postulating the whys and could be's, and stood up saying he knew where the closest Machine was, and that furthermore, they could get to it in a few short hours. Alex thought back about how dumb that idea was back then. How he wished he had simply rebuffed Phil and told him to fuck off, or just stayed there and ordered another pint of lager. Instead, he held the slip of paper in his hand, looking at it, and remembered.
Phil's slip said two words: BLOOD LOSS.
Phil laughed it off back then, saying that it was stupid. He had bet he'd get cancer, or some kind of car accident. Phil was the kind of guy who'd always lived life to its fullest by any measurable standard, but never seemed to revel in it. For him life was simply a means for exploration. He'd pursue many avenues in life that others wouldn't either out of cowardice or apathy. More than that, he was a humanitarian, but also a force to be reckoned with when you got some alcohol in him. Phil was a man who'd look death in the face and spit at it.
Until two months later when he was found in his bathtub with both wrists slit. His note left was long, and detailed. He hadn't killed himself out of any sense of sadness or depression, but after using The Machine he saw his life up after that point entirely and wholly fated. Never being a man to leave things up to chance, he decided to willfully and purposely take his own life, in the very way The Machine said he would die. His note commented on the chicken/egg nature of his death and the nature of causality in itself. It was long, dense, and nigh impenetrable to read. Ultimately he'd decided to make the final jump into life's experiences, and finally see the great beyond, which for him was the last true thing to explore. Death, for Phil, was yet another adventure.
That night he'd also been at the bar with Dave. Dave being a man of voracious appetites and little to no self control, of course agreed to Phil's proposition. He was the kind of person who'd do what he felt, say what he'd think, and never, ever sincerely apologized for it. He was consistently burdened by the dual nature of his severe hostility, and amicable endearment to everyone around him. It wasn't really a surprise to Phil or Alex when he shoved them out of the way and jammed his finger into The Machine first. He had pretended to have a seizure, and started screaming.
"THIS FUCKING MACHINE IS KILLING ME, IT'S ALL A RUSE, IT DOESN'T TELL YOU HOW YOU DIE, IT JUST KILLS YOU! IT JUST KILLLLSSS YOUUUUUUU!!!!!"
At first, Alex thought Dave was joking. Then his own personal sense of doubt reverberated back and forth between his competing lackadaisical nature and genuine sense of worry for his friend. He let out a nervous laugh, followed by a genuine laugh, as he started thinking about how absurd it was to be laughing at his best friend's own death. After a few moments though, Dave yanked his finger out, flipped everyone the bird, and threw back another long swig of vodka. His slip of paper popped out, and its contents made everyone laugh.
It said: ALCOHOL POISONING.
And boy did they all laugh. It was so wonderfully ironic it immediately took away from the mystique of The Machine. All of them knew how heavily Dave drank, and for him to die of alcohol poisoning would be like a snake handler dying from a snake bite. One of those entirely expected, but still somehow stupid and avoidable deaths that come with living a stupid profession. Drinking was half of Dave's job anyway, being a relatively famous published writer. He was the reason they had all been out celebrating to begin with, as he'd just been published in The New Yorker, for an article about how stupid and meaningless it was to be published in The New Yorker. Irony surrounded Dave's life. Irony and scorned, broken women. Women he'd often use, or be used by. It was an unspoken agreement between him and Them, and one he often contemplated the benefits of in between bouts of reckless, careless sex and self debauchery. His friends often told him he'd die alone and sad, with only vodka as his main lover. Little did they really know, this was already very obvious to Dave, who'd long married the alcohol in his mind. Made it his true love. For Dave, seeing those two words on that scrap of paper just confirmed yet another platitude in his life, that it would always be vodka. Vodka forever.
It was the most unfortunate and deeply saddening revelation, the day they all found out Dave had died. One of the women who'd been on the bad end of a particularly nasty bender Dave had gone on, was just too broken and maddened by callous, unloving men that she decided to take action. She made Dave a cocktail, diluted 9/10ths with a mixture of strychnine and arsenic. She'd been a chemist's assistant, and procured the poisons one night after calling Dave, begging him to stop ignoring her phone calls. In a stupor, he answered, belched at her, called her a stupidly tattooed cunt-whore from Babylon, and hung up. In two days he'd had no recollection, and thusly didn't expect any sort of animosity from her when she invited him over for a casual, late night tryst. His last words as he died were;
"OH I GET IT! ALCOHOL POISONING! REAL FUNNY YOU WHORE!"
Dave's funeral was widely attended, because despite being an objectively terrible person, he still somehow, impossibly was very loved by many. The woman who killed him was sent to a life sentence in prison, and everyone mourned the loss of a dark poet too weird for the world to begin with.
The last person at the bar that night, was Marion.
Marion refused to use The Machine. She was too afraid, and instead opted to lose the bet by forfeit. For her, knowing something that unknowable on such a concrete term was too much for her to bear. Her life already was full of so many ups and downs, twists and turns, and adding death to it could only make it more complicated in every fashion. She'd often spent her life narrowing down all the details about herself, processing them internally. Yet with Alex, Dave and Phil she felt the most comfortable. They were all some bizarre mixture of the perfect friend for her, when she needed either of them. She knew they knew, but only wrote it down for them. Her whole life was writing anyway. It's what connected all four of them, and for her to have that one last thing written down, would be making it all too real for her. Death wasn't what she wanted in her life, because too many had already been lost to her. She'd ached from it for far too long, she didn't need to start mourning herself too. So she opted out. Alex and Dave prompted her over and over, egging her on to do it, if only to sate their curiosity. But Marion held resolute, and never succumbed to their drunken temptations to use The Machine. Phil simply smirked at her, and she told them all to go fuck themselves.
