is it too late to for more sentences? i dont read prompt posts
|# ¿ Oct 28, 2020 05:00|
|# ¿ Sep 30, 2022 00:53|
ty 4 crit
|# ¿ Oct 30, 2020 07:35|
Treat – Voidmart Val-U Brand Candy. Have Voidmart as a setting for one of your stories.
She came here with me for the endless lemonade so she could mix in gin and wander under the halogen. Sips it now, her lips wrinkled with temper as the Void-Mart™ pharm tech explains to me how to take Voidisone. One half moon in the morning and one at bedtime. The way she says "bedtime" makes me think of glow-in-the-dark star decals. Blurring into a wintergreen wash as I drift to sleep at age seven.
I spent ten minutes today staring at my pallid white wall. Lying on a bed stained with us for who knows how long. Hitting the skids with fury as Leisha explained how awesome she was getting at self-harm. I don't stick to up and down or side to side, she says. I slant too. I go every way.
Did I drop a "cool?"
There's no war on but we live like there is. Our home is a shelter and we blockade it with pretense. One look at our shelves always makes them leave. Breakfast was the kind of noodles you run under cold water so you don't have to wait before stuffing your fat face.
When I asked her what she was gonna be this year she tore a new hole in her ragged jeans and said she'd be a rock star. Right now Lycra shows through the tears. She came back right as the seniors before me shuffled off. Her eyes dance. Flicker into the corner as if searching for hidden meaning at the edges of sight.
"Are you listening, sir?" the pharm lady says. "This matters. We're not liable for any way this messes you up. This is on you."
"Okay," she says, as I take the crinkled paper bag. "Next."
I stuff it into my one-strap ten-dollar backpack. I tell myself on our walk home to not take ten, or five. Take two. I can handle that. It's felt for a while like I can't handle much. I'm puffing on my vape though it doesn't do much if I'm walking. Little black slab like a tiny monolith.
"Do you know what it'll feel like?" she says. Swaying a little, her perfect poise out fast when she drinks. Doing it more and more.
"No," I say. But my inner addict wonders. New meds always feel strange. The last one tinted the world ochre like old film. When my psych asked if there were any side effects I said no and hoped it'd last. It didn't, so the two of us blitzed through the 'script in a week. The colour never came back but in motes, flecks of golden light as if strained through a sifter.
I'm sucking on my vape as she talks to a drifter. I see her pour some of her drink into his mouth. His face twists in grimace, scarred lips knitting in swallow. Darkness has fallen and the stars have come out. My jacket collar curls into my neck with the night breeze. She comes back to me with a smile and hugs me close. The smell of black soap singes my nostrils.
"Let's get hosed up on it," she says.
The word "no" is on my tongue but she presses it back down with hers.
I haven't showered in 48. All her words glow, sear lighting bolts across my eyelids as she says them. The revenants of chili-pasted brown rice stray a bowl resting on my table. It's lacquered in a forlorn shade of auburn.
She tells me about how bad my moon is. When the moon's in Pisces, she says, it always fucks her up. Her nails are lilac pink and glint like ladybugs in the sun. "LeBron James has my sign," she says. "Capricorn."
"Cool," I say but my heart's in it this time. Should learn all about her. Where she was born. Her most drawn tarot card. First time tripping. Instead all I ever learn about is how to dispose of vape caps. All I ever know is that I'm not who I wish I was. All I ever see is the same dude always on acid, the path left of him snaking in perfect parallax. She has no spit. I am always puking.
So dumb but I never bothered.
Symmetry in how she splits apart, how she exists here and back there. In my memories chained into presence and their ghosts. In those hauntings she seemed curse, slouch hat hiding horrid dreams, a weight. A song of life now. Of faith in stars and portents. A magess I need to grow stronger. Someone who divines the earth like the firstborn of its womb.
In this room, part of me counts the half-moons left. The other schizes from the main, somewhere in orbit, burning a vapour trail like a comet. I say things I can't take back. Code wrung out of Babel-feedback in my head. What matters most to me.
I'm moving at one p.m. The bottle is on the floor. I pick it up. All gone. Two weeks' script. My soul eclipses. The panic attack withers my nerves into worms drying in the sun.
Bleached out, squirming.
She's awake an hour later. I tell her nothing's left. She says it's no never mind. That there are always more pills. Can forget that ache until the moment of. Lungs loop into steady life, living for the body.
It's still a battle I can't fight. The days spun out into long drears. When I talk to people I throw myself at them. Press into them like pages closing on petals. I need to stay wired. The sirens, the crashing on the rocks. Lying on a mattress with a thin blanket wrapped around me. She paces veiled by sheets, wisping past milk crates full of clothes.
I don't see myself in mirrors.
We share the vape above a blushing green lawn. A hot, humid day. The wet air makes no difference to her stringy locks. "I don't know what to do," I say. Vibe between a fear I can't hide from myself and one I want to bleed through, make her see this is a big deal. "I can't tough it out any more."
"It wouldn't have done anything," she says. "That stuff never does."
"Dude," I say. "I'm about to hurl myself off this thing."
