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In for my first TD! Taking this as my inspiration: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2vTKmVvyNRc
Nae fucked around with this message at 22:33 on Nov 13, 2020 |
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Nov 13, 2020 20:41
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Love Train 1939 words [archived, baby!] Nae fucked around with this message at 02:14 on Jan 1, 2021 |
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Nov 16, 2020 01:28
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I'm in, not taking any extra words/flash rules because I want to try writing with lower counts.
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Nov 18, 2020 02:48
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Yoruichi posted:I haven't even bothered to read your story and I probably won't but what the hell who are these newbies who just waltz in and get HMs and nearly win on their first try wt actual f I accept your challenge, Horse poster!
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Nov 19, 2020 04:06
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The Integration of the Persistence of Memory 1198 words There's a white disc at the center of time and space where infinite timelines converge in a kaleidoscope of color. It's currently covered with empty vodka glasses and sticky with coffee liquor. I'm half-asleep in the middle of it, too drunk to move and too sober to stay still. The word 'Remember' is scratched on the floor between my legs. Faint streaks of ballpoint ink stain the cracks. I don't know what I'm supposed to remember, because I was drunk when I wrote that last night. At the very least, I can gather that I need a new pen. Most of the details of last night are hazy, starting with the point where I gave up on glasses and switched to alternating swigs of vodka and Kahlua. It's not hard to piece together the outline of the night, though; I only drink like this when a timeline goes out. Theoretically, a timeline going out isn't a big deal. They all go out sometime. That doesn't make it any less of a travesty. An entire universe snuffed out, along with the history of its inhabitants. The bright side is that a dying timeline is almost always devoid of life at the end, but it's still sad to see the spark go out. But hey, that's what I'm here for. Somebody's gotta start 'em up; somebody's gotta shut 'em down. Grand opening, grand closing. That's how time works. That doesn't mean I have to like it, or that I have to do it sober. Last night was the end for an especially hearty timeline, so I sent them into oblivion in style. This morning, which I'm only calling morning and is actually an infinity through which no time has passed, I have to restart that line fresh. That means I've gotta remember which one shut down. It wouldn't be so bad if I labeled the timelines, but I've been putting buying some cable tags from a universe that has an Office Max. I can sense which lines are which when I'm clear-headed, but when I'm fighting a hangover and a hole in my memory, the only way to find the line I need is to get on the ground and crawl. Down here on my hands and knees, I can see countless timelines spreading out into the cosmos. If I had to describe them to the layperson, I'd say they look like the rope lights you can string around your railings during the holidays, but they're really so much more. Rope lines can only change colors and patterns, but timelines have it all. Each one of these babies has its own sound, texture, and scent—hell, even a taste if you get down there and lick it. I've only done that a few times, but I'm serious when I say a line with a blueberry tang is something special. I never tasted the timeline I'm looking for, but the flavors don't persist in a dead timeline anyway. The only thing that lingers when a history runs its course is a dull, insistent hum that violates the deepest parts of your ears. That's what I'm listening for as I pick up rope after rope, searching for the line whose time has run out. It takes me approximately one-point-six infinities to find my target, which really gives my hangover time to bloom. My eyeballs ache as I cradle the limp, grey line to my chest, wallowing in the anemic hum that signifies the deaths of all dreamers. "Hey, little buddy," I murmur, stroking the cord. "I'm gonna bring you back to life, okay?" That's not strictly true. What I'm going to do is use this discarded husk of a timeline to create something new, unburdened from the mistakes that brought its last iteration down. It's pretty easy to jump-start a line: all I have to do is breathe an intention into it. The bitch is coming up with the intention. The intention is why I drink. Remember what I said about freeing new lines from old mistakes? It's a nice idea, but in practice, all it means is that the new timeline makes new mistakes. No matter how many times I do this, each strand manages to gently caress things up, and it all comes down to the intention. For example, if I begin a line with the concept of 'Collaboration,' all the creatures will advance by working together, but they'll end up destroying themselves when they start purging outsiders. Conversely, if I kick things off with 'Individuality,' I'll get fiercely independent lifeforms who won't survive their first famine. Those aren't the only fail-states, either. Here