This one was simply titled, "Dream." I think it was for a writing practice in my creative writing class or something...
He was in the house again. He was alone, but he was not really alone. It was there too, somewhere, hiding in a womb of shadow. Everything in the house seemed old and reeked of mildew. Each step he took chased the inch thick dust to take flight from the floor. In the darkness something skittered across the floor. Claws clicked against the ancient wooden boards of the floor.
“It always begins this way,” He thought to himself sadly as he stared at the bare walls of the room. “A gentle noise, then I go look behind the old torn up couch.”
From somewhere a couch came into being in the center of the room. Like everything else in the house it radiated an aura of age. A slight figure was lying on the ground on the other side of the cracked green vinyl, only a dark-skinned back showed from behind the sofa.
Something in the back of his mind told him, “I am for looking at,” as though it was a museum curator labeling a piece of art.
Events were going as they always did in his dream, but something seemed different. Everything seemed more real, as though someone had gone through the house and filled in the empty spaces with matter. He could feel the wood clicking underneath his heels and his nose burned from the dust filling the air. A heavy musk permeated the air. It was the creature’s strange perfume. The stench peaked as he rounded the corner. He didn’t want to, but the siren’s call of the beast pulled him on. His feet marched to a slow, pulsing rhythm of the monster’s death-call.
Every part of him knew this was in fact a dream, yet every piece of his being screamed in terror of the thing. His stomach clenched painfully and he was nearly crying as he rounded the final part of the green wall that shielded him from the thing. He murmured a final plea for help and for an end to the echoing walls of the house, but there was no one there to hear it.
Behind the couch the beast sat, doglike. It seemed to be made of congealed shadows, an ectoplasmic horror of darkness and sin. It gibbered and bubbled a lunatic giggle as it slowly grew fangs and a pair of shining ochre eyes for which to stair at him. Bits of its inky skin fell off in quivering lumps as it grew spines from its hide. He knew he knew he should be running now, before it could chase him, but his dream held him in place.
The tarry black mastiff stood up and stared at him, but again the dream had changed. It did not lunge towards him and begin their nightly chase; instead it merely glared at him and smirked with gelatinous jowls.
Its heavy black lips curled back and began to speak. Its horrible mouth moved without the consent of the rest of its face, twisting and curling upon the thing like a pile of worms. It stated, “Tonight this ends. Come to me childe.”
The hidden hand of the dream unclenched from his legs as he stood back from it. He stared for a moment, struck. It does not speak. It never speaks. He glanced at the door he had run to many times before. He wanted to scream as he charged at the old oak door. He flung it wide and ran to the next door he saw. The handle refused to move as he frantically clawed at the door. This was the part he hated the most. He hated the helplessness of nowhere to run and no one to help him. All he could do was run down an infinite hallway of unopening doors. Each door was the portal to salvation, and every door refused him. Every knob that refused to turn was another step the thing gained on him. He could feel its slick breath run down his neck.
He shouted at the doors to let him pass. He begged for someone to open them to him. No one would save him. He looked behind him as he ran down the endless corridor, ignoring the hateful doors. The creature was slowly prowling behind him. It seemed to effortlessly trot behind him, always gaining and in no rush to catch him. It panted sticky foam from its face as it began to rush after him, it was scared now.
The old wood of the house creaked as a door folded out in front of him. Light blazed from behind it. Somewhere far off he was sure he could hear the slow voice of a woman singing. He lunged at the door, barely catching silver form of a lily etched upon it in his peripheral vision. The creature leapt through the door in pursuit.
They were in a room of light. Cool white marble had replaced the old wood of the house, and the monsters oily feet skittered on the smooth floor. The bright light emanated from a sword resting in the middle of the room. It was not just any sword, it was the sword, and it was every sword. It was Excalibur, it was Durandal, Naegling, Kusanagi, and Balmung. He ran to the blade and lifted it, and the beast stopped.
Somewhere he could hear the soft hush of running water as he hefted the axiomatic sword. Now he could see the fear in its eyes, and he felt a rush of hate within himself. He screeched and lunged at the thing. Every muscle tensed with the pain and rage of the continual fear the thing had trapped him in with their nightly ritual as he brought the weapon down into its filthy body. The creature vomited black blood-pulp of its innards from its abomination mouth and the man’s lips grew into a smile of spite.