She leans over the railing, gauges the distance. "It wouldn't work unless you headered it." She reflects. "I'll fake another 'script for you. What was it, scribbled on origami paper?"
It wasn't. It was stock that felt gross to touch. The fibers sending murmurs of disquiet lancing into my brain.
"I'll dig it up," I say.
"These things," she says. "All you need a signature. Doctors have the worst cursive on earth." She cocks her head, her hair falling across her cheeks. "We'll make sure it's a different lady." Shrugs, the whole thing fantasy to her. Too unreal because there's nothing extrasolar about it. But I'm gripping the railing as if over the edge and hanging on.
"Can I get at that?" she says. Drawing on the monolith as if Pan playing his flute.
So this is a joke to her, and her flask of gin in her leather jacket pocket. She took some shrooms, too, sprinkled the coarse gray into coffee she'd let cool. Origin some tripper she sat when she was more stable. I've been wearing the same sweatshirt for days so I pass no comment. But I'm thinking about the scars lacing her forearms under that leather. What I liked about her was the whiplash. Bright moments out of nowhere because there's no better kind. But I never know what she'll do, which right now has me shot.
From outside Void-Mart™ looks like a bug shell sectioned off. Black concrete that simmers in the sun. A slight mirage rises from it like a soul leaving its body. The parking lot sprawl is jam-packed. Cars squeezed into each other like eyelids in sleep. An alarm bleats from somewhere I can't see.
How long will I have to sweat this out, lined behind norms who'll ask a million questions about their meds?
"Don't go away," I say. "Don't leave me in there."
Her eyes brighten with her promise. But at the moment of truth she fidgets, adjusts her slouch a few times, before telling me she'll be right back. The aisles of the store swallow her without trace. The person behind me coughs. Their breath tickles my nape, the hairs ribboned there, and I scratch at it. I'm not there. I'm at the front of the line, in my vision talking in a voice smooth as cream.
The lady behind the desk looks different from where I am, but it's hard to tell. They all look like gargoyles, hunched, hair graying, firm-featured with hooded eyes. Fossils from a time when all this stuff was easy. Was Void-Mart™ around back then? Instead of lemonade you'd get coke crystals in the soda or some drug now used for date-rape. For all I know it was. I'm close enough to the front now to hear this lady complain how her Valium doesn't work the way it used to.
Ask your doc about Voidisone, she's advised, and my heart staggers. The final form, the one winged angel of need where the name alone crosses you up. In a sudden my thoughts are pure void. What was I going to say? How was I going to say it? What sounds in what order? I brush the fake note in my pocket, but it's stuck in a hidden crease. I can't come up with it. My teeth suck in the conditioned air. Dead air, the dregs, used and pumped back in.
As if on cue. "We need some help in aisle 9," says a dingy voice over the P.A. Leisha. Lost somewhere in the guts of the store. Her eyes would've been vacuums, her hands moving of their own accord.
It happens then. A second cough, more intent in this one, pushes me to the desk. Behind the glass the pharm tech peers at me with searching eyes. I try to get a fix on her name tag. My brain doesn't process it.
"Um," I say. "Trying to fill this." With a yank I get the pocket inside out, the paper slip coming free in folds. I smooth it out between my palms and push it under the glass. For a moment it's frozen halfway. The scrawl flares from the white like an inkblot pattern that's all no noise, no signal.
"Voidisone," the tech says in a matter-of-fact voice.
I say nothing.
She shrugs. Hands over the card reader. I swipe the C.C. Ready to kiss this whole thing off. Leave Leisha here in the labyrinth.
But she's there with me, a rent-a-cop's black-sleeved arm on her shoulder. "Excuse me," he says. "Is this your girlfriend?" Come back to me in the worst way. A matte of hair clumps from beneath her slouch. Triggers her ghost in my head. A wild witch drawn strength from the moment. Versed in sacrifice. Her future selves her tributes.
"Yeah," I say. "She's a Capricorn."
|# ¿ Oct 31, 2020 06:58|
We think we’re sleeping.
She thought about cancer, banks, stuff, in his head again.
yr heart is a sword
I want my voices back. I can't sleep without them. Lullabies scratchy but gentle, like river reeds. I'm taking so many downers that they've etched my brain like a gravestone.
Snatches, fits of dream. You dream hard slipping in and out of sleep. I dream of angels taking wing to Heaven. When I got confirmed my aunt gave me a novel. In it angels got powered up by prayer like chaos emeralds. The conflict was whether the humans would succumb to sin. The hero was a news-writer trying to get the inside story on demons taking over the world.
For a while I couldn't watch R-rated movies without seeing demons urging the actors on. I have one playing in the background now. The other tab is a chat window where I'm trying to convince my best friend that life is worth living.
Palmer’s a meth addict living somewhere in the sticks. We've never met in person, but every once in a while he deigns to send a picture. He had long hair once but buzzcut it for no reason and it's still growing back. An elfin face with bored eyes. The colour of sapphires. He doesn't expose the pictures right so he looks like a doll sometimes. Eyes glassy, skin smoothed to creepy cream by too much light. We used to promise one day we'd take ecstasy together. These days I make it as far as the kitchen sink. If there's a God I don't know why He made me emotional support. Not when the days feel like knives and the nights feel like bleeding out.