are some other classics: - Creativity: Everybody's great at thinking outside of the box, but nobody's willing to use proven solutions. Dead timeline. - Hope: Relentless optimism makes everyone resilient, but also incapable of preparing for the worst. Dead timeline. - Justice: Don't even get me started. Dead timeline! The list goes on and on. Seriously, I could go on forever, which is how long I've been here and how long I'll be here, excepting the occasional trips to the corner store in timelines with Kahlua. For all I know, that Kahlua inspired me to come up with a brilliant intention for this reboot, but gently caress me if I can remember it now. There are moments when the enormity of my task weighs on me. This is one of them. Resting the dead timeline in my lap, I stretch my legs through the tangle of glimmering ropes and groan. My head is absolutely killing me. Maybe if I didn't spend the night before each reset drinking vodka like I'm about to reboot Russia, I'd be prepared with some better intentions, but I doubt I could think up any good ones without a few drinks in me. Like most unhappy artists, I'm convinced I do my best work drunk. If only I could recall that work now. Last night's scrawled missive bleeds through the web of timelines, taunting me from my forgotten past. 'Remember,' it says. I flip it off. It doesn't jog my memory, but it does make me feel better. The lifeless timeline hums against my thighs. I hate seeing the lines like this, so limp and sad. All it needs is an intention. Then it can start its merry little life again. Sure, it's just going to die, but I'll always be here to start it over again. By then, maybe I'll remember the last intention. The smartest synapses in my idiot brain send me a message. My eyes open wide, and I lift the cable. "Remember…" I whisper. Gentle blue light blooms in the core of the timeline. It spreads onward and outward, carrying soft strains of piano melodies and the calm scent of the sea. To lick it now would be unreasonably crass, but I know in my heart that it tastes like almond tea. I rest the new line on top of the infinite weave. I can already guess how the creatures in that line will destroy themselves—an unwillingness to let go of the past, old grudges birthing new wars—but at their best, they will remember where they came from, and they will cherish those memories.
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Nov 23, 2020 02:56
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Naeing Horses Brawl! - Pick 2 of 3: Confrontation at High Noon, Necromancy, Cybernetic Horses. - 1500 words max. - Due by Wed the 25th at noon PST In the Light of the Smiling Sun 1499 Words My backpack hits the locker floor with a thud. As my watch vibrates against my wrist—five pulses until solar peak!—I fish through my bag for my dead planet core. Volin's blue bulb of a head blocks the light as he cranes over my shoulder. "Did you forget it?" "Of course not!" If I did that, then Jacey wins the astromancy contest by default, and there is no way she's beating me in my favorite subject. My necklace dangles in my view. I swat it aside and keep digging. Something round and rocky scrapes my knuckles, and I yank out my core with a whoop. "Got it!" Three long shadows fall across my locker. My headfin flattens against my skull. When I dare to turn, Jacey and her flunkies are looming over me, reveling in the height of their growth spurts. "Holy poo poo, Zamantha, is that a dwarf planet?" she says. "Uh, no?" I stammer. "It's a telluric planet." "You're gonna resurrect that little thing? There's no way there's any life on it. It's a planet for babies." She laughs, and her friends laugh with her. I wish I was tall enough to punch Jacey's green face, but Volin would cry if I started a fight anyway. He's a good friend, but he's terrified of bullies. Jacey cranes forward until she's nothing but eyes and teeth. The black lines of her pupils drag downward, settling on my neck. "Is this a smiling sun?" She snatches the yellow pendant and jerks it upward. "It is! Oh my God, you're an even bigger baby than your planet!" Pustules of embarrassment swell on my cheeks. "Shut up!" Lights pulse over our heads—solar peak. Jacey drops my necklace and me along with it. "See you in astromancy. Good luck with your baby planet!" As she strides away, Volin offers me a hand. I swat it away. "Thanks for nothing." "Sorry. For what it's worth, I like your sun." I scowl at him, but I like it, too. It's nice to see someone smiling at me in the mirror. No way I was gonna say that to Jacey, though. My baby stuff isn't worth fighting for. — Mr. Dorgle slouches in his stool, clutching his coffee like it's the only thing keeping him upright. "Okay, class. Today, Jacey and Zamantha will be presenting their planetary resurrections. Remember, this is a friendly competition"—his deadpan really selling how much he buys that—"so let's all be nice. Jacey, you're up first." Jacey strides up to the desk, really showing off her height in her palladium-heeled boots. "Thanks, Mr. Dorgle. Today I'm going to be resurrecting a gas giant with a hydrogen-helium atmosphere." She spreads out her pristine astromancy tools, then holds up a green container for the class to see. A dark, syrupy globule bobs up and down in the center like a buoy on a bender. Everybody leans forward as she slides her resurrection disk into the base