#the unexplainable

[spookyspaghetty]

I don’t know how to e plain this but cows and rats have the same energy.

[metamorcy]

Update

So its official, ‘The Unexplainable’ will end at chapter 50 unless something happens.

Chapter 45 (almost done writing, just having issues with a single scene)

Chapter 46

Chapter 47 - Interlude part 2 (mostly done, just missing last scene)

Chapter 48 - End

Chapter 49 - Epilogue

Chapter 50 - Epilogue 2

This has been my longest FF I’ve ever written honestly. I want to finish this one before I really move away from KHR. I love the character I created Tsuna (Sin) into. He’s actually my favorite one.

[yueluntest]

Her feet felt rooted to the soil beneath them, the blades of grass tickling the bare expanses of her feet, and the breeze claiming her spine in a subtle caress. These things were felt, so inherently and thoroughly, and each served as testament of her being here. Anddespite it, within her resided an ache that craved for more reassurance,a greed that lay lodged deeply and ever so firmly within her chest. Seemingly insatiable, and yet it would ease when a hand rose and was held poised in the air, and her palm turned upwards. And as if the air were the most delicate of instruments, her fingers swayed one by one in the gentle breeze of the night's veil, as if coaxing a melody from the unseen. But what she'd drawn was far from indiscernible or intangible; it was only a human's eye that might miss the grains that gathered and sunk seamlessly into her skin as if they had belonged there all of this time, as if beckoned to return to a maker that had long since perished, until now: grains of ash and dustfrom all corners of Teyvat.

And so it was prideful and warm, so very warm, that tug to the corners of a Lord of Dust's lips that evidenced her success. She was here. And while for a moment, that triumph that had painted itself amidst a countenance in such reckless abandon — her features brightening beyond that of the moon that hung overhead — had been kept selfishly to herself; the lightest tilts of a chin would bring it to an end. And instead of hers, it became his as if it were an instinct much too innate, and then theirs, just as all things long ago inevitably did. Morax.

Morax. And despite the expected, the elation that had claimed her lips and eyes as ashen grey as they were, would falter, diminish and cross into something akin to perplexity at the furrow of her brow, the longer her gaze on him endured. While once known to harbor a longing for difference, and change, the even minor alteration in something as trivial as his attire now seemed nothing other than unsettling, and served as a catalyst for more. Memories of days long past seemed as pristine as they ever were, the recollection of his voice so warm in her ear still, infallible to time and separation, and yet as he stood before her now, she could not remember whether he'd spoken to her at all, whether he had uttered a single word at all. And had she, to him? Why didn’t she recall?

There was no name that could ever be given to the incomprehensible, the unexplainable, even by her who'd always sought to define the impossibilities of both the finite and perpetual. No, even she could not explain how, or why, in the midst of a growing confusion of the mind that'd enraptured her like a fever, her instinct proved to be the same now as it was much too long ago: to seek him. “Morax?"

[wordsmatter09]

[loonynumas-fanfiction-quotes]

The Unexplainable

His eyes widened in shock, watching as blood splattered across the ground just like in his memory and some on his cheeks, the warmth of it a curse. There was a loud piercing scream, the truck continuing on its course as it ran over the bodies, its tires causing the chest cavities to explode at the pressure, splattering out the organs that had been contained within. Bones were stabbing outside the flesh in multitude of directions, the faces twisted until they were unrecognized, with blood covering everything. It was disgusting, terrible, and so horrifying.

~The Unexplainable by metamorcy

[metamorcy]

Update

Currently working on the interlude part 2 of ‘The Unexplainable’. Should be the last one for the whole story. Will probably be chapter 45 or 46 depending on when I finish it.

I find it funny that when I asked people for another name for Reborn on chapter 43, they immediately went for Chaos or Reborn’s real name, Renato.

I can see it now: “Chaos, my name is Chaos.” - No, not happening. People forget that Reborn’s catch phrase is ‘Chaos’ (though I keep forgetting about it).

And Renato is thrown out since he can’t just use his real name when meeting up with a different version of himself.

[authorchrisdileo]

Things Fall Apart (a free story)

Things Fall Apart By Christopher DiLeo

After Dad’s funeral, we went to Napoli’s for lasagna and hard liquor.  After the second round of beverages, Collin told me about his teeth.  The rear two molars had fallen out, completely intact.  

“Found them on my pillow,” my brother told me.  “Lucky I didn’t choke on them.”

“That’s how it started with Dad,” I said.  

After a moment of contemplation, staring at the glass in his hand, he asked what he should do.  

“Drink,” I said and held up my glass.  The ice cubes tinkled together.                                                      * * * Collin called me late that night.  “Three more fell out.”