I'm smoking a dart while the screen burns my eyes. Chain-smoking while chatting is the bedrock of my nights. He's talking about how opiate addicts get subs but there's no subs for meth.
if i could get speed i'd do it instead
have u seen vanishing point, I type. the mc is nuts for speed. its a metaphor because he also likes driving fast
dogg, he types. finna hang myself
In the background I hear the sounds of coupling. Moans in waves. Jagged piano chords as the slasher closes in on the sinners. what about porn, I type. what about charging yr j/o crystal?
supports sex slavery, he types.
The chat window logs out. The router. It's a piece of trash prone to flicker out like a candle. I leave my room and venture out into the beige floral-printed hall using my phone as a flashlight. The petalled vines dance in the sweeping light. Don't wake mom. What could Palmer use to hang himself with? A power cord, I decide. A long coiling outlet, either in bleach white or day-glo orange.
The router is black as night, all diodes silent. I flip the power switch, count ten seconds, and flip it back. The little blue lights sparkle in the phone light wash.
Pure white light like holy flame seizes the living room. My eyelids try to blink it away. The silhouette resolves into mom standing before the hall. She's not angry. She's sad, which is worse. We both know she'll crash in the morning with her sleep broken up. Spend the whole day fighting her sorrow. Since dad left they've upped her Zoloft dose by 200 percent.
"Sorry, mom," I say. I don't mention that a meth addict in the sticks needs my help. But right now she stands before the threshold of his life and death. My mind scrolls through phrases like visual novel bullet point choice. "I woke up late today. It balances out."
In her nightshirt she looks like a white magess. Nutmeg hair drapes her shoulders. The dress frocks around her ankles. Give her a staff and spellbook. She could ward off all our evils with them. I rub my eyes. They've never hurt this much. Do I look high?
She smiles then, a small smile, as rueful as it is zen. "You should sleep the same time every night."
"'Kay," I say. Force my head into a firm nod. Then she flows back into her room and it's on me to flick the light off. In the darkness I steal a look at the router. The diodes still flare hot blue. As if the signal was never lost.
Then I'm tracing my way back to my room. I left on a dim lamp. Mom pays the electric bill. Don't cost her more. I pace to the sleeping rig. I hit the spacebar and the screen trumpets its own light into the room. I missed the ashtray when I left and the dart spires from a mound of ash on the desk. When I pick it up and jam it with the others it leaves a black smear of char. My shadow on the wall is faint but I can still make out its slouch.
No message waits for me.
r u ok, I type.
My heart gives out like a black hole and my ribs collapse into its void. I eye, to my left, the gray-tinted bottle of downers. I want to stop caring. I want to take enough to join him in oblivion. My room swims. I never even heard his voice. What would it sound like? My memory surfaces the voices that left me. Their lilt, their breathy tones, and the hush trailing their words. His voice might have sounded like that.
Vision of mom fighting tomorrow's war. Cursed by her own brood.
Think of angels taking up sword, lent strength by faith.
The bible describes angels in many ways. Hybrids of humans and animals. Winged beasts in flames. Wheels made of eyes. But in my dreams I see winged warriors with shields aloft in ascension. They rise to God.
They're messages. Signals to God from the patient earth.
The heart of their message is the heart of earth. The heart of earth is their sword.
dude, I type. don't do this to me
Then, I type:
yr heart is a sword
???, he types.
sorry, I type. Because I heard it. A voice. It tranced me. But I know I can't claw it back. It was a song with no future. Don't have to be Daphne to scry that. But if I was her I could see my mom rising from sleep. Eyes yawning hollows. Battling to make coffee. Eating pills she hopes work someday.
In my heart I know what it'll feel like.
I know chems. Pathways. Eating downers. But I'm losing sleep too. Fits of dream like negative space corrode me. Effuse toxic burnout. Cancer demons feed on my brain.
I spend days gutted. Tired.
I pray I don’t wake up tomorrow.
|# ¿ Nov 1, 2020 01:06|
in, , haunt me
|# ¿ Nov 2, 2020 21:05|
An interprompt, courtesy of TDbot:
I wish she'd shut the gently caress up every once in a while. Haven't we doped her up enough? And this dude keeps bugging me to watch Star Wars with him. No, I've never seen it. But I don't care if Luke Skywalker saves the Empire or whatever.
Won't stay on her meds so she gets, they call it an IM? And this dude is awk central so I'm low-key at the end of my rope with both of them. Yeah, she has some kind of autism or downs or something. She figured out how to use the fridge, I can say that for sure. So my phone flashes that loving white light and I know it's him and I start putting it together in my head.