of the gravity pillar. She pours her chronal powder into the disc—smirking the whole time, that snake—then clicks some gas canisters onto the sides. "Okay, everybody, stand back!" she says. Volin and I share a scowl. We're all sitting down; where would we go? When she's sure she's got our attention, Jacey tilts her container over the resurrection tray. The wet core hits the powder with a plop. One flick of a switch on the gravity pillar sends it floating upward. Jacey turns the dial on the top of the pillar, recreating the planet's rotation. The chronal powder mixes with the gases, and the clock starts running backward for her planet. The shimmering powder fuses with the hydrogen streams to create a metallic barrier around the core. It's bright and smooth like the toes of Jacey's boots. She knows how good it looks, too, which is why she giggles as she flicks the oxygen tank to get the ice layer going. It's all over for me when that happens. There's no way my crappy core will spawn anything as pretty as that swirl of the copper-gold gases. "Very nice, Jacey." Mr. Dorgle says. "Now set up the planeoscope for a life-check." I draw in a breath. Maybe there's no life on there. Maybe I can still win! My hopes die once Mr. Dorgle checks the planeoscope and nods. "Ah, helium wraiths. Zamantha, would you like to see and confirm?" "No thanks, I believe you," I mumble. "Very well. Nice job, Jacey—but wraiths are pretty common. B-Plus." Jacey's face falls as my eyes pop open. I've still got this! Now it's my turn. I scramble up to the front, 'accidentally' bumping into Jacey as she passes. She shoots me a deadly look and mouths 'baby'. I'm no baby; I'm gonna win. My hearts race as I set up my crummy tools and speed through my introduction. Telluric planet, liquid water surface: potential for carbon life forms. My little core may look pathetic now, but it's gonna be something special as soon as I turn the gas on. I flick the switches on the gravity pillar. Once my core starts turning, gases spurt from the canisters and mix with the powder. My headfin twitches like it's ready to launch as I hold my breath and wait. It's an absolute disaster. Brown clouds fly over browner seas, hiding what I can only assume is brown lava. It stinks like Volin's hand-me-down boots mixed with old meat somebody forgot to cryo-seal. This isn't a planet; this is a mud-ball wrapped in farts. "It's telluric, alright," Mr. Dorgle murmurs. "Now set up the planeoscope." My embarrassment pustules throb as I look through the lens. I can already hear Jacey snickering from here. There's no way there's gonna be life on here. Even if there is, it's just gonna be stinky and brown and…cute? I lean closer to the scope. My planet is covered with dirty, sticky mud-blobs, but there's something strange about them I can't help but love. Maybe it's the way their big eyes bug out as they flop around; maybe it's the way they keep bumping into each other like they're trying to hug. They're as wholesome as they are stupid: like they were genetically engineered to be picked on. Boy, can I empathize. When I look up, Mr. Dorgle is staring at me. "Any signs of life?" My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as I catch a glimpse of Jacey's sick grin. I've never seen anything like these little mud-bumblers before, which means Mr. Dorgle will probably give me a better grade than her, but then Jacey will want to look to confirm. There's no way I'm letting her do that. She won't appreciate how unique they are; she'll just make fun of them. The mud-bumblers deserve better. Pustules pulsing, I glance around the room. My attention lands on the light switch next to Volin's desk. An idea pops into my head. It'll cost me the win; it'll also be mortifying. Jacey will make fun of me for years. I don't like it, but I can live with it. This is for my baby bumblers. I look at Volin, then the light switch. He stares at me with his chin wobbling and his headfin flat. Idiot. I do it again, then twice more with a grimace, and finally, finally, he gets it. He flips the switch. The room goes dark. I knock the planeoscope off the desk and scoop up my gravity pillar. The reborn planet wobbles on its axis, but the pillar's got enough juice in it to keep it turning until I get home. The lights turn back on. No one is looking at Volin, hand on the switch; everyone is looking at me, surrounded by metal and glass. I'll bet I look like an idiot baby—and this baby's about to cry. "Oh no-oh no-oh no!" I stammer-sob. "I got so scared that I knocked over the planeoscope! Now it's broken and I can't afford to replace it." I toss my arm over my face with a wail. "What am I gonna dooooo?" "Now Zamantha," says Mr. Dorgle, "I'm sure it was an accident—" "I'm so stupid! All I can do is run home and cry!" Before Mr. Dorgle can stop me, I race out of the room. Jacey's laughter follows me into the hall. It hurts, but I can take it. I did it for a good cause. — I set up my gravity pillar on the shelf where I keep my cybernetic pony dolls. Once my planet is safe and secure, I check on the mud-bumblers. They're alive, thank goodness, and they're as dumb and bumbly as ever. "You guys are gonna be alright here." Grinning like a proud parent, I tilt my desk lamp to shine down on them, then slip my necklace over my shoulders and loop it over the bulb. My enamel sun spins from side to side, shining over a carefree world.
