Intrinsic Anomalies

Here's something for you to look at. And something for you to interact.

[sekhtmhorinm]

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Ray-Ban Sunglasses

[sekhtmhorinm]

Slats In The Belfry

The old cypress tree cut the moon into a patchwork of light. The open field behind the church had been a favorite of Joey and his pals for as long as he could remember holding his first joint. He could see it from his hideout among the bushes, the old town church. A stained roof over brittle brickwork, quite a few dents and flaws in the paint job. On top of that, it was ill-illuminated and damp, giving it a sinister aspect in the autumn darkness. The little light that it emanated came from two large searchlights in front of it. The dust that obfuscated the big lamps did nothing to attenuate the atmosphere seen from the tree.

Joey winced when he heard a creaking noise from the dark church. It was the middle of the night, an hour not usually assumed as a priest's waking hour. Light from within bathed the wet grass behind the church, framing the silhouette of a waking creature. From the distance, the figure looked like a hunchback with a strange protuberance coming out of its shoulders and dropping until halfway down its waist. Joey was perplexed by the silhouette, his mind working to fill the parts his eyes couldn't make out. Tightening his body to carefully hide behind the cypress, Joey clutched his hand beneath the other and felt the cold transpiration come out. The smell of his own urine made him use his wet hands to protect his nose and cover his mouth, afraid to alert the dark beast to his whereabouts.

The creature walked with cumbersome laziness, trying to find its way to the church's main door. Now, seeing it from the side, it looked to be a quadruped, two pairs of legs divided by an elongated torso, like a small equine. But where a horse's tail would be, there was a protuberance, upwards, like a centaur of myth with two parallel human body's, one at the front and one at the back. That weed was past its expiration date, thought Joey's slow mind.

Another light was turned on inside the belfry, casting form on the grotesque mass. Joey stifled a laugh, aimed at his own hallucination. The mythological being was nothing but two men, carrying the body of a third between them. An unconscious one. In the middle of the night. Sweat drenched his chest and armpits. Afraid that the silver necklace could be struck by the light of the church and make him easily spotted, he hid it under his shirt. He was not supposed to see this.

The men knocked gently on the church's door, a knock only audible for the muteness of the woods. As the door was opened, by the frail hands of the priest, the light hit the men's faces and Joey felt he recognized them. Was that his old teacher and physician, Dr. Tuttle? The man certainly had the broad shoulders and small stature, the air of expectation and fidgety demeanor. He wore a tweed jacket and his glasses seemed askew, but he carried the unknown man as if it wasn't the first time. The other was with his back to Joey and he couldn't make out who the tall man was.

Curiosity was eating away at Joey's fright, and he thought about approaching the windows of the belfry. But that would be risky and, furthermore, he was already taking too long to go back to Jim and Patricia, after having excused himself to take a leak. But if he returned and told them what he had seen, his best friend and girlfriend would likely want to join them in investigating and they would be easier to spot. Joey wanted to see what they would do to the body, he would steal a glance and run back, just to prove to himself there was no real evil going on.

The door to the church was closed again, and Joey tried to make no sound as he made his way around the building, looking for a window that would show him what he sought. The voices came before the sight and he knew he was close. The window was affixed to the side of the building, closer to the ground, and opened to a slanted room underneath the belfry. Joey laid on the wet grass and listened intently, fighting the impulse to look through the slats.

The three men conversed of incomprehensible things, of schemes and rituals and appeasement. Of specific tools and mutilation, but, most of all, of doubts. Through the slatted shutter, Joey heard the hoarse voice of the tall man and finally could place him. It was the judge of town, Mr. Bostrom, a man Joey knew better than he'd like. Bostrom was a rigid man, a man whose traditionalist principles governed the community. To see him here meant things were not what they seemed, but before that it meant he had nowhere to turn to, no one to intervene in whatever sick happenings were about to unfold.

The judge made clear his uncertainty, saying he was unsure that this was what the professor wanted. The others disagreed and said this was the only way, according to the old scriptures, and the professor, whoever he was, was a scholar of the old texts. The name of the man they so avidly idolized was easy to remember, but Joey knew of none by that name in town. The judge's over-the-top pronunciation, that made him take a few seconds longer than required to say the Rs in Joey's last name whenever they met in opposite sides of court, made sure to drill the man's name in his skull. But who was Professor Strömberg?

A movement at the edge of his vision made him tense up. He rolled on the grass to get a better view and saw his pal Jim and his sweetheart Patsy looking for him at the end of the woods. If he stayed there, they could come closer and alert the men inside. But he wanted to see, at least one time, what they were doing to the body of the dead man. As calmly as he could muster, he approached the window and saw through the slats a metal table with a naked corpse on top, his chest cut in the middle and his innards showered with an weird black oil. In a wooden table next to the vicious sight, an assortment of knives and metal devices and a leather-bound book with grotesque illustrations and hand-written instructions. Candle-lit and incense-filled, the room had an oppressive and sickening quality. Joey could but force himself not to vomit. He tried to go back out slowly, but his necklace escaped his shirt and stuck to the slat, producing a loud noise.

He yanked at it and was free as he heard the inhuman screams and the frantic shuffling of the men below. His feet could hardly hold him and his legs and throat burned, but he kept running, trying to find his friends. Half way to the woods, his stomach couldn't hold itself anymore. His sick came out in streams as he ran, dirtying his clothes and the field beyond the church. As he reached the first tree, he saw his friends come towards him, utter worry on each face. He tried to mouth the words, but couldn't. He tried to scream, but couldn't. He looked back and saw three silhouettes, now the grotesque not just a product of the mind, bursting through the door and looking for him. The screams came unheeded.

As the three kids fled the place, guided by Joey's mute gesticulations, their simultaneous goosebumps made them realize they'd have to learn to be braver friends now than they had ever been, to endure the coming times.

The light from the moon seemed to cut up the world in tiny pieces, a patchwork of fear. But soon, no light would shine.

Based on this amazing trailer narration by Brooks Christy.

I've always wanted to try and take funny/bizarre videos or ideas and see how I could work them. This is what I came up with in two moments of boredom - one moment, several years ago, when I first saw the video, and one moment now, as I try to diminish the numerical difference between my drafts and my posts. I hope you did laugh, I hope you did thrill, I hope you did indeed shudder as you read this.

[sekhtmhorinm]

The Wooden Tinker

By the light of the setting sun, she saw herself traverse the stone bridge at the edge of town. The sky looked like a ragged cloth, billowing in the wind. At the far end, a figure stood by a cart filled with packed goods. She had heard of him, the tattered clothing that hid his head and heels, the wooden mask that adorned his head. He was a peddler of trinkets, known to get more than he gave. The eyeless mask turned to face the girl as the goosebumps made her stop. 

When her feet began to move again, the peddler turned to his cart, looking for something in its depths. She pressed on, trying not to meet his wooden gaze. Perhaps she could slip by him, unperturbed yet disturbed.