You should meet my sister, I text. She's quirky. More like hyper. Like when I took M that one time and it took forever to kick in and when it did I was nowhere near a dance floor. So I couldn't stop talking and I glazed my friend's eyes saying that I knew what Belle had to deal with. Some creepy hunchback or something and oh these people have hearts of gold. So he's like okay 'cause his boy-radar got the dick-cleared-for-launch signal to his brain. I don't need to be on M to know that. So what do I care? She'll shut the gently caress up. Luke fucks Princess Leia, right? Everyone wins. Works for me. There’s magic in this world, if you look.
|# ¿ Nov 3, 2020 05:33|
im drinking the water to stay hydrated as i
drink in the contest. my persuasive argument for why i, a sophisticated plowman will win this loutish competition is as follows:
my whole life i've adhered to a sobriety that has repressed the heck out of any self-destructive urges. my low tolerance affords me a drastic buzz which i will chase like the dragon of st george which probs hasnt happened yet. once i start i literally can't stop as the gaba effect that science doesnt understand yet chills me into a calm trashed state which i enjoy thoroughly. in the morning i'll feel guilty to the max and will furiously pray for forgiveness. but for now i'm jamming a whole lifetime's worth of sin into one night and woe betide anyone who thinks they can outdrink a genetic tendency for alcoholism which may very well exist i just have spent my shackling to this mortal coil not exploring it. in conclusion i'll go hard. thanx for reading
|# ¿ Nov 4, 2020 03:49|
|# ¿ Nov 5, 2020 03:50|
the pure swimmings of my serf blood
go to god in earth and mud
my sweat and seed will stain the field
as i chant faith to bless the yield
& invoke this drought into a flood
is this passive or do i have to say im using it
also whats up with the verse should it just theme into my story
|# ¿ Nov 5, 2020 21:20|
gimme the polished stone and the Hierophant. double vision on that last one, taking Gray Justice lol. throw my weak amulet at the first thingy which was the theft of something incorporeal. hope thats all legit, all these rules are exploding my brain
|# ¿ Nov 6, 2020 20:09|
throw my weak amulet at the first thingy which was the theft of something incorporeal
actually i guess this doesnt work? sorry im that dude. Um im just gonna style around with this thing i like the other flashes
|# ¿ Nov 6, 2020 20:21|
its all good i think the flashes are dope :)
|# ¿ Nov 6, 2020 20:30|
k double post of doom. k who the heck wants this um useless thingy? at 25 words lol. it is definitively for sale and is v pretty. if no one takes it ill use it on the fortune tho probs
just not feeling purple so ill take gray with the double vision
|# ¿ Nov 6, 2020 20:45|
3x post, the edit message in thunderdome unnerves me, um if its a normal deck queen of hearts lol
|# ¿ Nov 6, 2020 20:53|
yea ill use the amulet on the granite rule i guess one less rule could help
|# ¿ Nov 7, 2020 07:35|
|# ¿ Nov 7, 2020 07:59|
sorry trashed post. trashed crew 4 lyfe
(USER WAS PUT ON PROBATION FOR THIS POST)
take the moon fucked around with this message at 09:56 on Nov 7, 2020
|# ¿ Nov 7, 2020 09:36|
Stolen Brooch: Your story involves the theft of something highly improbable, because it is very small, very large, or non-corporeal, and thus sizeless. (+300)
The Sophisticated Plowman's Tale: IV
There's a cutting board we never wash out. Lain covered with garnish stems and never claimed. To me it eclipses out the vibe. Me and Lyda can co-exist in other ways. On bad days we both dodge each other's visual field with corner-sweeping stares. I venn between schiz and autism in an endless gemini neural burnout. The top for my anxiolytic pill tube mis-latched and I can't get it open.
I'm half-asleep but staring with acid eyes at a sprite VG emu. The game is Sword of Innocence: Song of the Mourning IV. I'm chasing good karma, doing every quest because I need the affection. All the sprites will like you if you quest for them. Real people are more complex. Any dose of them nukes out my head space. So each quest is each its own prayer. Its pleading with any ultra-tulpa simul-god AI that may hardwire physical reality. To reward me with solace for my digital charity.
These symbols mean nothing, but the temple priestess of St. Crea looks a lot like Lyda. The same furls of curling hair, the same open eyes, the same deep and dimpling cheeks. There's only one body model in the game, though, and it's skinny and top-heavy. Her flavour text in gothic script implores me to find the ashes of St. Crea. Stolen by a coven of witches that live in a dungeon I haven't explored yet. The text scrolling into the box a letter at a time is all that mutes the torched and crossed fuses charring my head.
Lyda made bubble tea and it should still be out. I'm crashing. Out of coffee and can't come up with my keys to leave the house. I pause the game on the pixel portrait. As I retrieve my mug I try not to stare at the shadow of the cutting board jutting from the counter-top. She's left the knife on it. The silver blade gleams a faint shine into the darkness. Mottled with herbal cuttings that march into the bright left like the ants have found us.
Early today I sipped some jelly at the exact moment Lyda thunked a sound effect for a childhood beating. She was deep in the throes of memory and didn't notice my weird choke-cough. Her eyes flashed as she said that was how Russians raised their kids in the 90s. You could trace trauma, she said, through families all the way to the Scare.
Sometimes at night I hang out on our porch. I stare at the moon and listen to the city sleep itself off. Sometimes instead I walk out on her smoking a J and crying. When I do I don't make a sound. I slip back inside and boot up Sword of Innocence. Give a coin to the vagrant begging outside the inn and watch my karma ding up.