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Nov 25, 2020 19:58
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Thranguy posted:Thunderdome CDXXXIV: Cryptic Cryptids I'm in. Give me a Cryptid, Thranguy!
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Nov 27, 2020 20:06
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ThunderdomeCDXXXIV: Cryptic Cryptids Prompt: Beast of Bodmin Moor // "Going without food, a camper enters depot" (10) The Prisoners of Bodmin Moor Word Count: 1175 My mother pads through the quiet darkness, halos of blood ringing her paws. "He should not have stuck his neck out," she says. Her voice rumbles through her chest as if her words live in her heart. "Stick your neck out, lose your head." I sink into the grass, shielding my spine with my shoulders. The stance takes its toll on my muscles. My mother's words are well-intentioned, but I must stick my neck out to stretch. After so many nights pressed to the corners of a cage, nothing is more precious to me than movement. The moonlight soaks the grass as we creep away from the body of one of our own. He did not hunt with us, but he hungered as we did. That hunger drove him into the path of a farmer's bullet. My mother said he was her mate once, back in the fluttering tents, but I do not remember him. All I remember of our old life is the cage. When I close my eyes and concentrate, I can summon the blurry remnants of faces, but they are always obscured by the bars. Perhaps that is why I wake up some nights with pain in my jaw. Even in my dreams, I try to chew my way to freedom. Here on the moor, we are free from the cages and the trainer who kicked our ribs, but we are still imprisoned by unceasing hunger. My mother's mate died for that hunger. I do not feel sad for him, though. He died with a full belly; he died free. — The gnawing pain in our stomachs has affected our sleep. We doze in fits and starts, waking with wild eyes to snap at the air. We are leery of predators—and the trainer, always the trainer—but the greatest threat stalks us from within. A night comes when my mother is unable to hunt. She tries to walk alongside me, but her hind legs quake, and her chest wracks with shudders. When she stumbles, I nose her to the shade of a tree and promise to complete the hunt alone. She does not believe me; I am ill-equipped to scavenge for two. But she is too frail to fight me, and I will not let her waste the energy. She is not allowed to die this way. When she dies, she will die free. — I do not make the mistake of my mother's mate. The quiet farms tempt me with their throngs of sheep, but I do not trust myself to bring one down before a farmer comes for me with his gun. My sight is keen and my limbs are quick, but my time in the tents cost me the ability to kill. When my mother is healthy, she can feed us both; when she is sick, I cannot feed either of us. Not without sticking my neck out. Long roads wind around the moor, carrying humans and their vehicles. I am not capable of killing a human, but it is not their meat that interests me. It is the feasts within their cars that draw me out of hiding. Most often, those cars contain little more than sweets and crisps, but some overflow with food. The best are the ones that contain breads and meats, as the meats give us energy and the breads keep us full. There are not many drivers on the roads at dawn, but these months on the moor have shown me strange places where men may lurk. One such place is a placid pond speckled with tall grasses that brush the sides of my legs as I wade through the shallows. It is a quiet place, one that calls humans to come alone. The isolated location also forces them to leave their vehicles a ways away from where they plan to go. The solitude disarms them; they leave themselves unguarded and their doors unlocked. The morning light glows over the pool as I approach. A lone van sits at the edge of the road, its silhouette obscuring the sun. It reeks of food, and its doors are wide open. I listen for human footsteps in the reeds. When no sounds return to me, I bound across the road. My nose twitches and jumps as I scramble into the back of the van. The tight space is lined with metal slats holding objects of unknown origin and use. Only one of them interests me: the white container