"I'll die on my own terms, and I'll have it be a surprise, fuck you very much."
Marion died in a car accident. It was sudden, and surprising, and came as a shock to all who knew her. Only Alex and Dave, who'd both repeatedly antagonized her for her ethnicity, blamed her death on her race. Both decrying her death by lamenting, crying shouts of "FUCKING ASIAN DRIVERS!", in between large gulps of alcohol. They knew it was what she would have wanted anyway. Their friendship was a strange one, difficult to explain to anyone outside of their group.
After all of that, what was left was Alex. Still holding his slip of paper in his wallet. Two whole years since Dave was killed, and seven since their encounter with The Machine. He would have never thought he would be the last, not in a million years. He'd never been a particularly healthy person, but his result from The Machine seemed just absurd.
It said: SPONTANEOUS HUMAN COMBUSTION.
It was a death so silly, so improbable, that it made all of them laugh that night when Alex received it as his slip. It was what made them write it all off as nonsense, and gladly turn over their money to Phil, who collected it and bought them all another round of drinks at a different bar. They all got obliterated, then headed back to their homes, each taking in the events of that night.
Alex was the last, and by any and all reasons, he couldn't understand how he was supposed to just suddenly burst into flames. A life expecting a heart attack, or diabetes, or cancer, as per the genetic likelihood of his family history, was what he had fully been expecting. Yet with each death he grew more wary of the nature of his slip. It's concrete importance to his life, and the deep, resolute meaning it held. He'd had it in his wallet from that night, and only remembered he'd first had it when Phil had taken his life. He kept it there on purpose from then on, and as the tragedies piled up, all detailing in exact precision to The Machine's predictions, he found himself continually dominated by thoughts of fear, and fire.
After two years of his soul and mind being consumed by the fire he'd found himself outside of himself. Quite literally in fact. He'd been staring at the slip of paper, for so long he'd lost himself into it. Alex was watching himself watch the slip, and realized exactly what was happening. He'd only read about it before, back when he read about supernatural things on a daily basis. As a child he'd head to the library and read every single book on witches, demons, aliens, phenomena and the like. One book talked about astral projection, and how it was a state of consciousness where you leave your corporeal body. This is where he was now, looking down on himself. He saw himself clutching the slip in one hand, and a gun with the other. He watched himself load the pistol with a single round of ammunition. He watched himself place it to his temple. He watched himself pull the trigger. He watched the slip of paper fall to the ground, meeting the carpet and the blood.
He felt himself getting hotter. A smoldering feeling inside, as if ashes and soot were rising up from inside his non-corporeal form. He could feel the burning inside rise up and up, reaching his throat. He went to scream but couldn't, as he had no mouth. His eyes stung as the smoke reached up and into his sockets, and despite having no throat he still choked and felt the flames lick his feet.
He looked down again, and saw Phil. Then he saw Dave. Behind them Marion stood. They were burning too. But they were smiling.
Sunday, 30 December 2012
It was late and I was hungry, so I went to the fridge. I rationalized that this was my third meal of the day, despite my day being an increasingly long stretch into the next day, and keeping any sense of a normal eating schedule is as difficult as keeping any normal kind of sleeping schedule. Regardless of that, I opened up the freezer, mostly out of habit because we used to keep snacks in there, or frozen tv dinners. Now it's all frozen leftovers, and occasionally alcohol. That's the deal when you're trying to eat better, you cut out the shitty processed food and try your damned hardest to eat right despite this stupid world making it infinitely easier to eat like a big disgusting fat piece of shit. Well when I opened the freezer two things caught my eye. The first was a bunch of very old toaster strudels, back from who god knows when, and the second was a box of Eggo waffles.
Eggo waffles left over, from my dad's brief time living here at the house. I bought them originally so I would have something easy to make him for breakfast, since his cancer pretty much made it impossible for him to cook his own meals. He liked the Eggo waffles, and they were about as simple a thing to make as quick as possible, so he we could both enjoy an easy breakfast together. But eventually he died, as the cancer he was so resiliently fighting finally took him, a mere few days after we had him taken back to the Hospital. For a month or so him being here worked, because I got to spend the day with him, he'd be a little forgetful, and sometimes it was hard to get him to take his pills, but more or less he was himself. Eventually he started sleeping more and more, and his condition got worse and worse, until he kept trying to get out of bed to do things, convinced he could still have enough strength to get to the bathroom himself. Worse, sometimes he'd forget he couldn't make it, and end up falling, and the process to talk him into understanding why he was on the ground, why we had to forcibly move him, and why we were trying to help him was arduous, to put it very fucking lightly.
For the last 2 weeks or so my family and I spent with him here, we spent in nearly absolute silence, waiting to hear the slightest creak or rustle from his bed. It was a 24 hour job, because at any moment he could try to get up and get to the bathroom, rather than use his commode, and potentially fall. It was fucking frustrating, and nerve wracking, and by far the most stressfull, horrible thing in my life. Imagine never being able to sleep because at any moment you'd have to drag your half naked, screaming father by force to his room, all the while he's confused and thinks you're hurting him, and is begging for you to stop hurting him. The moments where I did get a few hours sleep were constantly interrupted, and not very restful in any way, shape or form, and the stress was so intense it started to make me very physically ill.