Tonight for no reason I can make she's left her door ajar. Light spills from her room in a cascade that smears the sterile floor. She'll be bidding on K-pop merch. It's a problem. But who doesn't have a hobby that's a problem in some way? None of us as chaste as the temple priestess. Her life lives itself in amaranthine back-and-forth. Her sprite pacing out her narrow line of worship. Before I leave the temple I count her footsteps. She walks out nine before her sprite flips and she comes back.
I've hacked the game to keep around bodies and gore. The blood of a dozen monsters covers my sprite. I want their deaths to hold weight. They should haunt me. The first boss was so long ago that now I look up the concept art to get a fix on him. A pale lich lord. He didn't look pleased to be alive as he was throwing black fire at me. But it's hard to feel good about granting even the undead the mercy of death. The hack made his blood candy apple red. In the concept art his eyes are hollow. Frozen tears crystallized beneath them glitter like kitsch make-up.
I'm about to slip inside once again but she stops me. "Hit this," she says with a twirling flourish. It's day two without my anxiolytics. My nerves are screaming white fire, and the coven has killed me several times. By the time I've stabbed one the other two have impaled me with their swords of black light. No one will mourn you, the game text swears. You have lost your innocence.
I draw on it. I'm about to tell her about the cryptic message. The gate of our fence swings in the night's breeze. In the darkness the patches of grass it hems in are little carpets of void. She cuts in then. "Mom wants to make up. She says she doesn't want to take it to her grave."
"You severed what," I say, "years ago?" The night air swims. The moon is full but cut to slivers by cloud. She nods. "I should've done it before. I'm not feeling it."
"Forgiving her?" i say.
"No," she says, and gestures to the glow sparking my fingers. "This. I do this too much. It doesn't work for me now."
"You should learn to manage your feelings without chemistry," I say. The tableau is blurring out. I can feel each hidden blade of grass. The bugs crawling between them. In daylight they're food for the squirrels that dart around our lone tree. I don't know what eats them now.
"I'm gonna get into buying stuff," she says. "More merch, all the time." It's because I'm getting trashed. But I say, "I saw a doc on abuse in K-pop. It was pretty bleak." She looks at me then, and I see those lich lord hollow eyes, the tear stains below. "Dude," she says. "It works for me. Like your dumb games work for you." A shake of her head flops her curls around. "I only listen to the good ones, anyway."
My sprite, covered in blood. "Hard to be the gods of our own little universe," I say. The look she gives me stings like salt.
"In Russian Orthodox you need two things," she says. "A cross and a picture of your patron saint. If you don't have them your soul is in trouble."
"You stick to the old ways?" I say. Her silence confirms it. "Why?"
"Tell you later," she says. "Wanna see the cross?"
"What about your saint?" I say.
"They're a secret," she says as she pulls the pendant from around her neck.
The silver of the cross is dulled to gray, but its golden victim catches a stray shard of moonlight. Echoes it in a needle-thin glint that knifes into my eyes. Then I know I'm beyond trashed. The martyr's blood, the wounds crafted with grace and detail, seeps into me. For a moment it swims through my veins, and then I'm inside out, can't figure out what we were talking about. Staring at the cross like a pilgrim who's made it, through thick and thin, to his journey's end. What is the end of Sword of Innocence like? I'll never know, I realize. I'm too busy scouring its world for new acts of faith. It's a hosed up fantasy.
Way too much of a trip for me. She's asking what she should do. Then she's tilting her head to the side and asking if I'm okay. Taking me inside, guiding me to the living room couch, getting me a glass of water. I gulp it down. The couch is soft, but crumbs fleck the rug before it, tickling me through my socks. They're torn, and the skin of my foot's arch flares through a tear in the knitting, pale as any lich lord's. The bone swells the tendon like a cresting wave. It's dead ugly. My body, my prison. The crumbs against my sole are little relics of trauma. Trauma she can't eat away. To be a body is to know, every once in a while, how much it can feel.
I know that knowledge should help me grow stronger. But it digs me out until all else I've felt is un-life. The witches affirm their blood pacts every time they kill my blood-soaked sprite. In my head they dance in celebration. Their black light swords still interred in my pixel-flesh. So many of their brothers and sisters lie slain. My fate is a penance for what I've done. If she says something else, I don't hear it. I lay against the armrest, my neck craned in a creeping agony that doesn't break until I'm fast asleep.
In the morning the chem leech catches up with me. I'm more nervous than ever. She's made bubble tea again but it's warm. I drink it still. The cutting board under the light, filthy though unused for days, is an omen I don't need black magic to figure out. I wish there was an executioner's axe around to cut off my head from my aching neck.
I jam it in the sink.
Her door is open again, but I pause before it, not sure what the right path is. There's a true ending here I'm meant to unlock. but there are bad endings too, awful ones, and I don't have a guide to tell me which path takes me where.
"You can come in," floats her voice from within the room.
