Six years to create this foundation,
but reluctant to build the house.
The hourglass tastes my fear
in the looming storm.
No one left to run to.
Insanity preys on the isolated.
Let me melt into the ‘verse
and become concept, a snapshot
image, unrecognizable.
Astrid Barnett always knew that she was different, she just didn’t know how different. She is about to learn that she’s actually a space princess but not just any space princess, the uncrowned queen of Quaylar. However, as any chosen one will tell you, there are forces that inevitably stand in her way and will stop at nothing to keep her from fulfilling her destiny.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Short Stories
The Kidnapping of Delya Gayo
Maerown’s Place
Missing Anyone?
Sympathy
All the Grandmas
Long Live the King
The Ghost and the Boy
A Realm Not My Own
Admiral Halsey
Junix Pria
Runaway
Dominic’s Decent
6 Things That Drive Human Males Wild
#theofficelife (Web Comic)
Follow tech writer Moxi Fox on her wacky misadventures as she faces the ultimate evil: a 9 to 5 desk job.
I know, I know! It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything and it’ll probably be a while longer before I can post again. Once my residency is over, I’m hoping to return to doing more stuff on Tumblr. In the meantime, please enjoy some of my greatest hits.
He’s an average Joe by most standards: a normal guy
with his American dream family, a normal two-story house
in the suburbs, and a respectable nine to five.
The kids, the dogs, and his reflection
crawl forward in time. The motions of life repeat
day after day.
The office becomes too familiar, perhaps even boring. A desire
for fulfillment prods his mind. He brings home his desk
in a U-haul box, but he smiles for a world of opportunity.
The phone rings.
Kisses and hugs are exchanged, and a plump suitcase
rolls out the door. “When will he be back?”, his son asks.
She’s late for class.
Expatriates eye her down the busy street, though she’s not bothered —
as long as they keep their distance. The macadam road betrays her,
and she stumbles, spilling her bag onto the stone. Her Tagalog
Bible is handed to her by a mature hand attached to a kind,
albeit average looking, man. They speak for a long while.
“Three years!”, she yells.
The kids and the dogs huddle in the next room, listening
to his attempts of reconciliation. Words they don’t fully understand —
“harem” and “divorce” — spew from the mother’s mouth, only interrupted by
the death of a thrown glass, until her voice grows hoarse
and a door slams the conversation away.
The jury calls,
the first victim steps up.
They wait for his performance
with little anticipation.
His intonation, confident. His gestures, stiff.
Yet I admire him, unfortunate to say.
Up on the chopping block, target on his skull.
For him, the ordeal would end soon enough.
They approach him, scrutinizing,
criticizing, dissecting.
Each move he makes,
another potential mistake.
Shots fire from the jurors,
taking turns picking him apart.
His corpse returns to his seat,
among the audience.
Silence
in the aftermath lends nothing
more than discomfort, nipping at my bowels.
Should I run? Will they notice? How–
My name is spoken, my body answers
against better judgement. A target rests on my forehead now.
The gallery awaits a performance. Back to the wall,
a glimpse of clarity finds me.
Words flow. Ones recited prior,
some found in the moment’s inspiration.
Ideas and thoughts interweave, perfection,
Japanese joinery, superior.
Hesitation, a lapse in thought.
My mind runs out of ink.
A blank sheet.
“Mmm…”
The jury, the thieves,
stole the moment.
“Ridiculous”, they said, “improve this,
redo this, missed opportunity, incomplete,
what were you thinking?
Did you try?”
The shots subside, I feel
like a corpse. I step down
from the block
still alive.
A poem written and recited by @alluded-delusions, with music added by me. Set in a fictional bar.
The continuance of this displeasure
Is something I remark upon in my dreams.
I am aware
That I am Aware.
Transient flower with roots planted neatly
in a dresser drawer.
I am speaking slowly
before an audience of birds.
They do not applaud, they shiver and shed
Black feathers that are so black
They’re also also purple and green.
They devour me as I speak,
I am Dandelion tea.
In my dreams I see silent cities
Gleaming white and bright
I see the face of our Metallic Zam
Hero of the Gapezeds
I see the Queen of Everything
Regal and cruel
I see a thousand worlds
And planets
With strange colors
The eyes have never seen
And when I awake
I grasp for them
As the images disappear
For they aren’t dreams at all
And if I don’t remember
No one will
And they will be gone forever
Erased from space and time
How could you do it with such grace and mastery?
In Valley County you found a site, truly breathtaking.
Off Lake Hayden, it sits with mute feeling.
Chicken Point, a church of life’s sincerity.
The signature window-wall gives clarity
to the beauty of nature beyond.
Even those who are not fond
will find awe happily.
Yet you departed from Roman fidelity,
not to knock the basilicas and their capitals,
as ideas began to take shape.
But it remains a mystery:
how could you murder their principals
in such an unmistakable landscape.
They spill their souls into the basin,
leaving but true crimson.
Follies, fallacy, infatuation,
identical hue.
Yet the ghouls come,
mindless and frigid,
to consume
what they know.
Or so they think.
A magical web
of immeasurable knowledge.
The world is a collage
of color.
Yet one crimson calls
for the ghouls who come,
over and
over again.
