Written 3/13/2008 18:53 About a man in an opium den.
Trails from his opium pipe of smoke watery thin, whirling in washed-out greys. Thinned the space between his eyelids. On pillows with tassels crafted in opulence and fabric stained from sloppiness the pipe-smoker sat, propped up in improper setting. Originally his irises look black but look closer. See the dark brown? Even through the smoke-wisps it’s distinguished from the oil-wells in which light is carried on black currents. That hair’s erratic. On the left side strands stick out. Clumps are formed on the right and a bald spot on top shows his pate. Blotches beneath the healthy skin, brown to copper-red in color range, splotchy-edged obliques festered with grayish-brown moles and black hairs…wrinkles which’re ravines in the topography of his face, wrinkles show his age. Skin’s permanently creased, the way paper gets after many crinklings and unfoldings. There’re more stains on his shirt. You can still smell the food. Patches of armpit-hair are exposed by the wife-beater he wears. Those stringy chicken-arms are pathetic. Something has stained his nails (in the wood-finishing sense) yellow. Drifts of gray obscure his mouth but when he breaths out look: there’s teeth missing. Gummy gabber. Neighbors moanings, snoring, gibbering, whispered speeches to self, sickly weak underbreath deliveries, and attendants bringing refreshing pipe-filler make the room almost quiet. Old timbers bounce back the noises. A few more-awake transactions escape from upstairs: the voices of clearer heads. Sounds come through sheets with detailed color patterns (purple swirls trimmed with gold color linking with slightly scarlet red swirls also trimmed with gold; at the corners from the narrow portion of the tao-pieces are squares with green and red bifurcated interiors bordered by gold threads that squarishly vary from high to low like a castle wall; diamonds evenly spaced over the pillows other patterns are black at the edges, pale yellow-orange at the center and grades of deepening red inbetween), the accumulated human grease in locals ears and opiate haze.
Your hero is in a room without doors. Dolls hang from the rafters. There’re two layers of rafters before the ceiling’s visible. One looks like Pinocchio, a short nose tapering conically, wide from the face but narrow and flat at the end, a single felt leaf perches from a little branch on its’ nose, wooden plus signs attached to its’ strings await Geppeto to play marionette. He’s almost beat the world record. Another humanoid thing is an empty suit, sheeny purple reflecting the light, flattening because there’s no stuffin –save in the clown-head, topped by a purple triple red-poof ball party hat and white skeins for beany hands and feet, the hands circles, the feet dumpy triangles and both bordered by round wave edged cuffs. Just a little longer and his toenails will be longer than the champ’s. With a velvety bonnet and cake-layer dress the child-sized china doll looks pretty, a little set of nail clippers in her hand, her porcelain face impassive. Measuring tape says his big toe boasts a 6-inch nail; the current record holder’s is eight inches. They’re trying to take my nails! Advancing, the dolls close in from the dark. Indescribably many and shadow-obscured they encircle the trembling competitor. He brandishes the measuring tape for protection but they stalk forward. Unearthly, some hang from taunt strings. Where once were rafters now only darkness. Their feet unanimously step forward without noise. The rights all together. He’s shaking. Why can’t they let him be? So long he has saved –forsaking socks for his feet! They’re closing in. He can’t even vent his full want of shaking for fear of bumping animated wood. Closer. He screams as they grab him, taking the left foot (his trophy candidate) in cotton-filled hands for their clipper-wielding princess.
The old man’s back at his mother’s house. Young again.
“If those bullies give you trouble you kick they ass. You can’ let dem do what they want to you! Where’s your priiiiide? Come home –looking like hit by truck- bruised. I no cry for you. You need to stand up for self. I here all day. Father be so ashamed see his boy beat up like you. The other kids better have some cuts!”
The right side of her face melts. For a second it goes liquid, flowing down. Then it’s regular skin again but hanging, grotesque. Her eye’s a dribbling thing on the right side of her chin. Paddy layers of skin stretch to her neck like a turkey’s waddle.
“Now come on. You don’t need to cry like dat.” Her voice is consoling, softer than normal (before she was yelling).
Hair sprout from her skinHER whole body swells ‘til her back brushes the ceiling. Her mouth stretches out to consume what was her chest with a toothy hole. Claws are on her handless arm-ends.
“Come give me a hug.”
The monster waddles forward and you screamKicking against the ground so as to keep distance.
“What’s a matter?”
The voice is tender the monster is leering. It steps
Tinkle. Someone opened the door upstairs. Everything’s a bright smudge. Resolves into the dim den. Attendent’s a few steps back than she was. Didn’t she already do that? She’s going to give him some water. He hands her paper. Seen it before. Happened before?
Everything’s a dull smudge. For a second it goes solid, flowing down. Advancing, the stars come in from the dark. You can still smell the whiskers.
What they did on Observatory Metal-5 for fun and the most eventful things to happen there during Joby Tomias’s tenure.
