10-Minutes of Art

Here's the deal. I'll make some horrible art. It comes in three flavors: Writing, Drawing, Sculpting And I only get 10 minutes to do it. -AutFaciam

[autfaciam-blog1]

I like tiny ribcages.

[autfaciam-blog1]

Sketching thangs

[autfaciam-blog1]

sex, drugs, feelings

[autfaciam-blog1]

Not-so-high-ku #2

Defeat, silent field

Young ambition, withering

Wisdom? Misery?

[autfaciam-blog1]

A Proper Pillow

You know, life isn’t so bad. Oh, wait “life” isn’t so bad. I keep forgetting I’m dead. And in hell.

There’s this massive sword -- a doppelhander, if I may so bold to guess --- currently lodged in my chest. The bleeding is what’s really impressive. I mean, at first it takes a minute or two for your brain to record what’s really going on. Then it’s the shock of understanding that you are being harmed. Then the pain, never gets old. And for brief sporadic moments you start wondering about completely useless things like “wow, I didn’t know I had so much blood inside of me” or “man, my pants are ruined.” Ah yes, how brilliant and prompt our brains are.

That sword is the sword of regret ( or so I heard the devils from room 45533 yell, after having to deal with my screams. It was only my first week back then ). See, I’m a pretty horrible person. I cheated on my girlfriend. That sort of act leaves a sting that doesn’t quite leave you. The bigger the guilt, the bigger the sword. Did I mention it pretty much looks like a Doppelhander? Is that how you call them? Ah who the fuck cares.

Surprisingly the rapists just stay in a room. Alone. I mean I get the psychological pain but I feel that some form of stab here or puncture there should do the charm. Ugh, vision getting fuzzy. Too much blood lost. Give me a sec.

Ok here we go again. I already lost count how many times I’ve died. Turns out you CAN and WILL get used to it, given enough time that is. And time I have lots of, much unlike my basic commodities.

You know what I really miss? A proper goddamn pillow. This sword-stabbing business is kiling my back ( see? useless thoughts).

[autfaciam-blog1]

top o the mornin to ya, putas

[autfaciam-blog1]

Picking them like groceries in a supermarket

[autfaciam-blog1]

A High-ku

Gaping void swallows

Foreign memories dead

My balls, itching. Bread. 

[autfaciam-blog1]

Roto

Piezas de marfil, perfilando el perímetro de una playa desolada

El dragón rojo, aprisionado, deposita su cuerpo en su costado

La cortina diurna, ensanchada de este a oeste

Yace ahi la mentira más grande, incrustada en su fachada

Aquel resultado de ciertos músculos y neuronas que ocultan la realidad

De que su mundo y aquel

Separados por el vacío incierto

Una muralla eterna, inmarcesible. 

De papel.

[autfaciam-blog1]

Time-Travel Tea

After the funeral she went into her grandmother’s cabinet. Old wood and a smell of her usual perfume. Perusing through its contents revealed quirks that nobody knew grannie had. A collection of buttons, black and white photos of random objects left in the street and a little black box.

The box was unlocked, as it was her grandmother’s habit to leave things be--arguing that “the best kept secret is the one that’s not a secret.” And there it was, a tiny little tea-bag with the words “Time-Travel Tea.” It must’ve been at least a couple of decades old, no, perhaps more. And it seems the contents of the teabag were being painstakingly rationed. 

Perhaps it was the grief but Alice took out a mug and was read to boil a way towards discovery. Perhaps, if this worked--whatever “this” was. Perhaps she could get everything back. Perhaps she could save everyone she ever lost.

To honor the deceased, she took out only a couple of leaves from the bags contents. They danced in the light, iridescent and almost translucent. And an oddly penetrating smell. It wasn’t a bad smell it was just a smell that doesn’t let you forget.

Dropping the leaves onto the boiling water, they evaporated with an almost melodic sound. Like plucking a chord from a just-tuned violin. And she heard it. Her grandmother’s voice echoing from within. This was it!

After taking a sip. Then two. Then three. She kept hearing her voice. But her world didn’t change. The room didn’t change. Everything was the same.

Oh but it wasn’t. She could smell, hear, and feel the touch of her grandmother. It’s almost as if someone was playing back a memory in her head but there was no image. No visuals. Just smells, touches, sounds. She couldn’t help but burst into tears, realizing that as magical as this elixir was, it still didn’t bring her grandmother back.

“I love you Grannie” she whispered onto the iridescent depths of the mug.

[autfaciam-blog1]

Big Bandaid

He was born without things that most people are born with. Or maybe he was born with everything nobody had? 

Not having an actual heart is surprisingly useful at times. Other than muscle soreness you could basically do physical activities non-stop. And other than your non-existent heart, your other most vulnerable organ would be your brain, which comes handily with it’s own shock-absorption casing.

And things like experiencing love and all that jazz, they could happen. It was easy for him to love someone.

But he couldn’t really feel it back, I mean there’s nowhere to put it, right? 

So, one day, after class. He decides to walk home. This girl that declared her love to him kind of just left him “because I don’t want to hurt you” -- which we all know is code for something not nice on the flavor of “it’s not you, it’s me” etc etc. And that really did sting. Almost as if every single instance his heartless existence blessed him with an advantage, just turned sour and bitter and caustic and acid. Ouch.