Apple red, this basin..
Or bowl, or cup.
The faucet spills a drip
drip
drop.
But I wonder the flavor,
if the ghouls would favor,
the Gala
or the crimson blood.
His parents couldn’t have been more dissimilar in every aspect. A reticent father, from the North, with an olive complexion. A beloved mother, from the other end of the known world, whose skin shone as bright as her smile. In their time with the other, an odd child was born.
His appearance was unlike any other. Thick waves of brown hair and a nose which turned upward ever so slightly were remnants of his father. But his sharp eyes, and the intense stare that accompanied them, were of the mother. And one mustn’t forget the smile. A smile that could slay a demon.
He was unremarkable in every other way, yet the boy grew up with a sense of adventure. Perhaps it was a mechanism for distraction. Not often did he fit in with the others. He never understood why the other children looked different than him, nor did he understand why they called him a ‘mutt’.
Names were a peculiar concept to him. There was not a singular title he could happily call himself. He didn’t belong to the North, whatever that meant. His mother never spoke of her home and he wasn’t particularly fond of his current home, either. He thought long and hard about this.
One fair afternoon, while the boy was charting the nearby creek and all of its secrets, an elderly passerby caught sight the boy’s oddly bright skin.
“You there, boy!”, she called from the road. “Come here, son.” The boy climbed up the side of the bank to assist the woman.
“What are you?” she asked, scanning the boy’s features. “Where are you from?”
Shocked at the question, he hesitated to answer. “I’m a mutt.”
A swift smack landed atop the boy’s head. “That’s no answer”, she said with a frown. “Where’s your pride?”.
The boy’s eyes began to well up. He didn’t know how to answer.
The old woman thought hard for a few moments for the right words to say, and asked, “What were you doing down there all alone?”
Stifled by the tears, he responded, “I was, um, exploring the...the creek.”
“Ha-ha! That’s no creek, boy! That’s a mighty river! And you, a fearless explorer!”
Explorer. He liked the sound of it. “What’s an explorer?”
“The bravest of the brave! One who goes head first into the unknown to discover what lies beyond. One who doesn’t let the world confine them. And that, my boy, is what you are. Not a mutt, but an explorer.”
A smile escaped from the boy’s mouth as his mind raced with wonder.
The lady began rummaging through a basket as she continued, “You are defined by what you do, sonny, not those before you. Ah-ha!” She pulled a spyglass from the basket and showed it to the boy. “Every great explorer has one of these, and I’ve been searching for someone worthy of this one.”
The name “Pitt” was engraved at the smallest end of the worn brass. He ran his fingers over the name, in awe.
“Go ahead, give it a look.”
He saw the road, leading out of his home village. Folk were heading to the next town with carts loaded with a rainbow of goods. They turned left at the fork toward nothing but flatness until the horizon. To the right was the forest. The treeline formed a barrier, protecting what lay beyond from his gaze.
“Beyond the forest are rolling hills, as far as you can see. Beyond the hills is an ocean, larger than imagination. And beyond that, well, only few know.”
The old lady smiled at the boy and pat him on the head. “Goodbye, young explorer. May you have many adventures.” And she continued down the path.
The young explorer could hardly contain his excitement as he scuttled back down the bank.
—Help a child find curiosity and you give them the world.
I could see the world around me, but it did not feel the same. The air was stiff, and the sky confined me. Beyond the bars on my prison was a world I did not recognize, filled with indiscernible crannies in which only horror lie. There was no way out of my cage, but maybe I was safer inside. Regardless, I could not escape. Something they did changed me, restrained me. No longer could I live. I wished to breathe, but I could not.
The loneliness came swift. I remembered my family, living and breathing as one. We would sing together under the warmth of the sky as the world moved around us, but nothing moves in here. Just Death and I.
Here It was, with It’s soft hands and assuming smile, to provide me with sustenance in some mechanism that infused anything it touches with the taste of metal. Death did not wait before barking inelegant sounds from that contorted smile. I froze, unsure what to do. The relief when the spectre turned his back brought me calm.
But Death turned to me again, this time without a grin, and reached over my prison. A sharp scraping sound made me jump as a shadow was pulled back. A rip in reality let in a flood of light that illuminated the drab truths of Death’s world, but beyond the tear was the true world. Bright greens and blues mixed together with the sprawling movement of life. The desire to breathe filled my soul, so I did. I let out the song my family had sung together. I sang louder and clearer than I had ever before. I sang for myself, for my family, for the sky and the trees, for freedom, and to rid myself of my captor.
My song was halted by the sound of scraping shadows, and darkness consumed everything once more. The smile returned, wider than before. Death tapped on the wall of my prison and spat a few rancid sounds. With a slamming thunder and a click-click, Death was gone, and I was alone in the stillness of It’s world.
The sensation of waking from a dream is a curse. Comfort found in the familiar and idealized is blinding. Being thrust into a contrarian reality, uncertain of the world around you, is a nightmare greater in magnitude than the bounds of imagination. This hex stems from a consciousness that we share with few, if any, other beings...
Tobias, Infinite Dreamer; Excerpt from A Dreamer’s Reverie
titsay
tangentwithtanner
pixelskylines
gummygunk