“What’s this?” an orange blob was far-off but arcing toward the center. Stevens rolled over, “dunno” he said with ‘hmmm’ confusion and the implication that if he didn’t it was cause for concern. A smidge arrogant. What radar picked up didn’t have the profile of any known Mantlecraft. Stevens was trying to hail it but no response came. Joby put in a call to home office. “Hello M5 what’s your status?” “Fine but our radar has picked up something (looking at it) it’s a large body…its’ trajectory will carry it towards us.” “I see it. Looks like it could be slag from a scrapped Mantlecraft…hold on; I’m going to check if any have been junked today.” Patrick walks over. “What’s going on?” “Might have some fused parts on impact course.” Stevens says it like he has seen this before and isn’t worried. Patrick nods. “I’m gonna get a Saturn you guys want anything from the vending machine?” Joby says “Nah, I’m good.” distractedly, a mix of milling over potential reasons for the radar blip and listening for the home office’s response. Stevens shuffles a piece of plastic from a pocket. “I’ll have a Saturn bar too and get me a Tite also please.” “Sure thing.” “Thanks bud.” Joby’s focus fades. He looks over at Patrick’s empty station. Nothing’s going on there. Patrick’s coming back, holding a pair of wrappers and a bottle, when “M5?” “yeah home office.” “There was a skirmish today between Halat’s border patrol and the Malchian Guard. What’s showing up on your radar is believed to be a Mantlecraft hull that has broken loose. From its’ path it should only scratch you but we’re sending an evacuation boat and additional repair crew just in case.” Joby’s eyes are wide. “Understood. M5 out.” “Home office out.” Stevens is half way through his Saturn. Patrick stays standing while he eats his. “That’s it, huh?” Patrick’s mouth returns to eating. Joby takes on a touch of paranoia; “what if it doesn’t just brush it? That’s large enough to (looking around) collapse this whole room.” “The home office is full of bullshit! They’re just saying it’ll scrape us so we don’t panic. Why else would they send two ships out?” Stevens delivers his question with a sarcastic ‘yeah right’ tone for the imaginary opposing spokesman who’d assure them the Mantlecraft are coming only as a precaution. The orange blob’s arriving from half-way out. Patrick has slowed his eating pace. A solid biteful remains in the Saturn wrapper. He pushes his current bite to his right cheek-pouch to say, “so what would you do about it (addressing Stevens)?” his tone tells ‘you’re a blowhard’. “We should prep our own evacuation boats” answers Joby. They set to work doing just that, after a little more discussion. There’s a weird buzzing sound. The engineering crew calls up “your room has been locked off. Some of the outer wall was taken.” Damages are minor enough that M5’s engineering crew could have handled them alone but the home office crew joins in to help since they came out. The breaches are sealed before the day’s done. Even the lockdown was an unnecessary precaution since the surrounding magma hadn’t passed the second layer of walls.
They stacked up Bento cans and saw who could knock down the most with a baseball toss from 4 meters away. The Bento cans were in a pyramidal stack with bottom and lid edges touching. Those cans were empty but another time they stacked depleted hephanter cells. When a baseball struck them or they collided with anything else they glowed orange. Their appearance is unto an ember of charcoal heaved on by bellows yet the chemical reaction causing them to glow only puts off a mild heat. Hephanter cells are supposed to be disposed of by a very specific procedure because exposure to hephanter is poisonous. Joby managed to knock down all 15 cells once.
“You think they’ll get back together?” Patrick looks over at Stevens. “I don’t think they’ve ever really been separate.” “They’ve fought haven’t they?” inquires Joby. “Yeah but fighting doesn’t mean you’ve broken up. Even if you sleep in different places for the night. They’ve their on weeks and off weeks but they’re still a couple. I bet the whole time they’re apart they’re thinking about each other.” explains Stevens. “They’re thinking how much they hate each other.” patrick answers. His hand is comfortable around his beer bottle. The neck is familiar. When he lifts it he knows how it’ll swing by his fingers; it’s a part of his body that’s not always on. Patrick sips frequently while the others talk. “I wouldn’t mind taking a shot at Dorothy.” Joby smiles snarkily. Stevens leans back and puts up his hands “I’m married man. You can have her.” “Yeah but she probably will get back with
The attendant checks his pulse. The pipe is no longer smoking. He’s dead. No, there’s his pulse. She feels it, very weakly beneath his warm skin. She takes the pipe from the old man’s mouth. He blinks weakly while she feels him up for money to replace what he has smoked. There’s none left.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Report
In Hershire Keep a frustrated man walked. Outside Hershire Keep, evenclusters, wonders of modern manufacture (rooms connected by closed tubes, forming the outline of polygons, held in the air by their attachment to a single pillar deep-sunk into the ground, the rooms arcing from the pillar in distance so they’re furthest at the level of its’ center and closest-bunched at its’ top and bottom), sparkle aside skyscrapers, air-recycler topped smokestacks, and cover some of the sun from the view of market squares, public ponds, children’s work factory’s, and private residences (built on top of underground lower-rent apartments) but are themselves several folds invisible opposite C.H. (Capital Hershire)’s Lonnies. A lonny is a cannon which fires rounds that are particularly devastating when impacting in low-atmosphere. Up one of the impractical eye-catching angles that make Hershire Keep Flewivz Chetzma stomped with a long gait.
“Capaulta Moniere! Are you here?”
“Be professional Relayer.”
The man who’s title latter-more was spoken reformed his hurried manner into one more suitable for a military report. Seeing not the expected stare but an eased waiting from Moniere he composes himself. Light, jangly, emotional movements disperse from his body, pouring out into the open room.
“I have come to deliver my annual report on the outermost ring of satellites’ recordings early under suspicion of impending invasion.”
Moniere takes in some seriousness that tightens his muscles and stills his body.
“Proceed.”
“370 of the satellites have failed to respond in their last contact cycle. I sent a checking signal and had the equipment checked to be sure it could send and receive on our end. None of the previously silent satellites responded yet an additional 49 from the outermost ring did not respond. Streams from the seventh ring have shown nothing in visible light spectra. But yellow-light imaging revealed Kapernaim and Wodremn forces have entered our space.” Flewivz thought Moniere was going to speak for a moment there. “Available details on the make-up of those forces, the log-times of these recording, and additional observations are recorded in the full brief”. Moniere shook hands with Flewivz so the brief was transferred to his wrist-memorizer.
“Why did you deliver this information personally?”
“Capaulta I didn’t really think about it, Capaulta. I wanted to be sure you received it, Capaulta, it seemed of enough significance to attend to personally. I was unsure of if an alternate form of message delivery would be read by you in satisfactory time.”