The town folk told of a man that would wait by the riverbank. Among the towering mess of the cart, a trinket for every one. He wouldn't stop all that passed by him, but he would sooner or later stop all man and woman and offer something. His motives and ways were as shifting as was his appearance. For children, he was a way to keep them close by. For adults, he was a way to keep them fearful of the unknown. For everyone, he was a way to break the silence.

In a few versions, he was a wood spirit and would sell back to mankind its connection to nature, something for which anyone would pay whatever he desired. In other versions, he would steal something from you and try to sell it back. There were those who believed he was looking for his own face and would steal from the people who passed by him and, realizing he had taken the wrong one, give it back for a steep price. And there were the skeptics who said he was a mere peddler whose deformed face was hidden by a wooden mask. The truth didn't matter, she just needed him to let her pass. The next town over would be a new start, she could be whoever she wanted, without fear of her past, of the parts of her from which she wanted to flee. The tinker was just a man, a odd one at that, but a man nonetheless.

She was startled by the wooden face's sudden gasp. The rasp of the man's voice muffled by the wood. He stopped tinkering with the cart and started patting down his coat. She grew nervous. There was no way of knowing, but she felt his eyes on her, measuring her up. Probably trying to come up with something for her to buy. 

Up close, the man seemed small, his tattered and wet clothing stuck to the malnourished frame. The iron pans and silver cutlery didn't shine, despite the red sun and the bright waters below. His face turned sluggishly and, slightly twisted to the side, looked like waiting for her reaction. The wood of the mask seemed old and rotten, splinters often falling into the cart and cobblestones. His demeanor was somber and slow, handling the trinkets with great care and patience.

As she walked beside him, the man turned an old and frail hand to her, to impede her path. She stopped, even though the hand had made a poor job of blocking the way. Her mind tried to find the reasons she would stop, despite the sweat that drenched her face and body and the fear that screamed for her legs to run. The superstitions of youth were the hardest to throw away. This was the wooden tinker, the man who bought and sold dreams, the man that would store all of the wrongdoings of children, the man who would demand a toll be payed or else the evil in the bottle with your name be unleashed and done unto you. He was the reason we gave to account for the droughts, the plagues, the deaths. He was the devil himself and the reason she wasn't allowed to go out at night. The wooden mask was there because what lay beneath would tear the mind apart. So her legs wouldn't move, because the man with the wooden face wouldn't let them.

With another diseased hand, he rummaged in his coat's pocket and produced from it a large shard of some weird material. It shone with a red and purple tint that could only be compared to the sky overhead. As the tinker moved it around, the material changed, as if it encapsulated a bigger image. The reds and purples and blues of the shard danced around and she could swear to have seen yellow clouds passing inside it. The novelty got her attention with its striking beauty, but seemed no more than that - a novelty.

A sound of rasping wood on wood echoed in her ears and she took a few seconds to realize what it was. The wooden tinker, his right hand down and his left hand turning the shard to face her, was laughing. But she couldn't focus on the disturbing chortle as her mouth dropped open and saw what the shard showed. Therein, looking out with an expression of utter horror that echoed in her own face, was herself. The double, trapped inside the piece of sky, looked at her and examined the similarities, much like she was doing to it. The devil had trapped herself inside the shard. And that was his plan. The wooden demon would sell her self to her. The superstitions and scary stories of childhood came flooding back. How could she not want to buy that? What nefarious things could he do to it, if she didn't? Could she live with herself, knowing there was a part of her trapped and, why not, being tortured, inside a small chunk of glass? Would she feel it?

What would he ask for it?

A sound like roots growing, like a tall tree straining under strong winds. The man showed her his hand and motioned it like swatting a fly, as if brushing her aside. The girl in the shard seemed as quizzical as herself. She looked back. Back. Back into town? Back into her life, the one she had made all the effort to give up? Was that the price? Giving up on the terrifying unknown to settle back into the torment of certainty? Could she keep herself whole only if she went back? It was a steep price indeed.

The chortle seemed even less human, now.

Perhaps it was a good deal. There was nothing to make her believe the next town would be any better, nor that it wouldn't be worse. How could she just let a part of herself behind with not even a small guarantee that it was for a good cause? Maybe the wooden tinker wasn't a demon, but an angel sent to veer her off the wrong course. Like a good friend that, when faced with the poor decision of another, sees no way of dissuading and tries to employ manipulation to help see the error. Maybe the wooden tinker knew where everyone was headed, and tried to prevent the worst outcomes but couldn't speak.

Why the laughs, then? No, that wasn't it.

Hadn't she already relinquished most of her former self, by coming this far? Was not the bridge behind her made of hundreds of fragments of herself, laden with her personality and decisions and relationships? Was it not to run from that very sense of self, one that made her feel disgusted and outcast, that she found herself crossing this river? What the peddler was, beside a mere man in a wooden mask, was the threshold. The final stop before she could begin anew. Let him keep the fragment and all the others that fell behind, for she will create new ones to make a mosaic out of.

The laughter that echoed now was entirely human, more human than she knew she was. It was hers, and it seemed to make the tinker pause. The frail knuckles of the old man began to whiten and soon there was blood on the bridge and the sound of creaking wood in a storm as she walked the final stretch.

And she looked back and said, with a devious smile in her lips, that she was more than a tangled mess of mirrors.

This one took me quite some time. There were too many conflicting ideas and too much to say (which may account for the length of the story). I still feel I haven't said everything (and perhaps that's good, since to feel you've said everything is the death of any writer), but I wanted it to feel like a fable, which I'm not sure I managed. Anyway, I feel I should address a few things here: I must apologize to the people that were interested in it, for archiving Diaspora, and with not even a word about it to boot. It wasn't one problem or other that made me postpone it indefinitely, but a bundle of them at once. I don't intend to give up on it because I admit I truly enjoy the story I have cooked up and really want to tell it (although I wasn't particularly happy with the way I was doing it). But life has had a way of impeding almost any project I try to tackle alone. My free time has been gradually and inexorably diminished and I can't say I know when I'll get any breathing room back. I do want to go back and make it into the great adventure my mind seems to believe it is, with all the exquisite art and mind-blowing animations it deserves. Finally, for the people that do read these things, if such people in fact exist, and for some reason want to reblog these stories, feel free to delete these ramblings I usually put after each piece, if you wish. I won't mind. I use this space as this sort of actual blogging tool because I don't want to fill this site with more factual personal anxiety than the fictional sort. I can only hope that the fictional and semi-poetic aspects can help reverberate this stuff with the readers in a way the non-fiction couldn't, if anything.

[sekhtmhorinm]

Diaspora

The stars beckoned behind the cracked sky. The world seemed askew beneath my feet. As I looked ahead, trying to deduce where my life would lead me, The Fragment of the Universe seemed to pull me, possess me, taint me. It was a reminder of humanity's failed gambit and a monument to the end of the world.