Imagine sitting next to your dad, trying to give him pain medication that he refuses to take because he thinks you're poisoning him. Imagine trying to give him some of the special morphine gel they've given you, because he refuses to take pills, oral liquids, and rips off medication patches and asks why you're doping him. Imagine him being so confused and scared he'd end up literally trying to fight the night nurse we paid to watch him for one night, just so we could get a nights sleep. Imagine sitting next to him for hours just so your sister, who's worked so hard in every possible conceivable way, could get just a few hours sleep. Imagine having to see him try to communicate he wants a drink of water, and try to take a drink from a trash can, because the neurons firing in his brain are just that fucking crossed. Imagine sitting there, wishing your dad would just die already.
Imagine the guilt from thinking that.
Imagine the regret from having that thought.
Imagine sharing that thought with your sister, and she agreeing in kind.
Imagine feeling like the worst fucking children in the world.
Imagine looking at a box of fucking Eggo waffles, and having all this flood to your mind in one instant, after spending months trying to push away all of those thoughts, through attempts to rationalize and process "the grieving process", and thinking you've sufficiently gone through it. Well, I can imagine it. I imagine it every fucking day. I lived it. Fucking duh. Obviously.
So I took the damn waffles out of the box, and saw there were five of them left. I put two in the toaster, ate them, then ate two more. They weren't even good, not like regular Eggo waffles. They were some weird extra fluffy kind, so one go through on the toaster left the middle still frozen, resulting in a weirdly crunchy, mildly warm/frozen waffle. I double toasted the second set of two, and ate them, all the while thinking about how these were dad's waffles. I shouldn't just fucking eat them all in the middle of the night to satiate some hunger pangs I know would go away if I just tried to sleep.
Then I put the last waffle back in the wrapper, back into its box, and back into the freezer. It's a fucking waffle, and probably something stupid to be so beholden to, or even revere, but dammit those were my dad's, and I'll be damned if I finish them. Some people hold onto something like a picture, or a shirt, or if you live in some shitty cliched movie existence, a locket. I have a fucking frozen waffle.
How perfectly cruel.
Wednesday, 12 December 2012
Mr. Rutherford sat inside his study, pouring over the major details of his most recent archeological find. It had been an arduous and long trek through the Lower West end of New Patriarchia, where upon Mr. Rutherford and his man-servant Constance found the fabled, and long thought mythical Temple of Oa Nroatihe, Father Of The Far Ones. Nearly 10 years work in the making. Long enough for Prohibition to pass by, making stateside celebration of his find possible to include alcohol, as so many of his upper classmen peers preferred to imbibe at all of his celebrations. Last night's was no different from all the rest, as he found it necessary to hide the true nature of his most recent discovery, for fear of theft or plagiarism. Instead he concocted an elaborate ruse, wherein he pretended to have discovered a living Manticore. The truth was that the temple he had found itself seemed no more peculiar than any other temple Mr. Rutherford had come across. Save for a few ancient inscriptions warning about entry, threatening the release of some dark force this, and the end of all humanity that, it seemed fairly normal. It was typical old world mysticism, and at worst just another thing to send Constance to copy down for later study.
But all of that plundering and exploring had been worth it, for Mr. Rutherford had finally found his crown jewel amongst the litany of finds in his long and illustrious career. This find was more important than all of them, even the Lost Severed Head of J'oneloke, or the Temporal Diary of Benjamin Faraday. But this would be the one find not only to bring him fame and fortune, but to seal his legacy and fate unto the very face of existence itself! Immortalized forever as the man who singlehandedly changed history with the mere flick of a page! This was the Nroatihan Tome. The source of Oa Nroatihe's power for reaching into this realm. Mr. Rutherford pensively licked his lips, and reached to open the book's cover. For a moment he fondled the tightly bound leather cover, made from human skin no doubt. He opened it to the first page, prepared Nroatihan codexes at his side, ready to begin translation of the books contents, but was surprised that the first page was blank. Perplexed but not discouraged he put down his notepad, magnifying glass and pen, and turned the page once more. Again, another blank page. He turned another page, and another in turn, all blank. After turning the page as carefully as possible, 39 times he was astonished to realize he was still only at the first page of the book.
"Curious" Mr. Rutherford said aloud, turning the cover back.
Indeed it was most certainly human skin bound to the cover, with white trim around the edges, looking to be made from carved bone. On closer inspection it was apparent it was human teeth, at least 3 mouths full. A grisly detail, but one not unfamiliar to Mr. Rutherford. Perhaps he was straining his mind, or perhaps it was the lingering stench of alcohol probing his mind from his celebration the night's passed, but he found himself pondering his objectivity. Being of sound scientific mind he called over his man-servant, to examine the book for him.
Constance walked over, bowed and asked Mr. Rutherford what was needed of him. Mr. Rutherford beckoned Constance to open the book, and turn to the first page. Constance was hesitant, but obeyed regardless. Upon opening the book, he was able to turn the pages, but encountered the same issue Mr. Rutherford did with never being bale to actually "turn" past the first page, which was blank.
"You don't notice anything… peculiar? Constance?" Mr. Rutherford said, inquisitively.
"No." Said Constance.
"You're not bothered by the pages being blank? Or the first page being the only page one can turn to, or through?"
"No." Said Constance.
"No to what, the pages being blank? Or your inability to turn past the first page?"
"No." Said Constance.
"Dammit you fool! You're trying my patience! I know your gimp nigger mind is feeble, but surely it's not that feeble! Explain yourself now!" Shouted Mr. Rutherford.