Moniere slapped his three-plane opposable thumbed palm against Flewivz’s corresponding nine digits.
“Synch your recorders into a single stream then send it to my wrist-memorizer. Dismissed.”
Moniere watched Flewivz fast-walk through the doorway. He thought about the report, accessible by his mind like a personal memory on the wrist-memorizer’s account. His first light consideration of the most impressive facts brought him to a plan: that evening he would give Praveler Hydduoss a preview of his conclusions at their dinner. {It’d been so long since they’d been able to catch up on personal unimportant matters…}. Moniere would also request that the 12 Pravelers of C.H. hold assembly tomorrow, a brief for other states be prepared, and the Altojo informed. Until dinner he would mobilize his traffi. Moniere was glad he had no family to worry about.
Sunsets that baked the clouds and set them to shimmering mixes of teal, aqua marine, and desert scarlet passed on C.H. Sporadic rain-spatters dappled isolated parts of the city. Plains to the west blurred into mists and mountains shone with the northbound sun.
Moniere was closing a conversation about some of the auxiliary implications of losing satellites for Qutrifha’s own troop movement when Flewivz asked him:
“Capaulta?”
“Yes, Relayer?”
“Grant of dropped title Capaulta?”
“Grant given.”
“May I know what the Pravelers decided at their convening?”
“I don’t see why not...everyone will know soon enough. They’ve decided the military will win the onslaught of battles upon us sufficiently well that evacuation will not be necessary.”
“Would it sound treasonous to say not even the Altojo can decide battles?”
“No Relayer that would sound rational. Is there anything else you’d like to know early? Much weighs on my mind.”
“Sorry, Capaulta. But as a Relayer, it’s my duty to inform you each measurement of the approaching forces has revealed more of them than previously counted. There is not enough material or man-power on-planet to defeat the force as numbered. Evacuation projections result in majority-casualties at this point but we have no viable defense.”
“I know Relayer…(lower, breathier) it is this consideration that makes my thoughts heavy. ”
“Capaulta Moniere! Are you here?”
“Be professional Relayer.”
The man who’s title latter-more was spoken reformed his hurried manner into one more suitable for a military report. Seeing not the expected stare but an eased waiting from Moniere he composes himself. Light, jangly, emotional movements disperse from his body, pouring out into the open room.
“I have come to deliver my annual report on the outermost ring of satellites’ recordings early under suspicion of impending invasion.”
Moniere takes in some seriousness that tightens his muscles and stills his body.
“Proceed.”
“370 of the satellites have failed to respond in their last contact cycle. I sent a checking signal and had the equipment checked to be sure it could send and receive on our end. None of the previously silent satellites responded yet an additional 49 from the outermost ring did not respond. Streams from the seventh ring have shown nothing in visible light spectra. But yellow-light imaging revealed Kapernaim and Wodremn forces have entered our space.” Flewivz thought Moniere was going to speak for a moment there. “Available details on the make-up of those forces, the log-times of these recording, and additional observations are recorded in the full brief”. Moniere shook hands with Flewivz so the brief was transferred to his wrist-memorizer.
“Why did you deliver this information personally?”
“Capaulta I didn’t really think about it, Capaulta. I wanted to be sure you received it, Capaulta, it seemed of enough significance to attend to personally. I was unsure of if an alternate form of message delivery would be read by you in satisfactory time.”
Moniere slapped his three-plane opposable thumbed palm against Flewivz’s corresponding nine digits.
“Synch your recorders into a single stream then send it to my wrist-memorizer. Dismissed.”
Moniere watched Flewivz fast-walk through the doorway. He thought about the report, accessible by his mind like a personal memory on the wrist-memorizer’s account. His first light consideration of the most impressive facts brought him to a plan: that evening he would give Praveler Hydduoss a preview of his conclusions at their dinner. {It’d been so long since they’d been able to catch up on personal unimportant matters…}. Moniere would also request that the 12 Pravelers of C.H. hold assembly tomorrow, a brief for other states be prepared, and the Altojo informed. Until dinner he would mobilize his traffi. Moniere was glad he had no family to worry about.
Sunsets that baked the clouds and set them to shimmering mixes of teal, aqua marine, and desert scarlet passed on C.H. Sporadic rain-spatters dappled isolated parts of the city. Plains to the west blurred into mists and mountains shone with the northbound sun.
Moniere was closing a conversation about some of the auxiliary implications of losing satellites for Qutrifha’s own troop movement when Flewivz asked him:
“Capaulta?”
“Yes, Relayer?”
“Grant of dropped title Capaulta?”
“Grant given.”
“May I know what the Pravelers decided at their convening?”
“I don’t see why not...everyone will know soon enough. They’ve decided the military will win the onslaught of battles upon us sufficiently well that evacuation will not be necessary.”
“Would it sound treasonous to say not even the Altojo can decide battles?”
“No Relayer that would sound rational. Is there anything else you’d like to know early? Much weighs on my mind.”
“Sorry, Capaulta. But as a Relayer, it’s my duty to inform you each measurement of the approaching forces has revealed more of them than previously counted. There is not enough material or man-power on-planet to defeat the force as numbered. Evacuation projections result in majority-casualties at this point but we have no viable defense.”
“I know Relayer…(lower, breathier) it is this consideration that makes my thoughts heavy. ”
Horror Inspired
A breath blown in heavy air scraped diagonally, at angles, from Pedri’s neck –where skin let his vertebrae shew through to (nearly) tendons at his throat’s side. Shade was cast from his right jaw over his right shoulder. Drops of light bobbed in his eyes as they listed to their right corners. Behind him a cabin quiet. Wood planks wore skins of dust and scars where paler inner wood showed through. Corners had broken off –tripped below the floorboards, a place which couldn’t be seen. Pedri’s shoulders rotated as he faced the back door which hung askew like a humpback’s arm and shoulder. Snowpowder blues deepened into hues indistinct from black birch trees in the backyard. They surrounded the house. Yellow strokes curved across Pedri’s ear, near where it comes to a hole. He could here: a far-off voice pushing through the air, snow soaking up vibrations, and the absence of crickets humming for mates. Healthy brown, a color one of God’s trees or deer would be happy to wear, made the skin of his boots. He walked across the room and let himself through the handicapped porta with a slap.