My current silence here can be attributed to a few things, chiefly of which is the fact that I have been working on an interactive webcomic, called Diaspora. The model of which I have borrowed from, mainly, MSPaint Adventures. This means that the action is largely controlled by the suggestions of the readership, which seemed like a good way to force me to produce material, since I can delude myself into thinking that I'm not entirely responsible for the narrative, if it ends up not as good as I envisioned. Which isn't to say I won't give all I have to make it work and be enjoyable. My problem is over-thinking things, only starting to write when I have every single detail down. This model forces me to improvise and try to become comfortable without being in perfect control, which may be just what I need.

I had promised myself I would start putting things up on the 21st of December, for a kind of obvious internet reference. However, a few things, not least of which my self-doubt (which only decided to give me some space with the help of some great friends' support), got in the way. But now here it is. I have already delineated most of the main events of the story and the first page is already up. I hope you'll at least give it a chance and, if you can espy a chance at potential, spread the word around.

For that reason, this site may have to double as a development blog, so be on the look out for tidbits and notices here. I already know how the story, if it gets enough wind to get there, will end, but it's with the twists and turns that you readers will help me. That will possibly present an amazing journey for both you and me.

Diaspora

[sekhtmhorinm]

This Location

Night closed up like a curtain above Tristan Perrault and the Place du Palais.

The laughter of young drunkards echoed through the streets below, the music of bars reverberating on the walls of the hotels that circled the plaza. The alleyways of Nice were the epitome of cleanness, when compared to its rooftops. Tristan's eyes seemed to belong to another world while he, standing atop a hotel, calculated all movement necessary to reach the next roof at a vertiginous speed. The plan was simple: get enough velocity to jump from the roof and grab a ledge in the face of the clock tower not farther than four meters, but at a height of eight from the ground.

The world held its breath. Tristan's feet seemed to keep an intricate dance with the rest of his body while he bolted and the adrenaline filled him, numbing the sounds that came from below. His body was propelled beyond a protection grid and his foot gave him the last push towards the tower. Tristan launched himself, stretching his arms to hold on to the parapet. 

Incredulity silenced desperation, as the tip of his fingers brushed the tower's paint off and his body dived into the darkness below. His eyes, wide with fear, focused involuntarily on a window in one of the nearby hotels, where the light was off and the pane closed. His body produced a cocktail of emotions and adrenaline that forced him to beg, even if that made him crazy, that he could once again dislocate from a place of absolute uselessness and desperation to one of security. Even if he has passed the last years denying it to himself, he knew what he had felt all those years ago, when his situation was as precarious as the current one. In the thousandth of a second that it took for all this thought process to take place, abandonment took over and drowned him, but his eyes were kept locked at the window. Fear became hatred and he allowed himself to scream, the violent wind invading his lungs.

He remembered the darkness of the alley. The glint of the knife. The blood. He was 12, and he never ran so much in his life. He couldn't remember the dead girl's name anymore, although he remembers the police speaking it many times, the following day. By then, he was more interested in understanding how fleeing from a murderer and ending up with a broken leg, from having jumped a flight of stairs too high for his weak self, could have made him appear inside his room, before blacking out. All he remembers is the desperation and exhaustion and the way the world seemed to tremble and go out of focus, as he looked intently to his room's window in the second floor, dozens of meters away. And then his senses were overwhelmed by the different odors, sounds and lighting from his room. After that incident, he began therapy and trained parkour, now his only escape.

In the plaza below, more than a hundred frightened heads turned skywards, seeing nothing but the clock tower, framed by the veil of the french night.

The hotel room was empty, the smell of newly-laid linen and detergent invaded Tristan's nostrils. Gravity's acceleration threw him with great force against the bed, breaking one of its legs and leaving him in utter pain. Tears rolled down his face and were wiped by the bed sheets as he tried, with his eyelids firmly closed, to understand what had just happened. His brain seemed to be turned off, his body seemed full of anesthesia. The numbness went away gradually and he soon realized that, apart from a few bruises and an insistent discomfort, he was all right. Even better than what he had ever been. 

Unsteadily, he exited the hotel, his eyes unable to extricate from the place where, a few minutes prior, he had almost died. His body shook uncontrollably as he walked towards the nearest street. And he laughed, enjoying the return of his normal breathing.

Getting home proved to be a greater effort than what he had foreseen. The taxi driver seemed to not know the city and Tristan's euphoria deprived him of perfect dialogue. Better than any drug, he was sure. He could get off of that taxi and instantly be home, without even having to walk. But a part of him pushed back into rationalization. He would find an isolated place and there, yes, he would try to identify exactly what had made him teleport. But for today, he would sleep like never before.

Introduction for a character I used in a RPG campaign that never really took off, unfortunately. A sort of Battle Royale with super-powered people. I liked it enough to translate it into English and put it up here, as I wait for my block to vanish. Never really thought about a title for it, until now. It shows.

[sekhtmhorinm]

The Green Light

Prologue

THESE ARE THE SHACKLES of Life. See how they glitter and glisten in the darkness of the soul. Marvel at the crimson glow over its surface as it travels rushedly like the blood of ages, like the flow of time. These are the laws that bind us, the rules we impose ourselves into obeying. This is the restraint our mind works deep into our being. See how they shine its arrogant red light. See how they believe in their own unbreakability.

Let me show you how easily they can shatter.

But before I can indulge you, oh reader, in matters that you most definitely are not ready to face, I must prepare my and, why not, your ground. To be able to do that, I must introduce you to your humble narrator. The name you will be hopefully able to sympathize and shall later despise is as simple as I thought my life was and convenient to my outcome. An ironic play of life, one would be inclined to think: Andrew Green will be the label of a concept of existence as you probably never witnessed, or even pondered on. And I must be perfectly honest with you and say that I no longer know how old I am, as I recall being 42, 37, 25, 13 and even five years of age...

Today.

Do forgive me, but my story is neither simple nor linear enough for me to simply put into words. To illustrate the exquisite circumstance I find myself in, I will confide in you to a little secret. As I write these very words and imagine what my hand might create for the next lines, thousands of drops of the most impure water fail to touch the ground around me, halting in mid-fall from a purple sky. Through their reflections I can see a deserted and dark road above of which seven birds, blackened by the inebriating night, are frozen as if nailed to the firmament.

My time is over, but even before that, it is standing still.

And the Green Light. The foul and main cause of my current distress. Can you even imagine how you would feel if every single thing you have lived, and all you think you knew, was destroyed and replaced by a new reality, a new scheme, a new equation that mocks you in front of your very eyes? You may think that I am overreacting, and you wouldn't be the first. To show you my reason, I must tell you my story and whether or not you will believe it, or even read it, is entirely your decision to make.

The Green Light is a light post.

Several years ago, a friend of mine took a picture of a light post, its light oddly green. This sparked me to write a story that soon became a book, as my ideas often do. And, as always, the more I delved into its intricacies, the more complex and unwritable it became to me. All I ever really wrote and kind of liked was its prologue. And here it is. Perhaps one day I'll pick this one up again, I can now finally relate to the main character, at least.