"NO." Said Constance, whose eyes rolled back into his head, bulged and then exploded into a blast of bloody ocular gore.
Constance's eyeball blood spattered on the book, which dropped to the floor along with Constance's body, which was now leaking a thick pink sludge out of it's ears.
Mr. Rutherford was shocked, but mostly furious. Constance had been his best man-servant yet, and his death by supernatural means was most frustrating, especially considering his apparent comprehension of the book, on whatever level those of an inferior race could understand literature. Undaunted, Mr. Rutherford picked up the copy of the Nroatihan tome, and laid it back down on his desk, opening the cover once more. It was with great joy he discovered, that the eye blood that had spattered onto the pages of the book, had revealed text hidden on the pages. At first Mr. Rutherford speculated it was some kind of iron based invisible ink, but that was disproven by his attempts to reveal more text with a solution of alcohol and iron filings. Being of the inquisitive mind, and never lacking the gall to explore what needed exploring, Mr. Rutherford took the initiative, and smeared more of Constance's blood onto the first page, until it was entirely covered in his crimson cypher. Mr. Rutherford then began to read the text in on the page to the best of his ability;
O N E O U N C E O F C O R I A N D E R
O N E Q U A R T E R T E A S P O O N O F T U R M E R I C
T W O T A B L E S P O O N S O F B U T T E R
F O U R C L O V E S O F G A R L I C
were the contents in entirety of the first page. Mr. Rutherford sat, utterly confounded. Had all of this work, dedication, now literal blood, sweat and tears been for naught? What had this supposedly dark tome been holding all this time? Mr. Rutherford grew enraged that this first page seemed to hold no true dark secrets, no ancient enochian revelations, nor some dark eldritch horrors of which to summon! After draining Constance's body of most of his blood, Mr. Rutherford went on a tear, madly spreading it on all the pages, finding one could only turn to the next page after fully covering it with blood, thusly revealing it's contents. Each page was formatted similarly in size and shape in regards to the text. Series of letters that translated directly to four lines of english, revealing themselves, impossibly, as a recipe for some sort of Indian dish. Mr. Rutherford hated Indian food, as his travels there, whereupon sampling their cuisine always left him in a more than uncomfortable digestive situation. However after reading through the entire book's contents, he couldn't help but let nagging thoughts linger. Thought's that rang into the back of his mind, particularly after he read the 111th page, which read:
O N E P O U N D O F C O N S T A N C E F L E S H F R E S H L Y H A R V E S T E D
C U T I N T O B I T E S I Z E P I E C E S
He ruminated for a moment on if he had made a translation error, as they surely couldn't be referring to Constance, his man servant. A typographical error he had made perhaps? His speculation ended abruptly however, when he turned to the next page:
Y E S C O N S T A N C E Y O U R M A N - S E R V A N T
Y O U K N E W W H A T T H I S W A S
D O N T P L A Y D U M B W I T H U S
Feeling more than bit perturbed, his mind kept drifting back to those same thoughts. After finally translating the rest of the book into a word for word list and recipe, Mr. Rutherford went to his war room and retrieved his sharpest axe. His many classes on field dressing fresh kills from hunting came in handy, and he found Constance's body far easier to butcher and handle than he had anticipated. Upon quartering it, skinning it, removing the internal organs and sectioning off the bigger parts of meat, he placed it into his walk in ice-box. Being mindful of his Chef, he placed a note that the icebox was not to be disturbed, as a lingering deadly mold had taken to the wood and was soon going to be replaced. Happy with himself and feeling quite clever, he took his pieces of Constance to his Chef and ordered him to craft the dish for him posthaste. An hour or so later, his Chef came back, with a dish that very closely resembled many of the fine meals that had sought revenge on him previously.
While his conscious, logical mind reminded him that this was the poor body of Constance, and eating it would be an unforgivable sin, his beastial, impulsive mind gave in to the pure lust of temptation. He placed a spoon into the dish, and brought it to his lips, quivering with anticipation. It's taste was sweet, spicy, and creamy as one. Furthermore Constance's flesh had proven quite excellently rendered by his Chef, as no doubt his muscles had grown tough and stringy from a life's worth of manual labor.
"So whaddya call dat den?" His Chef spoke, in his ignorant New Yorker twang.
"Silence Chef, or I'll have you fired and your reputation run down for consorting with negroes in my walk in pantry. Leave now, or I'll think of something even worse, you understand?" Mr. Rutherford yelled.
The Chef left quickly, and Mr. Rutherford finished his dish, leaving the bowl in the kitchen for one of his chambermaids to clean up. While his meal was satisfying, he still had the residual disappointment of the Nroatihan tome turning out to be nothing more than some sort of dark cook book. Feeling full, albeit defeated, he retired to his bedroom, feeling the need to overcome his primal urge to feed, with his primal urge to procreate. His stomach rumbled, but he quieted it with a large swallow of brandy, and called for his concubine.
She entered the room wearing a flowing silk gown, nearly see through, hinting at her perfectly shaped body underneath. She sat down next to him, and began to stroke his burgeoning stubble, reminding him he needed to shave. He had no patience for this contemptuous foreplay, and abruptly interrupted her stroking by grabbing her arms and throwing her to his bed. He ripped open her gown, revealing her breasts, and began mashing them with his hands violently. She began to moan softly, as he pulled out his member and thrust into her fervently, seeking no reason to waste time with the dalliance of thought about pleasuring her in any form. Back and forth he thrusted, harder and harder, feeling himself ram up against her cervix, sending shockwaves of pain and pleasure through her body. Her moans grew louder and louder with each thrusting, as if he were trying to bore himself through her. Her eyes were rolling back in her head, and she seemed to be babbling in tongues. Mr. Rutherford had considered himself a connoisseur of the lusty ways, but never had She reacted in this fashion before.