Whatever shirt or jeans he wore were covered by his bushy jacket. It looked like something a Russian might wear while patrolling a Siberian work-camp or an extravagant mark of style for an American actress in 1927. Behind him were wooden planks, each higher one laid so its’ lower edge jutted in front of the top edge of the board beneath it. Homey shutters adorned well-repaired windows. They’d been kept clean of spiderwebs. Were it spring this cabin would manage an inviting face. Pedri’s jaw was loose, not clamped. At any moment it might lower. He looked from left to right, leaning on his heels, then withheld a sigh at a sight without people. There! Something scuffled. Pedri knew what.
Running after its’ last position he took out the axe. Madri was killed with this. He did his best to wipe off her browning decay; it reminded him of seeing that thing swing into her diaphragm, slunking in the bladehead heavily, pulling it out of the trench it dug with a pucker, hacking finger-depth cuts into her sides and stomach, blood quietly exiting, streaming outward, the carpet couldn’t soak it fast enough…
His ears lean out. Beneath the sound of running boots leaving stomps in dirt is a scratchy sprint. Soon Pedri can’t hear either over his own breathing. Lungs have to fight the air to for▓ swung back as a reflex, staggered, caught with his left leg, slashed across his hip, tried to hit it, it went right he went after, sent a blow for its’ head, caught the axe in a tree, teeth jumped for his wrist, he had it by the throat.
Bastard’s claws were sharp enough to slit Pedri through his jacket-sleeves. Cut your fingertip with a serrated knife and you’ll know what it feels like. But he took it. Holding his breath, red faced, he strangled that little thing. It gargled and coughed gagged and sputtered under his weight. He was on top of it, shoulders up, square, kneeling, bearing all his weight diagonally forward and down, hurting his fingers with the pressure he put on its’ throat, pushing for a collapse, crushing. Its’ throat gave way. It was no longer tight but squishy. Tiny arms fell. Snow burst up as hands hit it. Open, tawny eyes stared at Pedri dead. He rocked back and forth some crying. Gasps of breath let him sob and shake. Veins stretched his skin and wrinkles ruffled at the sides of his tight, tearful eyes. He let his palms relax. The pain in them, unnoticed, dissipated. His shoulders sagged as he stood and turned around. A tree lent support as he let his back slide down it. Pedri kept the killer in sight. That monster. Then he was quiet, looking out at a mountaintop forest without focusing on anything.
Madri had said that she thought they’d disturbed its’ nest. That’s why it killed Guand, Tilliam, Suze, Allison, Rekale…
She said…if he went to the cabin where it all started it’d show up again. He just had to wait until night because it must be nocturnal. It only acted where light wouldn’t touch it. Take this with you. He took the axe and went to finish whatever creature he’d fought off.
Pedri stood again. Two steps and he could see it better. Brown eyes trailed over dirty feet, battered knees, a stretched stomach, chesthair, shoulders thinner than its’ hips, and a long face. Its’ nose stretched out farther than its’ fingers did from its’ hands. Before it had a handsome face. In death it could almost be a deformed human. Pedri tilted his head to look where a little of the cabin’s light fell between its’ thighs. What had he dealt with? If he moved the body (dragging it) into better light he would know. But he left it untouched.
Once again Pedri looked about himself, standing, alert. He wanted to have friendly noise for company in the lonely silence yet he wouldn’t break his mind’s solemnity by talking to himself.
He walked towards the cabin to look for the path back.
Whatever shirt or jeans he wore were covered by his bushy jacket. It looked like something a Russian might wear while patrolling a Siberian work-camp or an extravagant mark of style for an American actress in 1927. Behind him were wooden planks, each higher one laid so its’ lower edge jutted in front of the top edge of the board beneath it. Homey shutters adorned well-repaired windows. They’d been kept clean of spiderwebs. Were it spring this cabin would manage an inviting face. Pedri’s jaw was loose, not clamped. At any moment it might lower. He looked from left to right, leaning on his heels, then withheld a sigh at a sight without people. There! Something scuffled. Pedri knew what.
Running after its’ last position he took out the axe. Madri was killed with this. He did his best to wipe off her browning decay; it reminded him of seeing that thing swing into her diaphragm, slunking in the bladehead heavily, pulling it out of the trench it dug with a pucker, hacking finger-depth cuts into her sides and stomach, blood quietly exiting, streaming outward, the carpet couldn’t soak it fast enough…
His ears lean out. Beneath the sound of running boots leaving stomps in dirt is a scratchy sprint. Soon Pedri can’t hear either over his own breathing. Lungs have to fight the air to for▓ swung back as a reflex, staggered, caught with his left leg, slashed across his hip, tried to hit it, it went right he went after, sent a blow for its’ head, caught the axe in a tree, teeth jumped for his wrist, he had it by the throat.