[sekhtmhorinm]

Train of Thought

An immaterial train eases into the station. Often times, you take it.

The train takes you to a safe place, but not always. Some times it takes you to an uncomfortable one, an introspective one or an overwhelming one. Through the journey, you see expansive vistas, surreal ones or embracing ones. But you can never really choose your destination, even if at times it seems like you can control the trajectory. But it is the uncertain journey that makes you keep taking the train.

Every so often, though, you miss it. You stand absentmindedly at the platform, the steam making it hard to see anything. And you wonder what it could have been. But sometimes, rarer times, you simply decide to let it go. You become content with seeing its silhouette disappearing in the distance.

And you know it won't be long until the next one.

[sekhtmhorinm]

Reflected in the Counter

Night at the rim was a cold one. Sometimes, it was like a good drink. It started cold and thought-provoking until it filled you up inside, it warmed you, it made you aware of what was home. Other times, it went down clawing its way through, leaving a sour taste, deep remorse and dirtying the sidewalk. Life in the rim was as simple as it was dangerous, just like the best beverages.

The raggedy cloth was made to spread the filth, not clean it. I grab the nearest glass, the dim light of the bar can just about read the dirty inscription on its bottom. No self-respecting bar in the rim was actually clean. It would intimidate the good customers. And the best customers were the ones that no one else would welcome, the outcasts. Those like me.

You hear a lot of stories when you are a barkeep, and you quickly learn to stay out of other's businesses. It's a survival thing. In the rim, you keep your head down and you spread the filth out of those glasses. But sometimes, hearing the tales of woe of clients is your only source of entertainment. You can barely understand the phrases, but the tale therein lives on. Life in the rim is diverse and all stories find their way sooner or later to my bar. Their stories help me forget just like the alcohol inebriates these fools. It's a reciprocal relationship.

I know, though, as soon as the man enters the bar, that my introspection would be tested. He comes purposefully to the bar, making more eye contact than any other customer would care to make. His clothes were odd and you must understand the severity of that statement. My bar welcomes people from all over the rim, that means a bunch of different fashions, several of which I can't even begin to understand. But this is a bar, no one cares what you wear as long as you wear something. News travels fast these days, even all the way out here, but in varying speeds. I see people wearing what I imagine is the latest trend sharing a drink with someone that dresses like my grandfather used to. But as soon as that man showed up, I realized a sudden change of atmosphere on the place. No one stopped talking and the music didn't stop playing, but there was something different. The conversations were more hushed now, the music didn't seem to have the same flair. The man wore spurs and a black hat, two silver bullets attached to it by a ribbon. I kept wondering how he could have found such old apparel. Bullets? Who even had those anymore? The trench coat was a bit much, I thought. But the noise of his spurs kept everyone on edge. Nothing like an obvious bounty hunter to bring a room down. I hate it when they are sober.

"What can I get you, sir?" My voice was certain. I returned the cold look with a warm one. Two can play this game.

"Information. I hear you have a regular by the name of Tryles."

"No one here says their real name."

"I know you know him and I need to talk to him. You'll tell me where he is."

I tried to suppress the chuckle, I did. But kids nowadays are too arrogant. The signal was for Zack, the muscle I keep around for rainy days and hustling barrels. We don't need to make this into something it isn't. Overeager bounty hunters are as easy to come by as they are to be dealt with.

"I keep the habit of only talking to customers, you see. Can't have the pleasure of my company for free. Or you think people come down here for the liquor?" Arrogant, I know. But in my experience, most of these in-your-face outsiders can only be met with an arrogant counterattack. 

"I'm done with your games, old man" 

The cold metal of the pistol reflects the liquid in my glass.

"You're an outer rim boy, aren't you?" He can barely contain his widening eyes.

"What makes you say that?" Bad actor.

"Outer rim bars are outdated. You can't shoot in here. Dampeners." It works. The man ponders and visibly gives up. He's making it too easy.

"Alright. Give me something."

"Haha. I'll not hold that responsibility. Choose something."

"How about a Blue Wahl?"

"Sure thing." The douche drink was already half-way done when he finally said it. Good. He couldn't read the bottom of the glass. Would've been odd, out of context.

"Now tell me about Tryles."

"You're his brother, right?"

The silence is answer enough.

"You look like him, down to the same drink."

"So you do know him. God damn it, old man! Is he gone?" The drink spills while his wide-eyes survey the bar.

"Don't worry, he's not been here today."

"Tell me where he is!"

"None of my business really, but I have been where you are."

"Old-timer, I don't care about your story. Where's my brother?"

"He'll be here later. But are you really thinking about killing him?"

His poker face could use a little work.

"Don't worry, I don't know that. I can read it in you. Used to be a 'hunter myself, lifetime ago."

"Uh... really? Why did you quit?"

"Hah! Come back in a few years and ask me that again."

"Whatever. You said you've been in my shoes..."

"Hired to hunt a relative that made too many wrong choices... It doesn't matter what you say, it's not simply pulling the trigger."

He had become silent now, way too focused on his drink. He wasn't going anywhere.

"The Galaxy was another place back then, you either smuggled or hunted. Otherwise, you'd starve. Law enforcement only really worked for the big guys. And sometimes not even for them, with the right kind of money. Everyone's a bounty hunter, one way or the other. It is just a matter of price. My price didn't have zeroes in it, though.

Back then, life in the Core could get harder than in the farthest planets of the Outer Rim. Politics took precedence over everything, even people. Even my wife. And it is simple, too easy, to break a person, to make him resort to the worst, to realize the worst in him. And once he realizes vengeance won't bring her back, won't numb the pain, he'll keep on hunting. Because by then, it's all he knows how to do, isn't it? And each job numbs you more, makes life bearable a little more. Until comes a contract for another relative of yours, and the relationship between you two feels so far away, stored beneath years of painkillers. And you tell yourself you have to do it, it's a job, and he probably deserves it. But you know you're no different than him. Your brother took to drinking and ended up from drug to drug, looking for something to fill the void left by your mother's death, your father's absence. Your drug was different, but just as addictive.

People today often think that Bounty Hunting is a glamorous profession. They force themselves to not think about the blood and the lies and the awful cleaning up. They see in movies and think that bounty hunting is about looking cool and spewing cliches. But after every job, when all the flair and imposingness of the profession wears thin and you realize there's nothing really attractive about it... that's when you realize that one day it will all catch up to you and whatever you did, you'll have to live with it."

At that point, leaving him to ponder with his drink seemed the best move. He was in his last drops, after all, and there's nothing more thought-provoking than an empty glass. I'm sure it will help that he'll read beneath the glass the words "You'll have to live with it".

Another old one while I make sense of some things. This was yet another story developed to try and flesh out a science fiction setting with my cousin. I don't really like how this one came out, maybe someday I'll revisit it.