It was then that he noticed his stomach began to rumble more, and a deep pain was brewing inside of him. By that time, he felt the dualing urges between his logical mind, and his instinctual mind once again. He knew he was feeling terrible, and should stop, but his desire to bring himself to conclusion was too great, and it seemed impossible for him to pull himself out of her to begin with. Each stroke into her sent bolts of pain up through his member, aching deep into his gut, and he felt the ache grow deeper and longer through his body. It started in his stomach and slowly went outwards, radiating through his penis, and slowly reaching all of his extremities as well. He began to feel panicked, as his heart was beating at a pace he was not familiar with ever before. She was gripping her legs from behind, spreading them on her own accord now, so as to accept him deeper into her womb. It was with horror then that Mr. Rutherford took a moment to look down at his manhood, watching it pump into her.
He saw his penis was bulging, swollen and purple beyond any measures he had ever seen in any of his worst medical textbooks. He noticed too that each stroke he made into Her was gaining in length, yet still never exposing the head of his penis. Her moans turned into screams, as she flailed wildly.
"Mr… Ruther…ford.. You… You're… Hurting… Me… " She said in gasps between pockets of pain and ecstasy.
"I CAN'T!" Mr. Rutherford screamed, as he watched his penis split open, revealing black scales underneath the flesh.
Mr. Rutherford's last screams were particularly loud, as the rest of his flesh split open as well, peeling line a banana to reveal the ancient horror underneath. Terrified, She tried to pull herself away from this hideous beast now buried inside of her. Her attempt was unsuccessful, and She gave into The Horror, as his stygian black seed emptied into her womb. It stung her from the inside, the way bee sting irritated the skin, and afterward She knelt at The Horror's feet.
"It's been a long time, Oa Nroatihe." She said.
"Too long, my queen." The Horror bellowed, his voice reeking of impossible and nightmares.
"This flesh is strong. It fought the urge to accept you." She said.
"Yes. It will prove worthy in being the host for your rebirth."
"Indeed." She said.
"Plus, that guy Rutherford was an asshole anyway." Said The Horror, who flicked his evil black cock with a swipe of his clawed hand, spattering some black, unearthly semen onto Mr. Rutherford's decapitated head.
Monday, 20 August 2012
Dad, I want you to know, first and foremost, I love you. You've been the best father I could have hoped for, and I'm really glad I manned up in time to actually tell you face to face, before you became sick. Right now, I'm waiting for you to shuffle off this mortal coil, because seeing you in pain like this, unaware of your surroundings, unable to communicate, is unbearable. I find myself wishing that you could finally be free from the disease that is ravaging your body, and has turned you into the very thing you repeatedly told us you didn't want to become. Unfortunately, the fates do not see it kind enough to give us any alternative as simple as a plug to pull, so I'm here, waiting for you to die.
That sounds morbid, doesn't it? I don't know, maybe it's cruel or callous, but short of some miraculous cure where the tumor in your brain disappears overnight, and the damage done to your body, brain, and memory is reversed, I'm left with the hope that your death will be your release from the withered shell your body has become, and that whatever essence of "you" that makes you "you", goes to where it needs to be. I know, I'm not a spiritual person, but it's easier to pretend that there's more to you and your life than a gathering of neurons that are now being corrupted rapidly by malignant invading cells.
I keep thinking, wondering what you must be going through, and the rarity of your cancer. I keep thinking, selfishly perhaps, that I hope it's not hereditary. My thoughts go to how your speech, thoughts, and ability to comprehend was taken from you, and how all of your independence, quick wit, and incisiveness was taken away in a short weekend, directly after the biopsy left you incoherent, confused, angry, and scared. I keep thinking about how the doctors told us your tumor was aggressive, and would only degenerate your condition further, if we didn't take immediate action for treatment. I think about my future self, succumbing to the same fate, and having that terrifying month where I'm left to ponder just how much longer I'll still be me. I bet, you had the same thoughts, and I'll forever wonder how you dealt with them.
Because right now, you're no longer you. Occasionally I'll see snippets, shades here and there, but in a way, you died a long time ago, the day you woke up from the biopsy, a rightfully angry, confused, scared man who just wanted to get out of the hospital and be left alone. I know, you might be thinking this is a bit accusatory, or passively aggressive, but I want you to know the truth, because you've always been honest with me, and I'd like to return the favor. Maybe I'm introspecting a bit too much, but I think that's something you and I have in common, and what scares me so much about seeing you like this now. I know exactly just how helpless you must feel, and how terrifying it must be. One of the things I think you, Lydia and I have in common is that introspective nature. That ability to think about what we're thinking about, as we're thinking about it. It's cyclical, and it can drive you mad, but it can ultimately center you.
If your brain works, that is.
So seeing you try to use that same cyclical thinking, trying to process what you're processing, seeing you grasp at your own thoughts mentally, and flailing desperately, as the ocean of confusion washes over your mind, makes me want to throw out a hand, and drag you out of those waters. But I can't. I have to stand here, and watch you drown.
And I have to hope, that the waters won't reach me one day.