Theory books line her shelves. There’s one I’ve never seen before. My eyes flutter to its spine. The Tombs All Around Us, it reads. My fingers graze it like I pressed the action button for a closer look. The ridge worn into it lulls me into a trance, my mind triggered, for some reason, back into an altered state.
She's swiveled around from her cobalt blue screen-glare to face me. "That's a study on how grief informs everyday life," she says. "The idea is that we never let go of absence. Any absence. The human psyche gets carved out deeper and deeper until it completes its slow decay."
"Some absence is good absence," I say in a flat voice. I pull my hand back. Hug myself, crossing my arms. "You should keep the sever real. Nothing changes if we let it all go. All that people do to us."
Her eyes are glassy. Wet. It must be getting worse.
"I'm all she has," she says. Her voice is soft, though, as if scared to betray deeper feeling. "The whole family hates her."
"It's good for her soul," I say. "She should beg for God's mercy." The game's death text echoes in my mind. You have lost your innocence. At the time I thought it was harsh. Wasn't I a good person in that game? I've thrown enough coins at the vagrant for him to buy the inn if he feels like it.
But my fantasies owe me nothing.
"What about my soul?" she says. "Dude, I didn't expect that."
And I'm not sure which mental illness answers. It's blunt enough to be autism, but so much heat steeps the words they wither my lips as they leave. "Make sure you mean it," I say as I leave. "That's all."
"Thanks for being honest," she says, but I'm too far away to tell if she's bitter.
I comb the game's fan page. The highest rated hacks are adult, and it takes me a bit to find the one I need. It's a weather mod, with a single comment praising it that reads like a bot. Or someone whose first language wasn't English.
It's all I can find.
I have a save right before I enter the dungeon. The game's sun torches its texture into a painted sky. I stand outside the coven’s dessicated fortress. Wait, my sprite's blood-stained shoulder blades bobbing with his idling breath.
I wait for the rain to fall and wash the blood away.
|# ¿ Nov 9, 2020 03:55|
in, assign me a song
|# ¿ Dec 1, 2020 07:50|
in retrospect maybe it was noided of me to think ur pick for me was meant to denigrate me or make me feel bad or something. it was kind of a buzzkill song & i overreacted. ive been finding processing reality problematic and i rly dont want to think all this stuff is futile & worthless
if you did mean to make me feel bad, get boned and brawl me coward. if not disregard
take the moon fucked around with this message at 11:11 on Dec 1, 2020
|# ¿ Dec 1, 2020 08:03|
Strays walk through a cluster of spires under snow that glitters like stardust.
The ice moon flares diamond light from the black sky as Citr draws her arm tighter around her twin. Not to protect Xea in claimant ways she sees others shepherd skizes. It's for warmth.
For they are near-frozen.
They are both waifs. Page-boy mops and skin gone ashen with cold. The cloth of their sweaters is fraying of freeze. Their toes are on fire, their fingertips numb.
Seeing now the glyphs of a Shrine glowing with spellfire within a threshold halo of light. The two pass through without sound. Grateful to be out of that bleak snow. Their business is with the Hierophant keeping the Shrine.
He tends the glowing flowers that aside the centred alabaster of the shrine-altar. Hums to himself as his bare feet gleam from darkness pressed to the chrome of the temple floor. She nods. The flowers burn enough heat into the inner Shrine for the Hierophant's ancient bones. The patterns etched into their petals hardwire into Ithys’ coda. The coda of healing miracles. The coda the goddess sings to the Hierophants in a voice for them alone. To begin there was silence, then the coda from nothing.
"Excuse me," she says. "We're cold."
"The violets," the Hierophant says. "They need their strength."
She repeats herself.
"Empath-wraiths," he says. They wisp into being, three glimmer mists burning cyan fire into her eyes. Bearing bowls of crushed oats and honey and milk. The two children accept the bowls.
She gazes hard at the Hierophant's pale silhouette, trying to bore herself into him. He looks at her in a flat, even way.
The Hierophant unrolls the blanket by the shrine-altar. The air swims with the pheromones of the bright violets. Yet a field of light churns from the shrine-altar, and the pheromones spark in the wash. Sleep soon finds her.
To be twin to skiz is to take their dreaming. In it you are offering to slow oblivion. You wander. The earth barren, blasted obsidian. Black glass. It's you in the dream, your ashen skin, but with no memory of yourself, and no one you can see. Why are you out here? Your reflection stares at you, its eyes burning from beneath your bangs. You don't know which skin now tethers you.
By stages you know you are neither skin, and both skins at once. And you grieve for the slow deaths of both tethered to a world of bodies. While your ethereal self has gathered here to skin in the freak twining of the skiz gene.
Aeons pass like this. She fears them, these aeons, this waiting with nothing but reflection in black glass. Knowing each time she sleeps she will be subject to it. But her body demands life. The body is a tether that you must care for, or else you will know the worst aeon, that of the body dying in snow and frost.
Some fragment of her stays together to maintain both their tethers. She guesses this is why every skiz is born with a non-skiz twin. For her brother's vision phases veils but misses the world of flesh. Sometimes she thinks skiz is a nightmare form that binds to dream and grows flesh to cling to its dreamer.