[sekhtmhorinm]

The Bus Stop

There’s a breaking point, when waiting for a bus. We don’t like to admit it, but it’s there. In my experience, that point of no return happens after 45 minutes of patience, but let me elaborate by painting the situation, as it were.

The scene happens in a bus stop. That much is a given. There is one bus that you can take that will get you home directly, and one that will take you to a station where you can get that former bus. Here is your conundrum, then: do you wait for your bus or do you take the other and pay two trips? It depends on your haste to get home and your financial availability, of course, but let’s say you take the obvious decision, and just like that, you grab firmly the metaphorical shovel and start digging. You wait.

The first minutes are a novel game of glancing into the horizon, the idiotic hope of seeing your transport in the distance, but never quite standing up from the bench, because deep down you know it is not the one you want. The first ones pass in a blur or, when signaled to stop by your fellow patients, stop in front of you, beckoning with a contemptuous look. And then comes your second option, the one that could take you to the station. You look at it doubtfully, trading the sight of it with an expectant glance at the horizon, unsure about what’s the smart move here. After a moment’s dilemma, you decide to hold tight to your precepts. You wait.

The next few minutes are a build up of frustration and stolen glances. After a while, the horizon becomes an unattainable beautiful girl. You glance at her from afar, and just as you realise she will return the look, you feel the impulse to look away. There’s no hope there, but as soon as your peripheral vision senses her change, you glance again, guilt washing over you because you know there’s nothing new to see, but you have to look anyway. After a few minutes, the idea of the bus you wait becomes ephemeral, abstract. You diminish it to a colour, a number, a shape. You scan the horizon for that characteristic. You wait.

Then it comes, a ray of hope clutches at your chest and it shines in the horizon. You can’t read the letters, nor see the numbers, but the colour is right. It has to be your bus. You take every victory you can take by now. There’s a bus in front of it, so you stand up and walk a little bit to account for the other bus’ area of parking. You are not new at this. You see, much to your dismay, a hand thrust upward in front of you, signaling the first bus to stop. It’s the reason you stood up in the first place, yes, but you are not new to this, you know what this means. Your heart starts racing, you are unsure if the driver of the other, potentially your, bus will see you if you give it a sign. And the bus that is now stopping obscures the other’s placard, you can’t see what bus it is and you know you’re only going to see it when it is too late. You panic, running further away from the bus stop to get a better look at it, but never getting out of the sidewalk because the first bus still hasn't stopped. You can see the last few letters, and it can be half a dozen different buses. The first bus is now in front of you, and it infuriates you. But you’re not new to this. You try to look at your bus through the windows of the one in front of you to ascertain property. Half letters and meaningless lines. You can’t know if it really is your bus. The envy swells up inside of you when you see the people entering the first bus. What do they have that you don’t? Are they better than you? Why? Your bus, never proven as in fact yours, runs swiftly by the bus stop, never looking back, the behemoth of twisted metal plows through the traffic and your broken psyche. You wait.

By now, the fifth bus to the station has left the bus stop. It dawns on you that by this time, if you had took the first bus, you would already be home. It is a scary realization, more than a frustrating one. You catch yourself thinking about what would have happened had you taken the first bus, what different decisions you would have made, what different people you would have met, what new things you would have done. The horizon burns your eyes now, looking at it feels like looking at the sun. Nothing good can come from it and you can never get too close, but you look anyway, because without it, there’s no hope. The sixth bus to the station climbs the horizon and appears before you. You wait.

By then, the asphalt turns into quicksilver and the cars turn into a violent sea of molten metal. In the horizon, a new bus appears. The way the light strikes it and ricochets off of it makes it look like a great white whale, coming up for air for the first time in a day. You can scarcely believe it, but this could be it. You thrust your five fingered harpoon outwards to the violent sea. You rationalize that if it ends up not being your bus, you can always apologize to the driver. For a second, you are afraid that the light will blind you to the bus' destination, or that the hours of patience could have made you forget how to interpret the almost hieroglyphic markings on the metal beast. But the way is clear and you can read clearly. It is indeed the bus you have been waiting. You begin to tell yourself that the wait was worth it, that you don't mind having seen the people that shared the bus stop with you change at least three times. It was all worth it. You're going home. Your smile comes unheeded. Your hand feels as numb as your legs and mind. But the wrath of the beast seems impossible to halt. Without believing it, you realize the bus is not stopping. The tears well up. Your arm feels leaden. You run backwards. Your legs begin to burn. Your eyes meet the driver's. There's nothing there. He speeds past you. You wait.

I live in Brasilia, capital city of Brazil. I imagine this story won't resonate as well with people from places with good public transportation systems. Good for you. Really. I once got out of class at 10pm, on my first semester of university, and waited until 1am for a way home. So, have some sympathy.

[sekhtmhorinm]

The Time Traveler Limericks

There once was a Time Traveler

Who through time ran sensibler

For when in the future

Got back like a vulture

Making money as a fortuneteller

Just something I cooked up while thinking about how to progress on a particularly tricky part of my latest story. I can not vouch for the quality of these poems, it is my first time trying my hand at limerick, after all. But it is something to fill the void while I finish my latest story, I guess. Here's a variant: 

There's a man who with time messes

Of the future never confesses

For when in the past

Shifts the facts so fast

It changes the whole of the verses.

[sekhtmhorinm]

Crimson Skies

Around me, the city lies in shambles. The blast knocked out a few buildings, cars are just piles of molten metal tossed around the street. There's no sound but a high-pitched noise that pierces my brain. There's movement on the edge of my vision, but all is blurred. The sky seems to be made of lava.

The academy taught us how to proceed in a situation like this, how to assess the situation. To look for the probable point of origin of the blast, to realize if anyone else was hit, to shake off the trauma and shock and worry about getting the civilians out of danger all the while trying to look for suspicious people and being prepared for a second hit.

But no amount of VR training could prepare anyone for the real deal. The high-pitch subsides slowly. Charred concrete and entire sections of buildings block the street. It takes a while for me to hear the screams and the crying, someone is sobbing near me as my vision starts to fade. 

Looking into the ashen sky stretches my senses, I feel like I see all of creation. The stupidity of ants afraid of life itself, lashing out on whatever they think invades their turf. Inconsequential brats insensitive to the sacrifices made to keep what we now have. In times like these, while patrolling above the streets of New Fakhar, it feels so long ago, I used to wonder if trying to protect this decay was worth it, if things like these weren't inevitable. I feel like I'm freezing, as much physically as emotionally. It seems ironic when I look at the red reflections in the towers of smoke. I feel the tears further blurring my vision, my eyes contemplating firmament. Somehow, the burning sky reminds me of the sunrises of old.

I'm trying to keep a weekly update and I had idealized an update plan of alternating random short stories I have lying around with the ones I'm working on for the 100-theme challenge. But this week I ended up not finishing the story I'm working on for the challenge, so I've decided to bin the whole notion. Enjoy another quick story.