“I win you bastard.” He grunted as he brought the sword down upon its body over and over. Each stroke came faster and harder as the thing’s bile stained deep into the immaculate marble of the room. Then it was done, and he felt dizzy from the exertion.
He looked down as the creature melted away. Its pitchy skin slid away to reveal a human figure underneath. It was a naked man, covered with deep wounds. He realized that the man on the floor was himself.
The man on the floor looked up and told him, “I am a portent.” Then he faded to dust.
Again, he was alone. He looked around the bright room, and now it seemed to have a layer of unclean matter beneath it. It was lurking underneath the suddenly dingy marble. He dropped the sword, and its luminescent blade bit deep into the rock. Somewhere the woman’s voice still sang and the thin stream still murmured. But there were no doors to this room, and he wondered how he would get out.
The alarm screeched at him and he awoke confused and drenched with sweat. Far away the woman still sang in his head, slowly growing dimmer as the dream faded away from his consciousness.
“Today is not gonna be a good day.” Hazen said to himself as he put on his faded jeans.
суббота, января 14, 2006
пятница, января 13, 2006
четверг, января 12, 2006
Content
I'm having trouble thinking up content for the site. (Actually, I'm just having trouble thinking, period.) So I'm just going to start dredging up old files and stuff the likes of which you people have never seen before!
To start, here is a file titled "Ork not-quickie." Enjoy!
A young boy stood before me, his thick lower lip quivered, pouting, with his long canines pressed hard against his upper lip. His forehead was smeared with blue paint made from crushed berries and the smooth grey mud from the bottom of the river. It would stain his green skin an odd dark teal for a week at the very least. His father, Phumbaabaa, stood behind me and glowered with disappointment. The child looked as though he might cry, which would only worsen his situation, but he stood firm.
I decided to tell him a story.
“A young orc was in the woods, he was alone, but not scared. He was always a brave child…” I began.
“The orc boy beat his way through the forest, not at peace with it. You see, he was not really at peace with anything at that time. He felt that he lived for the fight and he had no higher aspirations that to be the strongest warrior in all the land, much like you Brahgaabaa. He stood firm with his weapon at hand as he beat his way through the brush. You see, a fire had not swept out the valley in many seasons, and the lesser plants had begun to take over. This was a much easier year. Anyway, he fought the scrubby green plants as he made his way through the woods, making sure to keep his weapon clean of any leaf litter that might cling to it. The boy was unaware that he was being hunted by someone.
There were signs, of course, the occational snapping of twigs, the shuffling noise of feet in the dead leaves. Even the birds in the trees tried to warn the boy that he was being stalked by an unknown enemy with their twittering and tweeting. They knew to avoid the hunter in the trees. Of course, the boy did not hear the signs over the sound of himself fighting the forest, so it was an easy matter for the hunter to chase the boy until the boy fell into his trap.
The boy was lost in the wash of green. Trees loomed over him like drunken giants, swaying in the slight breeze that washed over the valley. They seemed to attack him too, but like I said, he was not at peace with the forest yet. He was surrounded by their tall, thick bodies and their creaking, groaning sighs.
I do not know why, I assume the boy was becoming frightened by the forest, or maybe he knew, with some untapped second sight, that there was something was following him. Maybe he stopped making such a wretched racket in the bushes that he could hear something other than himself— I don’t know and it isn’t really the point. He began to sing the warrior’s song his mother had taught him.
I am flesh,
My will is stone,
Hungry worms won’t take me home.
You are weak,
And I am strong,
Our new battle won’t take long!
He had most of the words wrong, actually, but he managed to make it rhyme, and he had a good singing voice. It was strong, like the words of the song he half-invented said. They say that Shelragk the wanderer helps those who sing in the forest, that he would give a blessing to those who sing songs that he likes. Maybe if the boy sang something more fun, dirtier, Shelragk would have heard him that day. But he didn’t, instead he sang his half-song and only his hunter listened. If the boy did not sing so loud maybe he would have heard the hunter laugh at him in the trees, but he did not.”