perfumed with spices and herbs. It takes all of my self-control to stop myself from devouring the chunks of roasted meat within. My mother needs them more than I do; I cannot eat her food. Yet if I do not eat it, I may not be able to carry it to her, as the container is flimsy and likely to spill. "Good God!" Blinding light strikes the corner of my eye. I whip around and bare my fangs. There is no seeing past the bright circle, but I can smell the human behind it. I can hear them breathing hard. If I am lucky, I can dart past them; if they have a gun, I will die in this box. "Bloody Hell… what's happened to your teeth?" A face emerges from the darkness. A woman's face: familiar, yet unlike the woman trainer who would leer at me through the bars. This face is softer in both construction and expression. It brings to mind the way some children used to look at me: with curiosity, respect, and awe. I dare to relax, letting my cramped muscles extend. The light drifts to my paws. "You haven't got any claws, either…poor thing. No wonder you're after my chicken tikka masala. It's probably all you can eat with those nubby teeth. It's a miracle you've survived this long." She sets down the light, then gestures to the container. "Go on. You can have it." I glance from her outstretched hand to the food. The meal seems to have become a peace offering: an exchange for leaving her vehicle. I still do not know how I will carry it home, but I will not waste the gift she has given me. Using my paws and nose in concert, I manage to shut the box. For once, I am lucky that my teeth were dulled by the iron bars, as they do not puncture the container's surfaces. "Well I'll be," says the woman. "A big cat who prefers takeaway. You'd fit right in at Chipperfield's Circus." She steps aside, allowing me to slink out of the van. As I pad away, clutching the feast in my jaws, she calls after me: "Be careful getting home! My mum says there's phantoms out there!" Although this woman's words elude me, I accept them with gratitude. Her voice comes from deep within her chest: the source of maternal wisdom. Those blessings will guide me as I return to my own mother, and together we will feed and know freedom.
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Nov 29, 2020 20:19
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Interprompt: Party Planning for Your Inconsiderate Relatives 299 words 1) If your party is set to start at four, tell your inconsiderate relatives to arrive at two. This guarantees they will arrive at four-thirty, which gives the punctual relatives time alone with the appetizers. There is no need to mention your inconsiderate relatives’ lateness. Time works differently for them, after all. 2) Your inconsiderate relatives can be counted on to bring their favorite dish, but only if you tell them to bring something else. If you tell them to bring their favorite, they will arrive empty-handed, as they simply did not have the time to cook. Telling them to bring a different dish guarantees they will bring their favorite, as they do not want someone else to screw it up. Only they have the sacred family recipe. 3) If the conversation drifts towards religion or politics, change the topic before the inconsiderate relatives can weigh in. They have much to say about their malignant god, he who slumbers in the ocean trenches, cocooned in tenebrous tendrils, awaiting the day he may rise and feast on the flesh of man. They also have opinions on abortion. Do not engage with either topic. 4) Your inconsiderate relatives must consume the still-beating hearts of the innocent. Have a chicken ready if possible. 5) When your other guests leave for the evening, take time to say goodbye to them. A well-mannered host should always thank their guests for their attendance. Seeing them to the door also guarantees they depart safely. Should your inconsiderate relatives attack them on the lawn, shredding them with fierce claws as the malignant god laughs beneath the moonlight, at least you’ll have said your goodbyes. 6) Have Home Alone playing on the television. Everyone loves Home Alone, even if they claim otherwise.
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Dec 1, 2020 01:19
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I'm in, I'll take Promises of Eternity.