I remember speaking with you once about God, and what you believed, and you told me that you believed we all are part of one force of energy, that unites with all of us all together, and that in death, you return to that, and together, we all are God. That's what I remember you said anyway, more or less. I think about that thought now. I wonder if you're right. I wonder if you're going to join the rest of everything and everyone else, and whether or not you'll end up as something as beautiful a thought as that, or just become more decaying, lifeless matter, along with 99% of the rest of the universe. I suppose both ways though, you're right, spiritually or scientifically. You become something else in the end.
But in the meantime, I'll be waiting. I love you, Dad.
Saturday, 11 August 2012
The Bears attacked again this morning. Me and Sanders have spent the last 3 days without any real form of sleep. We take turns taking naps in between feverish fits of jerking each other off. It's the only way to stave off The Bear Plague, and the adrenaline and endorphins keep us alert. We've managed to hold them off with ample suppressive fire, but we're running low on munitions quickly, and at this rate we'll be defenseless in 2 days. Sanders has been working on making a prototype grenade to load into the mortars. Hopefully it'll thin out their numbers, but they've been hitting us relentlessly with wave after wave of pandas. It's almost like their inability to procreate or eat food properly fuels them to become the most efficient suicidal soldiers possible. I saw one take 2 full clips from a MP5 before finally going down.
I've been thinking about how the grenades are really less of a tactical weapon, and just a way to keep hope. Perhaps Sanders isn't working on anything at all. Perhaps it's all a ruse, meant to keep the rest of us believing in the fight. Watching Vapperelli slowly turn was a brutal blow to moral as well. Seeing a man, slowly turn over the course of one night. It did things to our platoon. Vapperelli wailed in pain for hours as the Bear Plague took him. The sound of his bones, slowly cracking into place to fit his shifting ursine frame, will stay with me for the rest of my life. Even his wailing slowly turned, from a long droning howl, to a deep, heavy growl, and towards the end, a full on roar. I don't know who put the bullet in his head. Nobody would admit to it, but whoever did, did him a kindness.
It's 3:33 am and I can see the Grizzly Brigade, across the field, slowly building their garrison. They're mustering their troops for a final charge. I have no doubt that this is where I'll die. They'll come, we'll fight, and we'll lose. Is it enough to die fighting? To sit and wait for the black paw of death to claw your face in? As I sit here, receiving yet another life preserving handjob from Sanders, I ponder if it's even worth it. They say that Man makes plans, while Bear God laughs. In the end, we're all sons of bitches anyway.
The Bear's War Drums are beating. Time to die.
Saturday, 21 July 2012
It had been a stressful day at work, clacking away at keys, moving decimal points around, fielding emails and the like. Each day of the week the desk becomes your real home, and your home the job. The place you go for a few hours a day before you return to your regular schedule. The place where you stand in the kitchen, eat take out meals over the sink, and watch television from a distance before trying to sleep. I remember thinking, sitting at my desk, staring a small pile of paperclips. It was Consultant Day, and the staff were chattering about losing their jobs. The fluttering of their lips rang in my ears, and my mouth went dry. The screen grew brighter, and hazy, losing definition. I remember I looked down at my hands, which were bright red, like a candied apple, and burning hot. I remember loosening my tie and wondering what was happening, but feeling no sense of panic.
Everything began to shift in pitch, as voices got deeper, and my ears began to feel a tight, sucking sound, that was impossible to tell if it was audible to only me or if it came from my ears themselves. My vision split further, creating double images. Everything was floating, mixing around like a shaky picture, struggling to find focus. I felt the blood running from my ears and nostrils last, before things shifted back into place.
I came to in my bathtub. I was in iced water, and my clothes were scorched while on me, despite having suffered no visible burns. I choked for air. The ice helped, but the heat was intense, as it suddenly spiked inside, feeling like I replaced all my organs and insides with hot coals and ash.
"Calm down. Breathe in the water." I heard a voice say.
I choked again. Dry sooty ash kept coming out of my mouth. Everything hurt, and it felt like I was burning. I choked again when what felt like a strong hand pushed me back into the water. The ice and water mottled my vision, but I could make out my would be drowner, standing over me, hands at his side., focusing intently. The hand around my neck loosened it's grip on my throat, and moved down my chest, holding me down. A hand I couldn't see.
"Breathe. It is the only way." The Figure said.
I opened my mouth, struggling to scream, and was interrupted by the waters flow. It seemed to be alive, moving forcefully down my throat. I tried to close my mouth, but another hand was holding my mouth open. The water coursed through, and washed the soot down. The embers inside singed away, soaking the smoldering hearth inside of me. I breathed the water into my lungs. I braced myself for that terrifying sensation of drowning, but it never came. The water flowed in and out, and it washed away the burning. Slowly the hands loosened, and I rised from the bath.
"You're going to ask me questions. The most pertinent to you is Who I am, but the it is by far the least important. The question you should be asking, is Why I am."
"What the hell is going on?" I sputtered, as water flowed out of my lungs and down my chest. It mixed with the now blackened bathwater.
"You, have teleported."
I heard the words, they weighed heavy in my mind.
"What do you mean? Teleported? I don't understand." I am, now rising out of the murky, black bathwater. The Figure standing across from me now, his face obscured by the hoodie he was wearing. It was mine.
"It's the first thing you learn. The next will be how to move. How to push things. From there it grows." He said.
I was dumbfounded, but intrigued. The Figure raised a hand, and slowly closed it, as if cradling a ball that wasn't there. As he did, the water in the bathtub coalesced, and he drew it near him, having it land in his hand in nearly a perfect sphere.