“This boy is not clever. I feel I should make that clear to you,” I said to the boy, winking with my yellow eye. I knew he would not understand the irony of the statement, and his father was too embarrassed to be angry with me now. I continued.
“Eventually the boy made it into a clearing, and was very grateful that he was freed from the prison of the trees. So focused on the grassy, open place he did not notice the bent ash that was not but a few feet to his side. He stepped out of the trees and with a twang and a snap he found himself upside down, dangling from a tree by a piece of rough rope. He dropped his weapon and wailed in surprise.
His hunter walked out of the trees and smacked him across the face with a wet, muddy bladder on a stick, like the one in your hand there.”
“You are probably wondering why I told you this story, like you do with most of the stories I tell you when I ramble on like an old man like this,” I said to him. He nodded and I felt like cuffing him upside his head. The children now do not have enough respect to lie to their elders. Anyway, I said to him, “I told you this story because the boy was your father, Phumbaabaa, and I was his hunter.”
The child’s eyes lit up when I said this, and I nodded, trying to look sagely. I could feel Phumbaabaa shrinking behind me. I said, “You see, there is more to fighting that simply being stronger than your enemy. You must also be tricksy. You must fight with your mind before you even begin to fight with your hands. Now, who beat you? Was it Thrashk, Grashk’s son? He seems like the kind.”
The child nodded. I nodded. Phumbaabaa rolled his eyes a bit behind me. I can tell. The child asked, “If you were more clever than father, why is he chief and not you?”
I chuckled at this, and at the angry growl Phumbaabaa released at it. I replied, “Because he learned, just as you will, with time…”
I would have continued, but Phumbaabaa interrupted me. I was actually surprised he had not said anything earlier. He said, “Who says that Krage is not the chief? I am chief only in title. Krage has become worse than your mother, he has. He nags me unbearably until I do what he has told me to do. Krage is the one who runs the tribe, he only lets me act as chief because I have not killed him yet.”
I decided that day to tell better stories about Phumbaabaa for a many nights after that.
To start, here is a file titled "Ork not-quickie." Enjoy!
A young boy stood before me, his thick lower lip quivered, pouting, with his long canines pressed hard against his upper lip. His forehead was smeared with blue paint made from crushed berries and the smooth grey mud from the bottom of the river. It would stain his green skin an odd dark teal for a week at the very least. His father, Phumbaabaa, stood behind me and glowered with disappointment. The child looked as though he might cry, which would only worsen his situation, but he stood firm.
I decided to tell him a story.
“A young orc was in the woods, he was alone, but not scared. He was always a brave child…” I began.
“The orc boy beat his way through the forest, not at peace with it. You see, he was not really at peace with anything at that time. He felt that he lived for the fight and he had no higher aspirations that to be the strongest warrior in all the land, much like you Brahgaabaa. He stood firm with his weapon at hand as he beat his way through the brush. You see, a fire had not swept out the valley in many seasons, and the lesser plants had begun to take over. This was a much easier year. Anyway, he fought the scrubby green plants as he made his way through the woods, making sure to keep his weapon clean of any leaf litter that might cling to it. The boy was unaware that he was being hunted by someone.
There were signs, of course, the occational snapping of twigs, the shuffling noise of feet in the dead leaves. Even the birds in the trees tried to warn the boy that he was being stalked by an unknown enemy with their twittering and tweeting. They knew to avoid the hunter in the trees. Of course, the boy did not hear the signs over the sound of himself fighting the forest, so it was an easy matter for the hunter to chase the boy until the boy fell into his trap.
The boy was lost in the wash of green. Trees loomed over him like drunken giants, swaying in the slight breeze that washed over the valley. They seemed to attack him too, but like I said, he was not at peace with the forest yet. He was surrounded by their tall, thick bodies and their creaking, groaning sighs.
I do not know why, I assume the boy was becoming frightened by the forest, or maybe he knew, with some untapped second sight, that there was something was following him. Maybe he stopped making such a wretched racket in the bushes that he could hear something other than himself— I don’t know and it isn’t really the point. He began to sing the warrior’s song his mother had taught him.
I am flesh,
My will is stone,
Hungry worms won’t take me home.
You are weak,
And I am strong,
Our new battle won’t take long!