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Dec 1, 2020 19:49
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Promises of Eternity The Curse of Eternity 1492 words When I was eight years old, my nanny Yvonne made me a triple-chocolate cake for my birthday. I'll never forget how the sweet smell embraced me as I blew out the candles and wished for a motorcycle with laser guns. In hindsight, that wish was the smartest decision I made that night. The cake sat heavy in my stomach while Yvonne went upstairs to talk to my mom. Their private conversations weren't unusual; there were only three of us, and my mom was always in bed. I didn't know why at the time, but Mom didn't like talking about it, so I left it alone. I didn't mind. I had Yvonne. I started to worry when they were still talking after my cake-sickness wore off, so I crept upstairs to investigate. Usually, Mom kept the door closed, but this time it was open enough to let out the sound of muffled crying. I peered through the crack in the door. Mom was holding Yvonne and petting her copper hair. I couldn't see Yvonne's face, but I could hear the sobs that made her ribs jump with each breath. "He's growing up so fast," Yvonne whimpered. "I thought we would have more time." "It's never enough time," Mom said. "I told myself I wouldn't get attached to him, but he's so sweet, and he's getting so tall...and soon I'm going to watch him die." Mom was quiet. I was, too. What do you say to something like that? "You've been scared for a long time, haven't you?" Mom asked. I'd never heard anything like Yvonne's eerie chuckle. "Two-hundred years." Then she looked up, eyes wide and sad. "But I know your curse is worse." "Nothing's worse than immortality." If I'd been older and wiser, I might've heard the bitterness in Mom's voice. Because I was young and stupid, I only heard the facts: Yvonne was immortal, and she was sad that I would die. Obviously, I would have to fix this. I would have to become immortal, too. — I waited two years to ask Mom about that night. I spent those years collecting evidence to prove I wasn't crazy. For all I knew, the whole thing could've been a prank. I didn't think it was, but I also didn't believe in immortality, so I needed to be sure. Mom's curse was on my mind, too, but that wasn't as important. I already knew Mom was forgetful and sleepy; what more could I learn? Aging is a hard thing to track over short periods of time, so I had to test Yvonne by seeing if I could injure her. Luckily, being a kid gave me some latitude with how much I could do before it looked malicious. All I had to do was run around like a normal boy, and eventually, one of my misadventures would score. Two years of experimenting more than proved Yvonne could survive anything I could throw at her. When I was ready for the truth, I cornered my mom while Yvonne was shopping and said I knew about the curses. I thought Mom would be upset with me, but she mostly seemed disappointed. “I hoped we wouldn’t be having this conversation for a few more years,” she murmured. I took that as proof of my brilliance and pressed for details. With a weary voice, she gave them. Her curse, as she explained it, was not just hers, but our family's. That meant it was also mine. And what was that 'curse,' exactly? The way my mom led up to it, I thought it was terrible, but it turned out to be amazing: we could walk between timelines. “That doesn’t sound like a curse at all,” I said. She laughed in my face. “You’re too young to understand.” I’ll admit it; she got under my skin. “So it’s the curse that made you sick?” I snapped. “Yes,” she replied. I knew she was lying. I’d observed a lot over those last two years, and not just about Yvonne. One thing I'd noticed was that my mom really liked her pills. Another decade would prove they were the real curse; another century would prove they weren't. “I’m going to help Yvonne,” I said. “I’m going to become immortal.” Mom laughed again, so hollow and sad, and wished me an embittered 'good luck.' I wish I had keyed into that sadness and backed off, but I was ten and brilliant. Nothing could stop me, especially not Mom. — Timelines, as I understood them from movies, were different worlds where anything could happen. Obviously, one of them had the secret to eternity. Yvonne had found it in our line, but I couldn't ask her where without ruining my surprise. I would have to find it on my own. As a teen, I practiced little jumps to timelines like mine. As an adult, I graduated to stranger lines. It was fun at first. I rode dinosaurs and drove airships; I tasted colors and smelled songs. I also saw my loved-ones commit atrocities I'll never forget. My mother burying children's bodies, Yvonne slaughtering prisoners of war: those happened in lines like ours. They could have happened back home. I should’ve checked; I didn’t. Even then, I knew I'd seen too much, but I couldn't stop when I'd come so far. — It took me centuries to achieve immortality. I thought it would be a transcendent experience, but nothing about me changed. Honestly, the whole thing came as a massive letdown. I wasn't put out for long, though. I hadn't done it for myself. I had done it for Yvonne, who was waiting back home. I appeared to her as a man in my thirties. By her calendar, it had been fifteen years since we spoke, when I told her I was going to travel the world. From the way her mouth twisted then, I think she knew I was lying. She certainly knew something was different when I reappeared, beaming like I'd swallowed the sun. I hugged her tight, inhaling her scent. She peeled herself away and squinted at me. "Something's changed." "I did it, Yvonne." I looked down at her and drank in her ageless