Bastard’s claws were sharp enough to slit Pedri through his jacket-sleeves. Cut your fingertip with a serrated knife and you’ll know what it feels like. But he took it. Holding his breath, red faced, he strangled that little thing. It gargled and coughed gagged and sputtered under his weight. He was on top of it, shoulders up, square, kneeling, bearing all his weight diagonally forward and down, hurting his fingers with the pressure he put on its’ throat, pushing for a collapse, crushing. Its’ throat gave way. It was no longer tight but squishy. Tiny arms fell. Snow burst up as hands hit it. Open, tawny eyes stared at Pedri dead. He rocked back and forth some crying. Gasps of breath let him sob and shake. Veins stretched his skin and wrinkles ruffled at the sides of his tight, tearful eyes. He let his palms relax. The pain in them, unnoticed, dissipated. His shoulders sagged as he stood and turned around. A tree lent support as he let his back slide down it. Pedri kept the killer in sight. That monster. Then he was quiet, looking out at a mountaintop forest without focusing on anything.
Madri had said that she thought they’d disturbed its’ nest. That’s why it killed Guand, Tilliam, Suze, Allison, Rekale…
She said…if he went to the cabin where it all started it’d show up again. He just had to wait until night because it must be nocturnal. It only acted where light wouldn’t touch it. Take this with you. He took the axe and went to finish whatever creature he’d fought off.
Pedri stood again. Two steps and he could see it better. Brown eyes trailed over dirty feet, battered knees, a stretched stomach, chesthair, shoulders thinner than its’ hips, and a long face. Its’ nose stretched out farther than its’ fingers did from its’ hands. Before it had a handsome face. In death it could almost be a deformed human. Pedri tilted his head to look where a little of the cabin’s light fell between its’ thighs. What had he dealt with? If he moved the body (dragging it) into better light he would know. But he left it untouched.
Once again Pedri looked about himself, standing, alert. He wanted to have friendly noise for company in the lonely silence yet he wouldn’t break his mind’s solemnity by talking to himself.
He walked towards the cabin to look for the path back.
Bill Collectors
Just another race to make. He’s spending more time off the ground than on it, pumping his arms like a hydraulic-powered windmill. Discordant 18th notes are hit steadily in an accented riff. There’s a melodic acoustic hidden underneath its’ louder lead-guitar electric cousin and a swinging electric bass, second electric guitar playing countermelody, + two drummers performing a duet together above it all. Pelocwn speeds up with the music. Beneath his blurring legs the world is rolling.
Turning his head 3/8ths back shows his pursuers’re still enshadowed several railines back. Pelocwn skips behind a tank. It’s a behemoth structure in a larger grid of like-modeled giants. He can’s even see the furthest end of it because of encroaching shadows. They bring to Pelocwns mind zeppelins and tanker trucks. Shaking his head brings him back to the task at hand. Crouched he looks for Garedo and Onar to pass by in a hurry. Knees centimeters from his chest, breath held, palms braced with splayed fingers upon the wind-whupped dirt he patiently counts some seconds. Waiting until just before he would have to gasp he breaths quietly. There’s still nothing to see by the path he came from. Shoulders slump and Pelocwn switches to a cross-legged position. Not long later his head is in his right hand the elbow rested on his right knee. The band’s finished the song they’d been playing. It was a 15-minute instrumental epic. Now the singers back and Pelocwn feels cheated with his waiting.
Emerging from the symmetrically round tank’s side (only a peering head) Pelocwn sees the other 30-40+somethings he has been waiting to catch up with him. Not including his legs, Onar is shaped like a very thick b or d. His hairy arms keep his head from lowering too much –braced as they are against his legs. Garedo keeps trying to convince him, loudly, to come along. They have to get that punk before he escapes. They’re so caught up in their argument that they don’t notice changes taking place around them. So much of Onar’s breath is used to yell* that he can’t catch his breath.
Pelocwn turns from the scene and sees a $50** crest and trough, turning in semi-circular slashes an airshow pilot. He-has-to grab it before the wind pulls it out of reach. With a snatch! Greenie fifty is in Pelocwn’s palm. Listening to Paladin Oaths by Virginian Man-Eater Animal, Pelocwn stuffs his money into a jacket pocket. With shut eyes, he hears a victory song…and
“got ya now twirp>:)”. Four arms are looped between his still-in-pocket arms and torso sides. “Hold! (Garedo turns a full-force de-stomacher punch into a tap) I have your money” “See Orno? I knew this liar had a cash-stash untapped.” Pelocwn handed over his 50. Those men who nearly assailed him passed behind his back to leave. “Hey! Could I get change?” Garedo and Orno look at each other, Garedo shrugs, and Orno hands Pelocwn a $10 bronze chip.
Visible by streetlight, he stares through the concert-fence to catch their encore. He’ll have to go to sleep tomorrow. Pelocwn’s number 28 in Agsbur’s annual Vietoff Cure race.
*loud as the music was, Garedo and Onar were close enough to hear one another at regular vocal volumes.
**After the Rollicking Cradle-Kickers 3008 tour (which was when the song “First Time w/my lady I Spent a 50, dollar, bill” became so popular) it became tradition for fans to hold up antique American $50s at VA Eat. Concerts.
Turning his head 3/8ths back shows his pursuers’re still enshadowed several railines back. Pelocwn skips behind a tank. It’s a behemoth structure in a larger grid of like-modeled giants. He can’s even see the furthest end of it because of encroaching shadows. They bring to Pelocwns mind zeppelins and tanker trucks. Shaking his head brings him back to the task at hand. Crouched he looks for Garedo and Onar to pass by in a hurry. Knees centimeters from his chest, breath held, palms braced with splayed fingers upon the wind-whupped dirt he patiently counts some seconds. Waiting until just before he would have to gasp he breaths quietly. There’s still nothing to see by the path he came from. Shoulders slump and Pelocwn switches to a cross-legged position. Not long later his head is in his right hand the elbow rested on his right knee. The band’s finished the song they’d been playing. It was a 15-minute instrumental epic. Now the singers back and Pelocwn feels cheated with his waiting.