“Drank too much.”

“What am I supposed to do?”  His voice bordered on the brink of tears.  

I closed my cellphone.  

“It’s getting worse,” I told my wife.  

“You know why,” she said in a sleepy voice.  “He’s just like your father.  You both are.”

I touched my front teeth delicately as though they might fold back into my mouth.                                                      * * * Driving home after work the next night, I ended up on the road leading to the cemetery.  Hope Road, it’s called.  

The mound of dirt was moist from a light rain.  I knelt there, knees in the soil.  I touched the mound with both hands like a celebrity placing his palms in fresh concrete on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

We had set Dad’s hands palms-up inside the coffin.  There had only been three fingers left on each hand.  The others, wrapped in handkerchiefs, were tucked into his suit pocket.  

We assembled him like I used to piece together the full-sized body hanging in my high school biology classroom.  We had called the body Skelly.  Its organs and muscles came out.  And the bones, of course.  We dismembered him until he was a hollow shell with stumps and then reassembled him, if we could.    

“The body is intricately and uniquely connected,” Mr. Cantor had told us.  “When something goes wrong, the body does whatever is necessary to preserve the functions needed to live.  It’s amazing how much we can take away from Skelly and yet, were he real, his body would still fight to stay alive.”

Mr. Cantor juggled a plastic liver in his hand like a ball.  

“Dad,” I said to the mound of dirt.  “How do we stop it?”                                                    * * * In his final hours, our father resembled the mummy from that old movie.

Bandages covered his whole face, save for his right eye.  Three holes had been made for breathing.  He couldn’t eat normally anymore. His jaw had fallen off.  We wrapped it in a washcloth.

“How does this happen?”  Collin asked.  “How does someone just fall apart?”

“That poem again,” I said.                                                     * * * Grandpa had died.  We watched our father release his ashes into the wind.  I had never seen my father so serious.  I thought he might cry but he didn’t.  

Sometime later, we gathered at home around the fire for story time.    

“Words are magic,” Dad told us on that night so long ago.  

Collin and I huddled close beneath a large knitted blanket.  He was a year older and bragged about it all the time, but when it was story time, we were equals, and equally enthralled.  Equally scared, too.  

“Grandpa read this to me when I was your age and one day you will read it to your own sons.”

We rested our heads on our hands and gazed up at Dad in his big, plush red chair.  The fire crackled in cryptic whispers.  

He leaned forward, a big musty-smelling book in his hands, his fingers tucked on a page in the middle.  “It’s called, ‘The Second Coming.’  It’s about the end of everything.”

My breath caught in my throat.  

“Do you believe?”  It was Dad’s usual question.  

Our smiles were our signatures on a contract we couldn't yet comprehend.   As he read us the poem by a guy named Yeats, I think I completely forgot to breathe.  This was not like the usual stories he read us--this was about death, about rivers of blood, about the world crumbling.

“Things fall apart,” Dad repeated.  “The center can not hold.”                                               * * * In those last hours, Dad could only groan through his thick bandages.   “It was just a poem,” I said.  “Wasn’t it?”

Dad did not respond.  Perhaps he hadn’t heard.  His ears had dropped off the day before.  They were in a plastic baggie.                                                * * * Collin again:  “I can’t stop reading it.”  His words slurred together, but not from drunkenness.  

“It’s a poem.  It’s not a curse,” I said.  

“But we believed--all three of us.”

I had the musty book open in my hands.  Collin had his own copy, a gift from Dad many years ago.  “Just words,” I said.  “Nothing more.”

We said nothing for a moment, silently rereading the end of everything.  “It’s getting worse,” Collin said.  “My tongue is falling—”                                              * * * In bed, my wife turned to me.  I was off in the book, lost in a blood-dimmed tide.

“You’re going to make it worse,” she said.  

“That possible?”  

“Depends on what you believe, I guess,” she said.  

When I closed the book, my finger kept the page.  I rested the book on the nightstand and when I turned away my finger remained stuck in the book, a macabre bookmark jutting out from the page of some poem my father had once read to my brother and me.  

There wasn’t any blood.  Just a tiny stump that looked almost fake, like the stumps on Skelly in Mr. Cantor’s class.  

Things fall apart, I thought.  The center can not hold.

“Do you believe?”  Dad had asked.  

                                           THE END

BIO for Dark Moon’s Slices of Flesh: Christopher DiLeo is a high school English teacher with a fondness for the macabre and a writer who author Michael Marshall (The Straw Men, Killer Move) described as “ . . . a remarkable writer, with a clear ability to evoke character, conjure dread — and to do whatever it is that drives the reader to keep turning the pages, one by one, and faster and faster.”