beauty. Her elegant smile, her piercing eyes, her fiery hair: small parts of a larger whole that I would love for eternity. "I'm immortal." Her smile retreated. "What?" "I heard you crying on my eighth birthday. You were sad because you'd have to see me die. But I'm not going to die anymore, and now we can be together forever! Isn't that great?" She shook her head, backing up. I reached out to touch her; she smacked my hand away. "Yvonne?" Tears beaded her lashes as she gaped at me. "Harry, what have you done?" — I don't blame myself for thinking immortality would help her. I was young and stupid and hopelessly in love. I do blame myself for how I took the rejection. Rather than owning my mistake, I skulked out of our timeline and wreaked havoc on untold worlds. Stealing, destroying, killing: taking comfort in the misery of others. I also took comfort in drugs, just like dear old Mom. I went back to her once, shortly before she died. She wasn't as stupid as I was; she never went looking for immortality. She'd witnessed enough terrors to realize life wasn't worth living. Her hands were cold when I clutched them in mine. “Do you know how to fix this?” I stammered. “What I did to myself?” She laughed at me and shook her head. What else could she do? She'd seen exactly how this was going to go. That was her curse. — When she died, I had nothing left, so I leaped farther than ever. That leap brought me to the nexus of time: a perfect void for someone who wants to feel nothing. And that's what I did. I sat there, and I felt nothing. — You can observe timelines in the nexus, which is handy when you're bored. As it turns out, uninterrupted self-loathing gets pretty dull, so I took occasional breaks to surf lines. One of them caught my attention with the bittersweet scent of chocolate. Inside, I found my eighth birthday. It wasn't me, exactly—it wasn't my line—but it was close enough that I couldn't tell the difference between me and the boy beside his mother's door. What I could do was help him. I leaped from the nexus and landed in the hall. Yvonne's muffled sobbing weighed on my heart, but I pushed through and knelt beside my younger self. He bristled as I whispered in his ear. Then, understanding, he looked me in the eye and nodded. Smart kid; very precocious. I observed from the shadows as he entered his mother's room. He closed the door behind him, but he left a crack so I could hear. "Thank you for the cake, Yvonne," he said. "It really made me happy."
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Dec 7, 2020 00:29
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In with Week #361 - Extremely Creative Nonfiction Your win is archived beyond my mortal eyes, which means I will be fighting an invisible monster!
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Dec 9, 2020 01:46
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| # ¿ Apr 25, 2024 01:38 |
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Tyrannosaurus posted:That's because it's about my friend who died and it makes me hella bummed to revisit it so I hid it even from myself. Thanks for bringing it up! I'm in a great mood now! Why don't we keep this happy train rolling? The invisible monster you're fighting is my sadness. So no downer endings or resolutions. Also, please bring someone back from the dead in your story. If this requires you to learn necromancy irl then so be it. Wow, I really hosed this one up, didn't I? Let's get it off my plate so I don't I have to think about it any more. Happy Festivus, you wretched dinosaur. A List of People I've Never Loved 1487 words I drum my fingers against my keyboard, searching for a name that won't come. In the silence between taps, I can hear faint clicks from Michael playing a game downstairs. He's idling in a starting zone somewhere; I know without checking. He's been doing that more lately, sinking into the gaps in the couch we swore would get softer with time. If anything, it's gotten harder as the faux leather crumbles under the relentless weight of quarantine. I resent the couch for that. I want my husband to be comfortable, especially now. You're staring at me from across the room. I can feel your gaze on the underside of my chin, eyeing the places where I've gained weight since this viral nightmare began. I know you're not really looking at me like that; you aren't that judgmental. That's okay. I'm bad enough for both of us. The misery of pandemic living brings a name into my head. "Uncle Don," I murmur. "I should bring him back, shouldn't I?" I've been given a chance to bring a loved one back from the dead, but only for one day. You haven't asked me how I got that power, so I haven't explained it to you. That's not the important part. The important part is who I choose. "Uncle Don…" I whisper his name so Michael can't hear me. He doesn't know about my temporary gift. If he did, I know who he would pick. That's why I'm not telling him. His choice is too raw and too real and too wrong. I gravitate to Uncle Don because he was a casualty of the pandemic world. He didn't have COVID, but he was diagnosed with lung cancer in January and died during the chaos of the first peak. My mother was by his side, holding his hand as his daughter stepped out to make a phone call. Mom thinks he waited to die until his daughter was gone. He didn't want her to see him suffer. I tap my keyboard, think-think-thinking. I didn't know Uncle Don well. I didn't know him at all, honestly. What I do know was what he said in his last coherent moments, when my mom asked if he was scared to die. "I'm tired," he replied. "I'm ready to go." Is it right to bring a man back after that? I don't think so. I also didn't know him well, so it seems like a