Emerging from the symmetrically round tank’s side (only a peering head) Pelocwn sees the other 30-40+somethings he has been waiting to catch up with him. Not including his legs, Onar is shaped like a very thick b or d. His hairy arms keep his head from lowering too much –braced as they are against his legs. Garedo keeps trying to convince him, loudly, to come along. They have to get that punk before he escapes. They’re so caught up in their argument that they don’t notice changes taking place around them. So much of Onar’s breath is used to yell* that he can’t catch his breath.
Pelocwn turns from the scene and sees a $50** crest and trough, turning in semi-circular slashes an airshow pilot. He-has-to grab it before the wind pulls it out of reach. With a snatch! Greenie fifty is in Pelocwn’s palm. Listening to Paladin Oaths by Virginian Man-Eater Animal, Pelocwn stuffs his money into a jacket pocket. With shut eyes, he hears a victory song…and
“got ya now twirp>:)”. Four arms are looped between his still-in-pocket arms and torso sides. “Hold! (Garedo turns a full-force de-stomacher punch into a tap) I have your money” “See Orno? I knew this liar had a cash-stash untapped.” Pelocwn handed over his 50. Those men who nearly assailed him passed behind his back to leave. “Hey! Could I get change?” Garedo and Orno look at each other, Garedo shrugs, and Orno hands Pelocwn a $10 bronze chip.
Visible by streetlight, he stares through the concert-fence to catch their encore. He’ll have to go to sleep tomorrow. Pelocwn’s number 28 in Agsbur’s annual Vietoff Cure race.
*loud as the music was, Garedo and Onar were close enough to hear one another at regular vocal volumes.
**After the Rollicking Cradle-Kickers 3008 tour (which was when the song “First Time w/my lady I Spent a 50, dollar, bill” became so popular) it became tradition for fans to hold up antique American $50s at VA Eat. Concerts.
An Example of Coincidence's Abscence
“Plans are the thoughts of people who imagine they decide what happens next”-Jickita (wih·key·tuh). Trossen’s hands turned an ocular over for him to observe the angles of. What was made to view the world through he viewed within the world. Next to him, in a clear recently-cleaned trap, swam Bozo the Fish trailed by bubblets. With a squealing bounce, Jickita’s bed let her sit up. “We should go somewhere”-Jickita. “Nah, I’ve got plans”-Make. Whatever friend gave him that name only has it as a legacy of a relationship with Make. A pillow tumbled from Alley’s bed (which Jickita jumped off of), above Bozo the Fish’s tank, to wap! an ocular out of Trossen’s hands. Jickita meant to hit Make but because her aim was so off, she caused an ocular to break. Forcefully pushed out air passed moments by as Trossen’s shoulders slouched. He leaned to pick up that ocular, Jickita walked over to apologize, and Make started to ask what happened when someone banged wood. Again, their front door was rapped by unseen knuckles.
Trossen went between his roommate and friend to find Alley on the other side. “Forgot your key again”-Trossen. Alley just smiled. “I found this place a bit past Sheldon, it’s beautiful. The view goes on for miles and its’ sky is bigger still. Let’s go there today.”-Alley. “Alright, I’ll go with you”-Trossen. “How ‘bout when it’s starlight?”-Jickita. “Alright”-Alley and Trossen. “I can’t go I don’t know the way.”-Make. “We’ll make you go.”-Jickita. Nobody laughed. “If you want to come, I can show you the way”-Alley. So that night: Alley, Make, Trossen, and Jickita had a beautiful view of Prator’s Comet puncturing the sky, leaving a molten trail, and leveling their home in the suburb of Fingordah.
Trossen went between his roommate and friend to find Alley on the other side. “Forgot your key again”-Trossen. Alley just smiled. “I found this place a bit past Sheldon, it’s beautiful. The view goes on for miles and its’ sky is bigger still. Let’s go there today.”-Alley. “Alright, I’ll go with you”-Trossen. “How ‘bout when it’s starlight?”-Jickita. “Alright”-Alley and Trossen. “I can’t go I don’t know the way.”-Make. “We’ll make you go.”-Jickita. Nobody laughed. “If you want to come, I can show you the way”-Alley. So that night: Alley, Make, Trossen, and Jickita had a beautiful view of Prator’s Comet puncturing the sky, leaving a molten trail, and leveling their home in the suburb of Fingordah.
A Purposefully 90 Degree Senseo of Reasoning
Hedrag’s thoughtful. Hedrag connected his feet to the ground so that it was marked. Soil clung in clumps that overlapped in spherical shapes like cumulous clouds, around his bare feet. Stiff, pale, goose-skin on Hedrag’s exposed torso-parts stung ‘til numbed by discs of snow. They nearly cut. From between a pair of trees (one deep grey the other ash) bent low came forth a single animal. An unhealthy froth escaped the wolves slacken muzzle. Across from the mad beast, Hedrag would not let his arms relax. Paws stepped diagonally and this canine didn’t seem to know it wasn’t alone. It looked around, alert, as if it heard something then returned to the way it came.
He likes how Sen Po helps him think. Slick with fever-sweat Hedrag flipped. He could feel the sheets bunched between his legs, pulled taunt across his shoulder, slack at his feet. But that feeling began to fade as his dream-state was regained.
Whenever he’s clear-headed and led to question things physical by illness he must inquire into his body’s state by exercising.. Bubbles nearly yet made amorphous by their momentum –shapes slithered in a spacious linear pattern. Counter to them was a harness strapped to Hedrag’s back. He propelled over a rise in the ground and hurt his eyes looking at the sun beyond. Past the greasy layers of tense ocean membrane that sloshed above him there was a bloom of brilliance. To avoid that sight-strainer he pushed his head down-tilt. Surging towards him from below in gloom
coughs communicated with Hedrag. Shunted breath comforted. Attention to physical details was stirring but his mind fought it. Those sensations were going away…
for a second time Hedrag was having the first dream told of here until | it had heard Hedrag. Its’ restrained posture shattered into fleeting forelimbs. In the time he took spinning those claws and jaws were nearly into Hedrag. His legs smashed into the building crust of snow like mortar shells in much-chewed earth. Granules mashed with snow. The trail Hedrag left was spattered with dirt from where he had earlier stood. Though his pants (which did crescendo) could still not supply necessary respiration Hedrag ran. An asthma attack came. Choked, he stumbled into bark and nearly against his fat was a spindly set of paws.