"This is the world. You can make of it what you will. How you choose to use this gift is the most important thing in the history of all time." His hand glowed red, like mine did earlier, and the bubble quickly boiled, leaving a small pile of black soot behind, resting in his palm. He made it dance up into the air, twisting into geometric shapes. A cube. A tesseract. A helix. A double helix.
"You will change everything. All of it lies with you. With us." He said, and lowered his hood. His face was mine. I started to panic, and everything began to grow blurry again. My hands burned, and my ears began to hear the sucking sound. The image of him began to jumble violently, as my vision quadrupled, his form began to jumble, stuttering like flickering pictures of a film reel. Each frame showing The Figure slightly different. Some angelic, some demonic, some godlike, some tormented, and some inspiring. They all spoke in unison.
They all closed their fist. Inside me, I felt a hand clenching, pulling me into myself.
I was back at my desk. The voices fluttered. My hands slowly changed back to their normal color, and my clothes were no longer charred, though the smell of burning polyester was still in the air. I tried to remember what just happened, but could feel it leaving me. Like the last moments of a dream you were so sure was real. It faded.
I looked at my hand. Our hands. I looked at the paperclip. I thought about it moving. About what it would look like bent. If it were to stand on end, and ply itself into a straight line. Or if it were to prop itself up, form into a little man, and dance around the table. If it were to be wrenched into as many pieces as possible. Or if it simply shot straight up into the stucco roof. I felt the hand inside, grasping for it.
The paperclip quivered.
That's a start. I thought I heard a familiar voice say.
Now do it again.
Tuesday, 03 July 2012
In my opinion, love is illusive. Not in the cynical sense, that it's imaginary, but rather in an illusory, long sought after goal of mythical proportion. It's said to exist, and some swear it does, but finding it is tantamount to discovering real, actual magic. It's as special and hard to find as anything thought to exist solely on the outskirts of our dimension, drifting along the coast of imagination and reality. I've come to think this, because in my life, i've always felt that there are certain forces, divine, cosmological, spiritual or not, guiding me towards one person in particular. Some say that there's a concept, that a lot of people refer to as "The One", meaning there is one particular person out there, in the world, who is made for you. They're the perfect complement to your lifestyle, personality, emotional and physical needs, and if you only keep faith, you'll eventually find them.
Now most people consider this a load of bullshit. Generally, so do I, but I am a very literal person, and sometimes too many things happen that add up in a way that barely makes sense. For me, I know who my "One" is. I've met her many times in my dreams, and once in real life. Now the average person would say, hey, you've met her already dingus! Go get her! The only problem is I dreamt of her first, and met her after, in a way that I can't talk about without sounding crazy, so here goes.
Years ago, I remember the first time I saw her. I was dreaming I was back in High School, and she walked by with a group of people whose faces are now a distant hazy blur to me, but she stood out. She had firery red hair, pouty lips, green/blue eyes and a fairly pale complexion. She locked eyes with me, and I watched her walk by, and disappear into the crowd. It sounds like a fairly normal dream, and for all intents and purposes it was. But she stuck with me, because her beauty seemed so real, and so mesmerizing. Normally I would have forgotten that dream, if it wasn't for her consistently showing up now and again, each time bringing back the memory of the previous dream. For months at a time i'd forget about her, only to dream her again, and all the previous dreams would return with them. It'd seem that she was trying to get me to remember her, and was slowly making her way deeper and deeper into my subconscious.
Every time she returned to my dream state, she brought a sense of peace, tranquility, love and warmth with her. Every time I saw her, she was always identical, and I began to question the nature of my dreams as purely brain vomit, and looked into the study of dreams, and what dreams mean. The Aboriginal peoples of Australia believed in a concept called The Dreamtime, where all things that exist have existed before in The Dreamstate, and that all things before and after life come from and return to The Dreaming. The concept fascinated me, and became a fixation I held for a long time. What are dreams? Why do we have them? The philosophy behind dreams enraptured my attention, and the idea of dreaming being a state of reality just as real as the waking life, is one i've never dropped. While a lot of dreams meanings are more literal, such as the Teeth Falling Out dream being concerns over stress or actual tooth decay, the ones with her carried such emotion and resonance that they'd be stuck in my head all day. It even affected my writing, as most of the female characters i've written about tend to resemble her description. Every time i'd spent just long enough to forget about her, i'd dream her again, and all of it would come right back again, as if she had her own will, and didn't want to lose our connection.
Now, if I was a more fantastical man, i'd make some connection saying that she's some interdimensional entity communicating with me through my dreams, or a lover from a past life, or some residual psychic connection I have with someone out there, in this reality or the next, or maybe she's even someone who i've yet to connect with, or have, that is using The Dreaming to reach out to me.
But I'm not that man, so I chalked it up to my subconscious becoming fixed on itself, in a repeating loop, feeding off itself and perpetuating this mystery woman. I even remember reading somewhere that the brain doesn't create new faces, and that the subconscious carried a "library" of sorts, of all the people you've ever seen, and the people in your dreams are all different people you've met before and have consciously forgotten. Logically, I presumed this was the case, that she was someone i'd seen before, and have drawn a curious connection to in my dream state.
Then, I met her in real life. Now, what I'm about to describe, really happened. I swear to you. It is one of the most puzzling things to ever happen to me, and in my opinion, is far more meaningful and supernatural than any "ghost" apparition or sighting that many others seemingly have.