[sekhtmhorinm]

The Window

The dim-lighted walls of my room reflect my disgust. Through the window, my city seems broken, as a long forgotten dream. I can no longer go out there; it’s become oppressive, more than I can take. The dead pile up the streets. The cars emit their foul vapors and run through the corpses like they were mere bumps in the road. Pulsing truth into my eyes. The dust from the wreckage mingles with the exhaust fans far above the ground, a swirling dance of filth above my dead city. The window shows me the shining upon the destruction I have wrought. Flashing regret through my heart. It was once a lively city, a reasonable city, before the genocide and the stupidity. The world died and my window doesn't hold it back, it lets the apocalypse seethe through to my haven. Assaulting the grit and the gore of the last century in my head. The blood drenches the bed, crimson patterns crisscrossing my being. And as my world turns darker, as the streets of my city enshroud the dead in utter blindness, the window lets the world sleep one last time.

I promised shorter stuff. Here it is.

[sekhtmhorinm]

3. Making History

"Where do ideas come from?"

I asked to the expanse around me, the moon creating weird patterns in the ground beneath me. The plaza had a rustic tone with its stone roads and lamp lights. The man by my side looked tired, yet he smiled at me. A wary smile, a knowing one.

"They come as much from within as from without, you told me once." He said, cryptically, putting all his weight on the rail, showing his back to the city below us.

"What I mean is..." I couldn't really articulate my point. "This idea you're telling me... If I am to believe you, I have met you before?" The stranger gave a dry chuckle.

"No, no. But you will meet me again in a few years. And, for me, it will be the first time."

I couldn't put my mind around that. I decided to chalk it up as a stranger's fancy. "Ok, nevermind. So your idea is..."

"Your idea, actually". The stranger sounded less than certain about that. He brought his cigarette to his smiling lips, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Ok... so my idea... It's a novel idea, really. But how could I go about doing that?"

"That part lies completely with you, I think." The man looked worried now, as if doing a particularly troublesome equation in his head.

"Are you alright?" I said, unable to ignore this man for much longer.

"It's just... We are caught in a cycle here, one which I am at the end and you are at the beginning". He was sweating now, as if making a great effort. "That would be alright, I'm used to the strangeness of time travel. But now I can't take your question from my mind" I remained silent, the sudden talk of time travel was weird enough, but it explained his claim that I would/already did meet him. "'Where do ideas come from?'... I can't say whose idea this was."

"What do you mean?" inadvertently, I began to remember all he had said. His claim that I had told him the idea and he, in turn, was telling a younger version of me that same idea.

"If I am telling you this idea, and in a few years you decide to tell me that same idea and I end up coming back in time and telling you the idea... where did the idea originate?" I had gotten to that same conclusion, in my silence. Whose idea was it? But a different question was nudging me.

"Before that... why didn't you take the idea back in time and made yourself famous with it, instead of telling me?" I thought it was a fair question. But a part of me realized that I was accepting the idea of time travel quite easily. I was probably just humoring the guy.

"But I couldn't, could I? I don't know anyone in this time that could help me and I have no idea how to go about doing a project of this caliber..." The man sounded defeated, having to admit his flaws.

"Okay... but why did future me tell you?" It sounded harsher than I intended.

He hesitated for a while, words caught in his throat. "I... really don't know. Perhaps you remembered me?" It made sense, but it relied on my wanting to perpetuate the cycle.

"But if I already was rich from this idea, why would I need to close the cycle?", but before the man could answer I already knew. "I became afraid that everything would unravel... That if the cycle was broken, I would never have heard the idea in the first place..." But I wouldn't have believed in the whole time travel thing really... would I?

"I personally think that you saw me younger than what I am now and all your reservations about this story disappeared." The man was looking to the ground now, keeping his balance on the rail, as if he was going to be sick. On top of that, he seemed to be biting his lip, as if keeping something to himself.

"One last thing, though... the time travel bit. How did you do it?", I asked with more curiosity for the man's mind than the actual phenomenon. Since we were in the realm of the hypothetical, why not go all the way?

The man didn't answer for several seconds. I could see his eyes widen as realization washed over him. He stood up and looked me with a wry smile and glowering eyes. "So that's why you told me, of all people." He laughed, a course and low laugh. "I told you, then". He seemed in a world of his own, and I didn't want to snap him out of it. "I thought I never told you, someday you just... knew". Seeing my confusion, he cleared his throat and continued. "Since I was a kid I was able to make a few jumps in time, it took me several years before I managed to control it, though".

That gave me pause. We stood around, looking at the old city below us, to me an old friend using his usual clothes, to him an acquaintance using bizarre threads. The smoke fused with the fog that engulfed the city streets. If this man was crazy or simply making fun of me, I couldn't decide. But his idea was solid and probably worth a lot if well developed. And he was handing it to me without any interest for himself. I would do my research, see if he wasn't trying to make me step on any toes, but my mind was already far off, developing the idea further, fleshing it out. In my absent-mindedness, though, I failed to realize that several minutes had passed, and that the man by my right was no longer there. I scanned the plaza and saw I was alone, smoke and fog protecting me in a ethereal blanket.

The years were kind to me. The idea grew as far as my mind could groom it and further still, as my empire stretched it thin. The origin of the idea though never left me. In troublesome nights I remembered the fidgety man, the fog and my confusion. It was only fifteen years later that I saw his face again, but for a minute I thought him a son to the real man. It was an eerie effect. The man's comment all those years back kept ringing in my mind. "I think you saw me younger and all your reservations disappeared." Apart from the physiognomy, there was little resemblance between the man I now saw and the man who gave me my company and life. When our eyes met, his filled with a glimmer of recognition and giddiness. He ran to me, a youth's energy burning behind eyes that showed a weariness I associated with the man from all those years ago.

"Pa? I did it, pa!", he said to me. "I did it!". Seeing my confusion, he paused and straightened up. "Oh, sorry. You don't know me yet. Sorry."

Comprehension dawned upon me and I'm sure it was plain on my face. "So you're my son?"

"Yes!" he said, again eager and relieved that he didn't have to do a lot of explaining. "In a few years I'll be born and you will help me control this time travel thing, little by little." He began to fumble with his pockets. "You said that if it wasn't for me, you would have nothing. And for us to have the life we have, I needed to control my abilities and talk to you in the past."

"I did meet you once before." I was numb, my voice sounding miles away. "But why didn't you tell me..." Despite the crowd that walked around me, I felt alone. The man - my son - had already disappeared again, as abruptly as he had done all those years ago.

He was born two years later and, in his sixth birthday, he asked me "Dad, where do ideas come from?". I laughed, confusing the child to whom I knew I owed everything.

"As much from within as from without", I said.

I have my reservations about this one, but I'm reasonably proud of it (for the content, not as much for the form). I know Tumblr isn't a good place for walls of text, I'll try to keep my short stories shorter from now on, if only the occasional literary behemoth. Do tell me what you think of this one, if you'd be so kind as to read it.