In these horizons the sun is silver and its light glasses the obsidian into black-light. The black-light reveals every part of you to yourself. Your sinew and bone. The drama of your flesh knitting and re-knitting. The passage of your breath through blood. All gazed at through eyes caged by skull and seeing eyes caged by skull. Tearing your eyes away to the silver sun. But your eyes soon fall again, for there is none but your reflection in the black glass.
She wakes at a flicker of light, a strobing of the field that scorches knives behind her eyes. She sits bolt upright and scrambles to her feet. The temple is as it was when she slept. All except the Hierophant, in a different place, tending different flowers.
Xea blinks himself awake. Stares at her, mute. Then around with clouded eyes. "I'm sorry," she says. "I got tired." He's always confused upon waking, for all parts of him miss the moment when the dreaming begins. He burns up memory trying to put together that he's slept.
She veers near the Hierophant. "How long has it been since your leaving?" he says.
"I don’t know,” she says. “All we know are snow and Shrines."
He turns to focus on her. "There are no pathics with other Shrines online since the cascade began. Do you bear message from one?"
She does. "The thaw will drown us within decades."
His eyes show nothing. "I see."
"That's beyond me," she says. "But I've been searching for a Shrine that could cure skiz. I bear messages between Shrines to buy our stay."
He looks at her. "They say skiz is the gene-seed’s fall. The nadir of the psyche-virii evolved through sheer entropic glitch. Its exorcism is fraught with danger. Danger to the skiz and the twin both.”
"Can you please try?" she says. "I want to hear his voice."
Xea stands wreathed by violets, face blank, but eyes nervous, in the way of someone nearing the gallows. Reflecting the shine of glyphs in pale luminescence. The way two fireflies fluoresce against each other in orbit. "Be brave," she says. "It'll be over soon."
She herself is heady with hope.
He summons the empath-wraiths once more. They do not bear bowls. They bear instead clasped hands, and eyes cratered with somber regard. The three surround him. Draw near from each side with his back to the altar. The altar crackles with electric fire as if giddy with the weight of the scene.
The Hierophant has chosen the distant reach of the temple. As if to divest himself of the blessing. She stands beside him. Fights the urge to close her eyes. No longer will she face long years under silver sunfire stripping her to the bones of her psyche. Xea will sleep by himself, and his dreams will be his own. They will no longer torment her.
The Hierophant recites verse in a language she doesn't know. For a moment it could be one of her twin's prophecies. Such is its foreign bleed into the dead air seeming to weigh it sodden, obtuse, so she feels a need to part it. As if parting her twin's hair to study him for fever. The empath-wraiths moan in echo, molding a grim harmonic of the verse. As if the mixture of black ash with snow to mirror the grainy haze of her amnesia. She knows nothing of the two's origin, focused for so long on her twin's skiz and the need to escape it. It hasn't mattered. Yet it does now, their kinship evoked in the spell as ghost of something greater. Despite herself she now strains for what resonates with her from the words. So is this ritual for her, and she wants to divine from it a spark of insight, like that first ember of song in void.
And in this she forgets all else. The creaking of the Hierophant's voice, emblem of the decay of what binds his tendons to his bones. The wailing of the empath-wraiths slave to sadness she can't begin to get at and so ignores. Galaxies away is the cascade of the ice-moon's bleed out into the sky falling over the spires. Falling because the sky bears no weight but its own weight of nothing. What matters now is those that cursed her twinship with the skiz gene. She finds she hates them, seed and womb both.
It ends here. In the words she finds a hatred of skiz and all that it is. She comes back in time to see the empath-wraiths swallow up her twin in a nova of blue fire.
Silence shrouds the temple as the Hierophant issues the ritual's final prayer. The empath-wraiths vanish and the violets burn out in a gasp that chars the air. Singes her skin even as darkness crushes out what she sees. She hears the Hierophant's ragged breath. Darts forward, rushing into dark nothing, like the altar-shrine never was. Her arms grasp like insect feelers. "No," she hears, "it's not safe!" But she's pitching forward. Balance lost without signal in the silence, any form missing the cast of her eyes. Memories of caged eyes. Her eyes caged now in a thing that does not see.
"Where are you?" she says. "Talk to me!"
From the void comes a sobbing, choking, wretched quaver. A glaze flares before her like light in glass, and she crashes and skids on chrome she can't see. Aches with bruise. "What's wrong?" she says, blithe to her own pain. To exude solace as phantom limbs to enfold what she herself cannot.
"Our aeons," her twin says, in a voice wet with tears. "They're gone."
|# ¿ Dec 7, 2020 02:53|
ok w/e lets run this poo poo into the cold, dead earth
surprising no one ive lost my archives account again, kindly hellgimmick me, thx bunches
|# ¿ Dec 9, 2020 13:24|
Week 203 was a cool prompt that didn't get enough entries. In to write some teen mystery.