So, I am a bouncer. I worked at a club that was very popular with a largely Filipino crowd, and being a 6' 4" white man, I tended to stand out amongst the crowd, literally and figuratively. During my shift, I usually paced back and forth across the hallway, keeping it clear of people dancing or just loitering, in order to keep foot traffic up and regulate fire codes. It's kinda tedious, and it involves a lot of patience dealing with usually drunk, and mostly unhelpful people who don't understand why you need them to move. After spending nearly 2 1/2 hours doing this, I found myself feeling parched, but was unable to get to the bar and request a bottle of water, because of the aforementioned foot traffic. Occasionally you'll get blocked, and stuck in a rut where you're just yelling over very loud music, telling people to keep the walkway clear. It was then that I noticed her. Even though I had been pacing back and forth, and keeping an eye on the crowd at large, she suddenly appeared there, 3 feet in front of me.
Her hair was red, her eyes that same color, her lips as pouty, just as perfect and beautiful in real life as I remembered her being. She wore blue jeans that hugged her hips, and a long sleeved thin sweater that served as a shirt, low cut enough to just give a hint of her cleavage. She was literally the most beautiful woman i've ever seen in my life, and just like in my dream, I locked eyes with her, and her with mine. Then to my surprise, she approached me. I stood there, dumbfounded, until she walked right up, leaned in and said hello.
I responded weakly, and she asked if I was thirsty. I quickly said yes, and she walked over to the bar, asked for a bottle of water, and brought it to me. She placed it in my hand, put her hand on my shoulder, and kissed me on the cheek. She asked me my name, and I told her. She told me hers, but fore the life of me I cannot remember it. Then she whispered in my ear, and i'll never forget what she said.
"Nice to finally meet you Adam. I'll be seeing you real soon."
She then walked away, and disappeared from view into the crowd. After spending a few minutes dumbstruck, I tried walking a few laps around the bar, looking for her again, desperate to speak to her, or at least get her number, but to no avail. I then went and asked the bartender she got the water from, if he knew her, and he had no idea who I was talking about, nor did he claim to have even given out water at all that night.
But I had the bottle in my hand. Now empty.
After clean up, I asked every co-worker of mine if they knew her, and with increasing incredulity, began asking if they had even SEEN her. None had. None even claimed they saw me leave my post at the walkway, for the few minutes I spoke with her.
It'd seem, that to everyone else, she was never even there. I spent many weeks wondering what her words meant. It was just ambiguous enough to mean nothing and everything, and it plagued me. I kept the bottle for nearly 2 months, until I finally decided to throw it away, since its significance was of only to me, and my "proof" proved nothing to anyone else.
After "meeting" her in real life, our/my dreams became even more romantic, and no matter how much I thought about her before bed, or wished to will her into my dreams, she only came when she wanted. Every time I embraced her, and found myself longing to be with her longer and longer, and upon waking cursed my real life for intruding into my Dream World.
I hold onto the hope that one day, i'll meet her again, and that she'll know what I mean when I tell her that she's my dream girl. That she won't look at me as if I'm insane, but will instead let her eyes speak her thoughts to me, as she has so many times in my dreams. That she'll understand innately, and we'll both know that our love was actual destiny. That love is something nobody truly understands, and can span the entire spectrum of reality itself, to bring us together.
And then, we'll kiss.
Sunday, 27 May 2012
Star Trek: The Next Generation - Complete Series
see relatedFor the 3 people who read this, I'm writing articles on www.Grizzlybomb.com now. My first two are here.
Tell the other 3 people who read your xanga too.
I'll also be blogging over here. If I post on one, i'll probably post on the other. So this will remain something I write on as well. Whenever I do.
Friday, 20 April 2012
A Storm of Swords (A Song of Ice and Fire, Book 3)
By George R.R. Martin
see relatedGerard Butler fought me today. I was minding my own business, buying a bucket of delicious fried chicken wings, and contemplating just how many biscuits to buy, when he bumped into me accidentally. I turned around, and reflexively, (even though it was his fault) apologized to him. He then grabbed my face with both of his hands, clasped around my temples, his fingers starting to dig into my ears and neck, and moved towards me. What happened next was almost in slow motion, and he opened his mouth, revealing his quivering, pink tongue, probing outward. In shock, my mouth opened, and he closed his mouth on mine, burying his tongue deep down my throat. I felt him lapping at my uvula like a hungry dog, licking behind the back of my molars, and wantonly slurping up the excess saliva being generated by our combined salivary glands. With a final loud slurp, he wrenched his lips off of mine, finally releasing the python like death grip his mouth had on mine, and smacked his lips greedily. His eyes burned like fire. His erection poked me in the stomach, and fear itself coursed through my veins. He leaned in again, and I winced, anticipating the worst. He got nearer, and put his lips near my ear, while simultaneously pulling out his thick veiny cock, now bulging and bright red. "This. Is Sparta." He whispered, and came on me profusely, squirting 9-12 thick hot jets of very yellow chunky semen. Then he put a card in my pocket, slapped me and took a piece of my chicken. He walked away sobbing openly.
I went into the bathroom, cleaned myself up the best I could, and returned home. The chicken was good, and I did my best to not think about it, but sometimes... Now, late at night...
I think I see him. In the darkness. In the moonlight. When the stars are right. He appears, cock in hand, and gazes longingly.
Perhaps one day, he'll return.
30% Glycol propelene, 9% potassium benzoate, 40% distilled water, 10% C.H.U.D, 10% Non Flammable Natural Propellent, 1% ethanol weight by volume