[sekhtmhorinm]

Of The Relevance of Fiction

"You know, people think that in this age of information and starships, that novels no longer have any importance. I read a paper one of these days saying that 'we already live in a sci-fi life, why would we need the fiction if we have it all right here in real life?'. I laughed for a solid 15 minutes. Really. We spread ourselves through a whole galaxy, at least three planets overpopulated. we have a massive system linking all that. That means a enormous database of information and a uninterrupted flux of information from trillions of different sources every second. We are devastated by information, overwhelmed by it in ways we couldn't even have dreamed of just a few years back. And people think that's fine. That it's easy to cope with that, that life is too complex and big to waste away with books, specially what the unbelievably consumerist society of ours demands of books. But people forget the values of escapism, specially for people of today. Books are more complex than ever, granted, but they simplify the complexity of our lives. They give us structure, they guide our thoughts that would otherwise be scattered around billions of areas.

But writing today is a nearly impossible feat. Much research is needed to give your story verisimilitude. Which brings us to our present situation. Because you see, I'm writing a book. It tells the tale of a serial killer with a deep message, that sort of thing. He kills one of each species and race, nothing more, nothing less, across the galaxy. Nobody pays any mind to it, of course, until a incorruptible cop starts to become suspicious of the apparently random killings. It's still fiction, of course. I can write about a incorruptible being, because it's what we all would like to be or to believe exists. The book brings all kinds of discussions about racism, specism and the impact of non-ordinary events on the lives of a crumbling empire that encompasses a galaxy and far surpasses the lives of a few naturally doomed.

Research, you understand. Hey, hey. Don't cry. It won't hurt, I swear. Look at it as you making a sacrifice so that no one else of your kind dies by my hands.

All in the name of art."

Well, it's wondrous what a few kind words can do to someone's confidence. Thanks to the feedback of a few people, I've decided to draw a new yet flimsy stop to my silence. This story is part of an universe-building project I started with my cousin (960018) but sadly ended up archiving. I'll post some of the stories that were generated from that, at least one every week.

Until then, gape at an assortment of sublime imagery.

[sekhtmhorinm]

2. Complicated

“So, does that mean you can’t loan me the money?”, the scrawny man said, shaking like a bamboo in the wind. His hands left wet spots in everything he touched and his eyes looked as red as the rest of his face, the humidity making his eyes look like black jellyfishes in puddles of milk.

“I’m truly sorry, but unless we have a reason and comprovation of it, we can’t loan money, man.” The lender had to say this a myriad of times during his long career. It never got any easier, but saying it to a childhood friend was harder. The shadow cast upon Thomas' face was horrifying, but he didn’t seem to want to explain his predicament, relying on fantasy instead. “If you give me a reasonable explanation, I’m serious. Tell me why you really need that much money, Thomas.”

“So you really don’t believe me? What part don’t you believe, tell me. Please, Dick.”

“Well, honestly, the whole thing...” It was hard to not believe Thomas. He had a honest face and it was him that gave to Richard straight whenever no one else would. To doubt him was to betray him.

“I know that the whole time travel is hard to buy, I had quite the problem accepting it myself and I was looking down a dinosaur’s snout.” He said. He seemed too panicky.

“I realize something is troubling you, I can see you really need the money, but my hands are tied here. You can't expect me to write 'Alien Ransom Payment' in the form and not call the cops or the psychiatrists.” It was a novel idea, the whole story. It made the lender wonder what drug could bend his friend's perception of reality so badly that he could come up with such a complicated story and believe it so desperately.

"You make it sound as if I'm trying to rescue an alien. That's not it. I need the money so I can buy our planet back from them." Richard could already see some of his coworkers casually coming closer to his desk. He felt a bit ashamed for his friend.

"And it was you who sold it to them in the first place?" The lender rationalized that he was humoring Thomas just because he thought that, if he made his friend realize how ridiculous it all sounded, he would stop it. Although, little by little, this situation and its surrealness reminded him of all the times Thomas would go to Dick's house by mistake, so drunk that he would start talking to the house in the middle of the night, after Richard had phoned his friend's house to let his mother know he was O.K. He remembered how they used to make fun of each other, how their conversations would become nonsensical and oddly philosophical at the same time. He never laughed so hard like in those days, since they grew apart.

"No! I told you! I lost it in a game of four-dimensional poker! And I think they cheated..."

"Stop it, Thomas. This is unhealthy. I don't know what happened to you or why you need this money, but I can't help you in this state." The change in his friend's demeanor was tangible, going from the frantic lucidity of before to a crestfallen hunched-over posture. As if collapsing under his own weight. "You're really committing to this, aren't you?"

"I... perhaps it didn't happen, then. Perhaps I imagined the whole thing... being kidnapped, escaping from a spaceship, falling into a wormhole... but it seemed so vivid. But if it was all a lie... who's waiting for me to get the money out there?"

"No one is, Thomas." He is relieved now, that this charade can finally end. But looking at his friend still drives a nail into his heart. Thomas looks like a man that just discovered he's adopted. It's almost visible, the walls of reality collapsing around him. "Go home, man. Rest. I'll swing by later and check on you. No more stories about intergalactic loan sharks, alright?"

"Interdimensional, but alright... And if I didn't just made this all up, those aliens may have helped us escape the whole dinosaur thing, but they'll have to find another way to pay their debt, I guess... and what can they do having won the planet from me? It's not like I own it, anyway..." He is grinning now, realizing how ludicrous it all was. He looks up at Dick, his oldest friend, pitiful awkwardness incarnate. There's a tacit contract here, a "we'll never talk about this again" kind of deal. Richard meets Thomas' look with one that could aptly say "I don't think there will ever be a moment where this whole deal could come up." After a few seconds of silence, the atmosphere of the bank seems clearer. Richard's coworkers shuffle almost imperceptibly back to their tasks and exchange astounded glances. Thomas stands up, still looking a bit defeated and says, "I guess it was a pretty bizarre story."

The banker is almost unable to hold his laughter now. "It was hard to buy it from the get go, man... The very beginning, when you said you were going out with your girlfriend. That made the whole thing unbelievable for me." As the laughter of everyone echoed and ricocheted off the bank's walls, tears dropping down from Richard's tightly closed eyes, Thomas took his leave, no hope left on the sulking carcass walking out of the bank.

Perhaps, if Richard hadn't been blinded by tears and deaf by laughter, he would have seen the green plasmatic light coming from outside the bank and heard his friend's scream.

And perhaps the Earth wouldn't be doomed.

Ok... it took me quite a while, but here is part two of the 100 theme challenge. This one was an idea that I had bouncing inside my head for quite a while but just now decided to commit it to paper (or data, as it were). It didn't come out as well as I'd hoped... Once again, it might take a while between part two and three, but this wait may be diminished depending on the response this one receives. So let me know what you think.