~ i did not expect this to ever come up again. hype
|# ¿ Dec 10, 2020 21:07|
i don’t have archives so this is my attempt to write a story better than one i can’t see this matters to me sorry. experimental week boringness is my worst regret. lose or dq it its chill
set in the year 300X. diagnosed autism approved
the attack wave bled into the core of autism psyche ghost angel . . the entire spectrum is on the side of the autism spectrum.versed in ghost aeon of hell. There are many places we can live in which we could not see the world outside of our head, while the eyes were always focused on the heart of the world.the attack on psyche sector ghost angel .. is so intense it can destroy anything that makes up your own mind.. theaeon of hell prelude .to death frost angel halo ghost angel . The eyes are all on the ground.the vein of the way in hell begins to expand to become larger in size and depth than the eyes are haloes vaped thru black smoke . the brain has an .the brain begins tochurn in hell aeon void .the body of hell is a demon.the body is a creature of the gods.v ampire .The blood is the blood of the gods. __________________ If you want to be a human you can be the body of the world.to core of autism symbiosis . aeon of hell. __________________ The life of an eon angelvapes in autism ghost halo . __________________ the body of the brain and the brain has a voxic. aeons vaped thru seed of hell. The life of an eon angelvapes in the black smoke q . __________________ The body of the eon angelvapes in autism ghost halo of spectrum churn in hell aeon of death world v.the body of the eon angelis death world ________________is ascension to hell aeon of death earth and earth __________________ the body of the eon angel is death earth and earth __________________ The
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|# ¿ Dec 11, 2020 05:33|
|# ¿ Sep 30, 2022 00:53|
hey sorry about that schiz attack. stuff has kind of gotten to me. um im not reading any replies or anything and am gonna dip but i felt bad that that sucked so much so here is another attempt at the same idea thats more . anyway really sorry. just schiz stuff. i know this all seems pretentious/terrible. ive just hated my normal fiction for like so long
The eyes are all on the backs of hands which are the lobes in the eternities which are embracing . The eyes are on your back as the hands embrace.The eyes of yours are not human.The eyes are on the backs of hands which are emerging from lobes in chest of eternities . There are two eternities as usual. Your halo has been burnt away by the future of ghosts and your body is in pain. Your lobes are being stimulated.
Tears flow down your face… All of your tear glands are in pain and there are stimuli from the back of your head and several parts of your waved brain sections. The future becomes now, then hollow as the progress hour chimes in sand minutes which become( Create new evil whispers with I, one is chaos )My halo brain cells explode from the back of my head. The pain soon becomes a presence which has overwhelmed you and the world feels like a ghost place made up of smoke, a hive with dorment ideas waiting to be born.The hour chimes and sand is sleep and cells whisper softly.
Send them to the devils.
The whisper will either send them to hell or embrace them in the , indigo shadows of NOWHERE. Hear the voices, those whispers they are plans for new hives, buildings of gray cubes which are cold to the touch and empty inside. You delve deeper into the presence of the hour. You delve deeper into the presence of the hour. hour sounds violet pink and silver abstract midnight stars.
Everything is transposed into the language my brain uses to summarize realities for no reason, no nothing just existence. You embrace the hour closer, it engulfs your mind tighter. The burning presence of the hour deafens your hearing to everything and you feel weak, or is that the presence of the hour. from the neon hour o neon hour d word open s my mind rings w welcome t the reaper You sees q ghosts and a flood of thoughts, they scream, the hour screams. You take drugs to improve your focus. You play games as the drugs writhe inside your blood and veins.
You close your eyes and feel hours of concentration speed past you core. The fullness of neon rains stares gifting portals ripping pitchforks through hair heads hearts heads laughing pyramids mountains paintings of laughing pastel giants mountains
Your mind screams from too much visual stimuli but you send yourself deep down Hearts form as neon rain
whispers become words. Ghost chatter as you zen out
Your mind ascends into the hour your body falls as sand onto written words pages become sacred books which shine auroras from God's Mind Magick my hands fade away slowly deja v Ghosts taunt as you love them
Ghostly hands stroke your mind
Your lobes scream with the knowledge of Too much death hours and time sick headaches burn through your brain.
But its all in your head… Ghost taunts painful cracks of forcing into other dimensions translations of hundreds of minutes pass Picking a Violet Hair my hair was burnt away by acid dreams symbols appearing mountain of heads an evil sense of isolated understanding of endless voids within Your body shivers you ooze transpiration from every pore, you are wiping your brain shut lines become cubes rooms turning into confusing itself a wave of endless agonizing Emotions writhe inside your head
They are full of colours scream for your attention as
your mind gets wiped out.
High on the fractals of the hour, and each one bleeding with minds. Blankness fills your heart as you freeze on the outside, burning on the inside and fly away… Ghosts whisper as you lie down
Bodies of others. The room seems to bend horizons bleed down erase reality reverbs unreal. The written morphs into whirlpools of neon colours grind a blur an ending starting again beginning once more the hour keeps shouting hours burning from terror outside breathe in the peace of eternity breathe in silence
With each second an You drown into eternity immortal infinity lifeDeathBlood peaceNothing pauses pausedRESTARTED
You feels the hour of air on your body as you shatter float fly shatter bleed transformed reborn repeat again again.
|# ¿ Dec 13, 2020 20:56|