waste of a choice. But that's the bitch here: I don't have any better ones. It's not like I don't love anybody. My husband, my parents, my sister; her firstborn child, a boy I still haven't met because the miles between us are too thick with germs. I don't know him, yet I love him anyway. I have lots of love among the living. But among the dead, the ones I can revive? I never loved those people, not in a way that means anything. I never loved them down to my soul. You don't believe me, do you? I'll prove it. Let's go backward in time, starting with my family. Before Uncle Don died, there was Uncle John. He also died from lung cancer, stricken by the same adolescent lust for cigarettes as Don. I should love him because he was my uncle, shouldn't I? Probably, but I have eight other uncles, and I don't know any of them. They're strangers from strange lands, people I avoid at perfunctory gatherings. Divorces made them transient; drugs made them distant. How do you connect with people who aren't really there? Uncles are a bust, and I haven't lost any aunts. What about grandparents? I ought to revive one of them, but it's a sorry list. Mom's dad and dad's mom both died before I was old enough to form memories. Although their death certificates say different things, the causes were the same: Complications Due to Alcoholism. I have enough drunks in my life; why should I bring them back? I remember my dad's dad, but WWII assured no one would ever really know him. All I’ve been told was that he arrived at Normandy after the fighting ended, when the sand was littered with the bodies of dead kids in new shoes. If I revived him, would he spend his day remembering that? It's not worth the risk. I never knew him. Then there's my mother's mother, a bloated ghoul who beat her children for the slightest provocation. Born the wrong gender? Back of the hand. Love the wrong gender? Back of the hand. Listening to black music? Back of the hand, and the front for good measure. I'm almost tempted to revive her so I can take her out again, but that would be a waste. I should revive someone who deserves to return. The right answer nags at me with every hollow click from downstairs. I can still remember the way Michael bowed his head when I asked if he liked his new console. "It's just a distraction," he said, voice thick with loss. “When it's off, all I can think about is her." He loved you, you know that? I loved you too, in my own way, but you were his everything. You made him the man he is today. He's said as much himself: a powerful admission for a man whose default state is 'laconic.' But you know I can't revive you. I can't, really. It should go to a person. Don't you think so? Shouldn't I have loved a person? I could revive a friend, but I've never lost one. I haven't had enough to lose. My sister did; she lost her best friend to suicide. A fashionable girl in her twenties, one who went back to her parents’ house for her brother's wedding and hanged herself in their closet. She's buried behind a stained-glass butterfly gate in the parish cemetery. The church almost didn't let her in—suicide is a sin, you see—but her parents pitched a fit, and now she sleeps with the rest of the deserving dead. As if cemeteries are such sacred places. My dad's best friend didn't think they were so sacred when he knelt in front of a tombstone and put a bullet through his head. Should I bring him back, maybe? Or my sister’s friend? I knew them, but not well. They weren’t my friends. Not like you. It's been over a month since you died, but time doesn't pass like it used to. We no longer measure it in weeks and days, but in how long it's been since we last looked at the empty corner where you slept. 7:00 a.m. is when you whined for breakfast; 4:00 p.m. is when you paced for dinner. Those times aren't times anymore, but gaps in our existence, markers of loss. You'd only fill them once if we brought you back, and then you'd be gone again. But if you were here with us, even for a day, you could play. You couldn't play at the end; the cancer made sure of that. Long before we realized what was happening, the tumors set up residence in your insides and pressed against your most vital parts. You pushed through the pain—you were a good girl, always trying your best—but in the end, it got to be too much. You couldn't even tear the squeakers out of the twenty-one squeaker gator we bought you. It's sitting in the toy basket now, where it's been since the morning we put you down. With one more day, you could rip every squeaker out of that gator. You could even swallow the pieces that make the noise. Why should we stop you? At the end of the day, you'll be gone again, and the hurt will start all over. Will it be worth it, I wonder? Will it be worth it for you? You're sitting on my nightstand now, an infusion of ash and dye swirled together in glass. When Michael saw you like this, his eyelids spilled over and he walked away. He told me it would be okay to do this to you, but at that moment, confronted with the change, he stared at me with hate in his eyes. He doesn't, though. He just wants you back. This power should be used for a person. As a society, we've decided people have more value than animals. And you know what? Maybe society is right. Because you're not the one I'd do this for. It would be for Michael, my Michael, the love of my life who lost his heart when he lost you. I love you, Penny. I need you to know that. But when I bring you back—and I will, I was always going to—it won’t be about me and you. I need you here for Michael, so that he can play with his girl.
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Dec 9, 2020 20:47
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