[sekhtmhorinm]

My Fellow Dead

Walking is hard. With every step, I hear the bone creaking and I am obliged to drag the other foot, already beyond use.

The pain doesn't affect me, it feels like it has afflicted someone else, long ago. I can feel the degeneration working its way upwards, I can feel the maggots starting to make up for most of my mass. And I can do all but care, that part of my being died a long time ago. Along with the rest of it.

I was one of the first, I can feel a flimsy pride in that. I don't remember much apart from lab coats, glasses, microscopes and screams. Can't be sure if they were mine or someone else's. Since then, our numbers increased exponentially, I faintly remember this being in a white board somewhere... "exponentially". I saw a lot of difficult words there, they stuck with me for some reason. There are more of us now than there were in the beginning, that's all I know. I see the living doing everything they can to survive, but they seem to forget that for us, it is even harder. There's hardly enough food for everyone and our food often becomes more mouths to feed. Top that off with our being every one's number one target and the degeneration of moral along with our bodies, and you have the worst chances of survival ever. I shamble through a dirty street as my mind races at a fraction of the speed it used to. It is like perpetually having a word at the tip of your tongue and not remembering it nor being able to let it go. It's maddening.

Something fell... I feel lighter, but I'm afraid that if I look down, my neck will snap. I keep walking, it was probably just my intestines. Ahead of me, I see the sea of us, the legion that we constitute, but there's no one, really. Mindless masses, I can see why the living are so swift to get rid of us, why they are so quick to kill us. By the curb, I see a pack of us eating away at a young man, the blood washing the broken street. There's little left of him now, but the urge is too strong. I begin making my way towards the pack, aware that by the time my broken legs get me there, only the crimson drink will have remained. I feel envy, all of a sudden. Not because I'll have to get by without lunch, but because that food will never have to be like us, never have to scavenge those that we once called coworker, friend, family, lover. Perhaps, if my cognitive functions were better, I could laugh at the irony of thinking that a man who has just been eaten to the point of nonexistence is "lucky".

But perhaps our kind is not as mindless as we seem to think. Case in point, my current inner monologue seems to hint at a somewhat high cognitive hability. Perhaps we are all like this, oblivious to our past life but intelligent in our own right. Perhaps we just don't use what the living would recognise as logic or language. After all, when one of us see food, we all know where it is. It's primitive communication, but it's there. I think my eye just fell off.

I hear a loud noise. It stands to reason, in a city comprised of slow moving beings without any motor skills, that a noise like that was made by a living. I can already see the masses slowly moving, rising, starting the inexorable march for lunch. Before I can even think about it, my feet are already moving. The urge is stronger than anything. I can hear gunshots and screams, I can see the living, bloody, sweaty, tender and scared living. They are the first I see in a long time. Weeks? I don't even know what that means anymore. Sleep is a useful way of keeping track of time, once you don't need it anymore, the days just sort of pile up and become a huge block of time. The living are still a long way away, but I keep walking, my warnings to my fellow dead a hoarse mumbling without meaning. I see some of us fall, some rise again. I see the perpetual cycle of life and death in the blink of my lifeless eye, a mere sham of what once was real, reenacted in the decaying theatre of what remained. A bullet hits my chest and I remain undeterred. The ones that fell begin to form a blockade, but the urge propels us forward, over the corpses of our kind. As I near the living, the urge now larger than myself, my feet finally give in to decay.

I see the blade hurl towards me.

By popular (notausername) demand: a zombie story.

[sekhtmhorinm]

1. Introduction

Beginnings are always the hardest. The man could form up his whole introduction in his head, the way he was going to approach the other, the way he was going to ease into the subject of "you're being hunted and I can help", the way the other was going to believe wholeheartedly and follow his every lead. The imaginary conversation was going well, so well indeed, that he wasn't going to discard the idea that they would become best friends sometime after the hunt was done.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? Every thing is easier in his mind. The man deludes himself into thinking that planning is a good idea, that he can plan for every contingency. And when life throws its unexpectedness in his face, he’s surprised and says there’s no reason to keep planning, that he’ll just “live in the moment” from now on. And next time, there he is, spending hours planning the next steps. It isn’t a bad thing, though. Planning gives the man a sense of order, it structures his thoughts, his expectations and, to a certain level, gives him confidence to go through with the plan. As long as he is aware that as soon as he starts the plan, it will have to be discarded, he’ll be alright.

The other is nonchalantly leaning against the wall, its tuxedo several numbers too big, a man obviously out of his element. The smoke draws elaborate patterns and stains the white shirt framed by its coat, the cough hangs in the air above one smoking as if to meet a social demand. The man approaches the other, an all too familiar shadow trailing him. The smoke stings his eyes and he restrains a cough, it could very well tamper with a perfectly laid-out introduction. As he reaches the other, while still trying to manage the synchronism of putting one foot after the other, the man chokes on his own words, no sound comes out. Fortunately, the other seems to not have realized the man’s pretensions, for he was still looking dumbstruck at the patterns of smoke that rose to mingle with the thick legion above.

The man decided to try again, the words were at the tip of his tongue, there didn’t seem to be a reason for nervousness, so what was happening? He formed the words carefully, first impressions and all that jazz. The shadow behind him seemed to be laughing, but he disregarded it. The words were fleeting, the more he thought about them, the worst they sounded. No, he couldn’t begin the conversation with something so bland, it had to be intriguing, make the other want to know the whole story, avoid an indifferent or awkward response. But that was mainly dependent on the other’s personality, wasn’t it? How could he prepare against that?

Say anything, measure his personality based on his response, then shape the rest of your discourse based on that. That could be a good way to do it, but what if his response to your first phrase is one of introspection, what if he goes away? The shadow isn’t even trying to suppress the laughter now, useless prick. The other pulls himself from the wall, does that mean he will leave? No, he can’t. He can’t. If he goes out...

The man is possessed by impulse, the social and volitive parts of his brain clashing and melting everything else down. His mouth expulse the first words of a half-forgotten introduction and, mid-way through it, it dissolves into a cry for help, mingled with a warning for the other’s life. It’s a train wreck. But as the man clutches his face to hide the shame, he opens one eye to see the other stepping purposefully on the ground, the last trail of smoke engulfing his tattered shoe. The other resumes walking, apparently oblivious to the man’s bizarre discourse, and opens the door at the end of the terrace, the way down. After a moment’s hesitation, the man screams for attention. The hasty introduction falls on the other’s deaf and the shadow’s knowing ears. No point in first impressions.

The man is gone.

So, I've decided to post short stories here, so as to refrain from using this only to reblog unfunny shit. To kickstart that idea, I've decided to get a challenge list of 100 themes for writing. Although I'll doubtfully respect the list's order and will probably post a few short stories outside of the challenge, that list will assure that I'll post with a fleeting semblance of frequency.

I hope I can count on whoever reads them to critic at your leisure, as long as they are constructive remarks. I appreciate any attempts to guide me through the shapeless and contrived dimension that is writing.