What didn’t make itself can’t unmake itself. It tried. Hedrag’s mind could not keep such dreams away. Room windows left open to lower the fever allowed whatever the wind carried into Gollsieb(Hedrag’s mother)’s abode; a leaf scraped its’ dry-rolled edge on his back
They dug into his padded hind. Maybe because of his blubber’s thick-shift protection but the feel of claws breaking in Hedrag’s back, beneath epidermis, didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. Spun by that pain-driven beast to face it. A crude shove got the mutt-father off him. Because this wolf came forward Hedrag gave it one on the nose. Heavy scarlet blood spurted out. Growled then charged in again. Backhand lifted its’ forward paws off the ground. Backtread. Stretched front legs and hunched rear legs ready for pouncing. Right foot placed back, torso turned, left shoulder presented, fists up. A drawn out snarl and two barks more before the wolf ran off.
Sen Po is his favorite form of exercise. “…Sen Po class and he just passed out,” Hedrag’s mother “the poor dear. Dubbor is out on business so I left Lisjea with Temin and rushed off to get him” came home “I was so worried when he couldn’t be woken. I was going to call you” with her friend “and cancel but then he woke up and said he just wanted to rest.” from lunch “Has his fever dropped?” while Hedrag slept.
To not respond to physical difficulty by reevaluating physical-spiritual relations Hedrag would eliminate a trait he has had sense conception. The last dream Hedrag had is replaying until…the wolf’s claws are like fire. They don’t sting –they don’t cut. They’re not sharp or prickly but they sear as steam does. Their heat soaks into his chubby exterior. Yet it feels as if Hedrag had sat too long in front of a furnace, swiftly excess warmth flees from his form. Connected wet sand (frozen snow clusters) catch in Hedrag’s throat, rub-burn his cheeks, make ribbon-cuts against his gums, and uncomfortably soak patches of his hair. Battering paws role Hedrag over. Sweaty breath proclaims the jaws coming after it. In time to see a central cut of his throat trail behind the rearing wolf, Hedrag opens his eyes. Larger than the pair that preceded it, the wolf’s third swallow pulls a juicy red sample of Hedrag from the wolf’s back-tossed head into its’ stomach. Canine tongue lashes flesh from fur.
In a way, he would die. . “ihHEE-ug” lets Ms. Dubbor Poma’ort know her son’s up. He scrabbles fabric to free his body. Desperate. Sat up, Hedrag’s eyes resolve twin light-stopping fuzzes into his mom and her friend. “How do you feel honey?” “Better…good enough to get up.” Weak, feeling like his body has a fulcrum at his shins, Hedrag treks to the kitchen in a pause-stagger fashion. Whatever his Mom and her friend mean is incomprehensible noise to Hedrag as he sips water that seeps into cracks in his throat. Grabbing the deck chair gives him the option of sitting in addition to that of falling on it. Wooden chair bars catch Hedrag’s sticky skin between them. Women’s sounds decrescendo poco a poco until Hedrag is shivering alone. There’sn’t enough hair on his body to stop the outdoor chill from tormenting. Careful to keep balanced on his slippery footing, Hedrag moves away from the wood around him. He’s till having trouble seeing. Is something there? Yes…approaching, slightly downhill from his home, Hedrag can see a fat –nearly naked man! Unreasonably sick, he chases this stranger. Hedrag’s eyes stung as he ran, bloodshot and moist. When that man falls Hedrag hits into him (burning with fever) then turns him over to see his face and taste his throat.
Hedrag shakes himself awake. He wonders how he knows…anything>that his sense can be trusted
“I have an answer for Hadrag’s last question; he suffered and endured the flu in torment because didn’t it make part of his life interesting to consider?”-Narrator.
*that’d require a persistent present tense
He likes how Sen Po helps him think. Slick with fever-sweat Hedrag flipped. He could feel the sheets bunched between his legs, pulled taunt across his shoulder, slack at his feet. But that feeling began to fade as his dream-state was regained.
Whenever he’s clear-headed and led to question things physical by illness he must inquire into his body’s state by exercising.. Bubbles nearly yet made amorphous by their momentum –shapes slithered in a spacious linear pattern. Counter to them was a harness strapped to Hedrag’s back. He propelled over a rise in the ground and hurt his eyes looking at the sun beyond. Past the greasy layers of tense ocean membrane that sloshed above him there was a bloom of brilliance. To avoid that sight-strainer he pushed his head down-tilt. Surging towards him from below in gloom
coughs communicated with Hedrag. Shunted breath comforted. Attention to physical details was stirring but his mind fought it. Those sensations were going away…
for a second time Hedrag was having the first dream told of here until | it had heard Hedrag. Its’ restrained posture shattered into fleeting forelimbs. In the time he took spinning those claws and jaws were nearly into Hedrag. His legs smashed into the building crust of snow like mortar shells in much-chewed earth. Granules mashed with snow. The trail Hedrag left was spattered with dirt from where he had earlier stood. Though his pants (which did crescendo) could still not supply necessary respiration Hedrag ran. An asthma attack came. Choked, he stumbled into bark and nearly against his fat was a spindly set of paws.