In the end, there was nothing he could do. No matter how hard he tried, or who he talked to or what new biomedical artifact was invented. Not even spells. Even High Wizards and Witches couldn’t help him.

All he had left was an awkward bandaid his ex-girlfriend gave him. It was awkward because it was the size of his hand. It was meant as a prank, a novelty. But he took it for what it was, a memory of sticky love and he put it on his gaping chest.

Alone, in the streets he realized he’d never be the same and seconds after his epiphany... a voice from behind whispered “you may now rest.” And the boy crumbled into the mud that made him and the boy no longer was.

The wizard picked up the bandaid from his Golem’s dirt. With a sob, he cried. It doesn’t matter how many times he tried, he could never get it right. 

[autfaciam-blog1]

Tumor Whisperer

Day 1

What the fuck

Day 2

...

Day 3

After overcoming the realization that tumors are sentient entities from a parallel dimension sent here as peaceful scouts. I can’t bring myself to ...kill it? Although, earth-shattering, this thing is also alive. And what’s worse, it talks! Horrible sense of humor, but it talks! I haven’t informed my patient about our conundrum. 

Day 4

I don’t think I can stall chemotherapy anymore. But what do I do? I just discovered tumors are living alien creatures. What the fuck. 

< Note: Remind to take the laundry to Larry’s, our machine at home broke >

Anyway, after I convinced my patient to go under anesthesia, I had an opportunity to discuss with -- I still can’t pronounce its name, it sounds like a bunch of cooking pots falling onto a wooden floor -- let’s call it bob. I had an opportunity to talk to ...bob about where it came from.

Day 5

WHAT THE FUCK. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME. THIS IS BULLSHIT. FUCK. FML FML FML

Day 6

FFFFFFFFFUUUUUCKKKKKKKK THISSS

Day 7

Ok, I’m still angry about this but I’m trying to be positive. This also confirms my hypothesis about cancer tumors. Reason we can’t “cure” them is because they aren’t really a disease, they are ...sentient beings and how do you convince a sentient being to do something? You reason with it. Bob, thought that I was very kind to it and took it upon itself to transplant himself onto me. God fucking damn it.

Day 8

Ok, this isn’t too bad. My patient was miraculously cured and it turns out if you take care of Bob he ...really doesn’t hurt you? How can I explain this. I was sobbing at home and then Bob tried to comfort me ( even though it is the reason why I sob, this is way too meta ) and he told me that I didn’t have to die. All I had to do was acknowledge him and give him some love. That’s it. Love cures cancer. I know, what the fuck. I hate saying it but I’ve checked my vitals, t-cell counts, all that jazz. I’m healthier than ever. The only visible change is that well now I find Bob’s jokes hilariously funny. As in, I can’t breathe, funny. 

[autfaciam-blog1]

Godmasks

Turns out gods aren’t real. I mean they are but not in the way we think them to be. 

Basically all you need to do is to follow a very specific set of instructions ranging from dramatic things like “sacrifice a goat during blood moon” to oddly contemporary ones like “find a never-used tampon and draw a happy face on it.” Whomever made this, evidently, had a sense of humor. Or too much spare time. Living forever or for a segment of forever would bore anyone.

Anyway, my point is. I managed to get my hands on one of these instructions. Took me forever. Well, not literally forever, just 5 years. But it felt like forever. I dare anyone else to start giving names to particles of sand and to pet them--individually--and put them all to sleep next to you at least once. Oh did I mention that you can’t repeat it or you have to start over? Needless to say, I had to come up with a system of jars that I would take to school and progressively switch for new jars filled with new sand. Where am I going with this?

Oh yeah. I was about to commit suicide--pills, but after failing to do so--temporary dyslexia, I figured I’d finish my weird sand counting good night thing. The hardest part was, funnily enough, coming up with names that could help you track things down.

So after putting Jennifer18804010073, or Jen18804010073 for short, to bed I see a shiny light coming up from it. I could swear I heard a voice. Something like “who has summoned me?!” or maybe it was “can you pass me some cheese?” and before I knew it there it was. My godmask.

I couldn’t wait any longer, put it on and...well till the date the only ...supernatural ability it has is that if you put it on your face it’ll stay there. Kind of like a very soft magnet. Oh and it also smells like oatmeal.  

[autfaciam-blog1]

Cloud Man

He saw the edge with hesitation. With the wind touching his soles he took gravity’s hand and denied her affections. That was the first time he did it, but not the last. 

It was always a dream of his, to share the celestial road with his fellow avians. 

Being raised by seagulls had its benefits. Give or take a mating season or two. Turns out human organs aren’t equipped for the job. Not so much a matter of size, but a matter of logistics. Seaguls are ...adaptable. 

Moving on.

The first thing he noticed was the wetness from the clouds. He always pictured them as cotton knobs stuck in the sky, but currently they’re more like small segments of rain stuck in time. The clouds were where he went when he was feeling down. A bit ironic that he is there now and well to put it bluntly, he’s never been happier.

Flight is such a tricky situation. See, most people approach the issue from a purely mechanical point of view, not realizing that flight isn’t a matter of physics. Flight is a matter of thought, spirit, feeling, all that bullshit.

And there it was, the prodigal moment where Icarus fell. But he wouldn’t. This wasn’t his dream, this wasn’t something he simply wanted. This was his fate. This was inevitable and he knew it since the first moment he gazed upon.

And there it was, the sun, burning his regret.