What didn’t make itself can’t unmake itself. It tried. Hedrag’s mind could not keep such dreams away. Room windows left open to lower the fever allowed whatever the wind carried into Gollsieb(Hedrag’s mother)’s abode; a leaf scraped its’ dry-rolled edge on his back
They dug into his padded hind. Maybe because of his blubber’s thick-shift protection but the feel of claws breaking in Hedrag’s back, beneath epidermis, didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. Spun by that pain-driven beast to face it. A crude shove got the mutt-father off him. Because this wolf came forward Hedrag gave it one on the nose. Heavy scarlet blood spurted out. Growled then charged in again. Backhand lifted its’ forward paws off the ground. Backtread. Stretched front legs and hunched rear legs ready for pouncing. Right foot placed back, torso turned, left shoulder presented, fists up. A drawn out snarl and two barks more before the wolf ran off.
Sen Po is his favorite form of exercise. “…Sen Po class and he just passed out,” Hedrag’s mother “the poor dear. Dubbor is out on business so I left Lisjea with Temin and rushed off to get him” came home “I was so worried when he couldn’t be woken. I was going to call you” with her friend “and cancel but then he woke up and said he just wanted to rest.” from lunch “Has his fever dropped?” while Hedrag slept.
To not respond to physical difficulty by reevaluating physical-spiritual relations Hedrag would eliminate a trait he has had sense conception. The last dream Hedrag had is replaying until…the wolf’s claws are like fire. They don’t sting –they don’t cut. They’re not sharp or prickly but they sear as steam does. Their heat soaks into his chubby exterior. Yet it feels as if Hedrag had sat too long in front of a furnace, swiftly excess warmth flees from his form. Connected wet sand (frozen snow clusters) catch in Hedrag’s throat, rub-burn his cheeks, make ribbon-cuts against his gums, and uncomfortably soak patches of his hair. Battering paws role Hedrag over. Sweaty breath proclaims the jaws coming after it. In time to see a central cut of his throat trail behind the rearing wolf, Hedrag opens his eyes. Larger than the pair that preceded it, the wolf’s third swallow pulls a juicy red sample of Hedrag from the wolf’s back-tossed head into its’ stomach. Canine tongue lashes flesh from fur.
In a way, he would die. . “ihHEE-ug” lets Ms. Dubbor Poma’ort know her son’s up. He scrabbles fabric to free his body. Desperate. Sat up, Hedrag’s eyes resolve twin light-stopping fuzzes into his mom and her friend. “How do you feel honey?” “Better…good enough to get up.” Weak, feeling like his body has a fulcrum at his shins, Hedrag treks to the kitchen in a pause-stagger fashion. Whatever his Mom and her friend mean is incomprehensible noise to Hedrag as he sips water that seeps into cracks in his throat. Grabbing the deck chair gives him the option of sitting in addition to that of falling on it. Wooden chair bars catch Hedrag’s sticky skin between them. Women’s sounds decrescendo poco a poco until Hedrag is shivering alone. There’sn’t enough hair on his body to stop the outdoor chill from tormenting. Careful to keep balanced on his slippery footing, Hedrag moves away from the wood around him. He’s till having trouble seeing. Is something there? Yes…approaching, slightly downhill from his home, Hedrag can see a fat –nearly naked man! Unreasonably sick, he chases this stranger. Hedrag’s eyes stung as he ran, bloodshot and moist. When that man falls Hedrag hits into him (burning with fever) then turns him over to see his face and taste his throat.
Hedrag shakes himself awake. He wonders how he knows…anything>that his sense can be trusted
“I have an answer for Hadrag’s last question; he suffered and endured the flu in torment because didn’t it make part of his life interesting to consider?”-Narrator.
*that’d require a persistent present tense
15 Minutes or Les
Frantically, with sorely hitting feet, he ran forward, Aldrins Mackam that is. Terrible claws of silverfish sheen and cruel curves took further tatters from his billowing, bouncing, frayed overjacket. Cold swamp air hung sour about him. Pungently he stirred up more and more of them with his pounding steps on spoiled marshlands. Warning squelches came before a mound of flesh would press up from the thin stew of this swampbottom, rearing up the Gotmoten would pause, letting the bottom-broth run off them like ladled bath water over a senior citizens craggy back, before joining other shambling-loose monstrosities in giving chase. That’s the only time Mackam could see them. When their 7 propelling limbs were freed from entangling vines, thick-grown moss, heavy bunches of dead leaves, decayed animal chunks, logs, and other assorted mire-trapped camouflage they took to the scraggily twisted-limbed trees of the unnamed daylit swamp in which Mackam ran. Small waving could be heard of the branches bouncing in the air after they’d been used as springboards. In the full light, Mackam was nearly snatched again. Instead the hungry hook which carved across his stomach pulled him sideways, causing him to fall. Then they were upon him. In the pale spring light that shafted through white fog Mackam saw a Gomo ontop of him. Its’ face-skin split back with a wretched rough tearing sound to let lines of muscle-fiber come forward. As they gathered in a querulous feeding mass, the Gotmoten sprayed Mackam’s body, dissolving it. Eyes, skin, muscle, ligaments, fat, cartilidge, organs, and bone crackled with violent chemical reactions, liquefying, disturbing the bacterial solution of once-water they ran into. Through pores in their skin the Gotmoten soaked up nutrients to be digested. Before, they were used in the body of a man named Mackam.
Done eating, they return to different lurker hideaways to sleep and wait. Before there had been hundreds of them. With food so scarce, they’d fallen to less than 20 and were continuing to die out. A compassionate human could hope a hunting party’s sent for Mackam so these endangered monsters don’t die out.
Done eating, they return to different lurker hideaways to sleep and wait. Before there had been hundreds of them. With food so scarce, they’d fallen to less than 20 and were continuing to die out. A compassionate human could hope a hunting party’s sent for Mackam so these endangered monsters don’t die out.
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