He had most of the words wrong, actually, but he managed to make it rhyme, and he had a good singing voice. It was strong, like the words of the song he half-invented said. They say that Shelragk the wanderer helps those who sing in the forest, that he would give a blessing to those who sing songs that he likes. Maybe if the boy sang something more fun, dirtier, Shelragk would have heard him that day. But he didn’t, instead he sang his half-song and only his hunter listened. If the boy did not sing so loud maybe he would have heard the hunter laugh at him in the trees, but he did not.”
“This boy is not clever. I feel I should make that clear to you,” I said to the boy, winking with my yellow eye. I knew he would not understand the irony of the statement, and his father was too embarrassed to be angry with me now. I continued.
“Eventually the boy made it into a clearing, and was very grateful that he was freed from the prison of the trees. So focused on the grassy, open place he did not notice the bent ash that was not but a few feet to his side. He stepped out of the trees and with a twang and a snap he found himself upside down, dangling from a tree by a piece of rough rope. He dropped his weapon and wailed in surprise.
His hunter walked out of the trees and smacked him across the face with a wet, muddy bladder on a stick, like the one in your hand there.”
“You are probably wondering why I told you this story, like you do with most of the stories I tell you when I ramble on like an old man like this,” I said to him. He nodded and I felt like cuffing him upside his head. The children now do not have enough respect to lie to their elders. Anyway, I said to him, “I told you this story because the boy was your father, Phumbaabaa, and I was his hunter.”
The child’s eyes lit up when I said this, and I nodded, trying to look sagely. I could feel Phumbaabaa shrinking behind me. I said, “You see, there is more to fighting that simply being stronger than your enemy. You must also be tricksy. You must fight with your mind before you even begin to fight with your hands. Now, who beat you? Was it Thrashk, Grashk’s son? He seems like the kind.”
The child nodded. I nodded. Phumbaabaa rolled his eyes a bit behind me. I can tell. The child asked, “If you were more clever than father, why is he chief and not you?”
I chuckled at this, and at the angry growl Phumbaabaa released at it. I replied, “Because he learned, just as you will, with time…”
I would have continued, but Phumbaabaa interrupted me. I was actually surprised he had not said anything earlier. He said, “Who says that Krage is not the chief? I am chief only in title. Krage has become worse than your mother, he has. He nags me unbearably until I do what he has told me to do. Krage is the one who runs the tribe, he only lets me act as chief because I have not killed him yet.”
I decided that day to tell better stories about Phumbaabaa for a many nights after that.
On This Episode of University of Minnesota- M
Bill Hunt must go Super Corduroy to defeat the evil King Kouch!
среда, января 11, 2006
Today
Got new license plates. They aren't impressive. The important part is that getting new plates meant I could shoot at the old ones. :-)
Yay.
So we bound them together with duct tape and blasted them. It was pretty neat to see how the bullet deformation increased with each plate, so the hole got bigger each time until the backmost plate was in a pretty bad way.
Also have some targets that look like squirrels (my natural enemy in the wild) but they only have about a 2" target zone on each of the three squirrels on the sheet. They were very dead by the time I was done, just very few actual target hits. I have an odd tendancy to shoot them in the ass. I've gotten some great clusters... just on the ass.
Dunno.
Otherwise my life has been pretty boring. Now I have to get the smell of solvent and oil off of my hands.
Yay.
So we bound them together with duct tape and blasted them. It was pretty neat to see how the bullet deformation increased with each plate, so the hole got bigger each time until the backmost plate was in a pretty bad way.
Also have some targets that look like squirrels (my natural enemy in the wild) but they only have about a 2" target zone on each of the three squirrels on the sheet. They were very dead by the time I was done, just very few actual target hits. I have an odd tendancy to shoot them in the ass. I've gotten some great clusters... just on the ass.
Dunno.
Otherwise my life has been pretty boring. Now I have to get the smell of solvent and oil off of my hands.
понедельник, января 09, 2006
Old File I Found
Failure
To the deep mountain forest I have come,
And to the glorious muse I pray,
That my words might dance to Pan’s pipes and drum.
I sit upon the highest rock.
The hazy blue sky encircles me,
And to me the mountain spirits flock.
Is this where dryads live?
Is it here that the faerie-kin play?
Is this where the nymphs of the trees...
What’s that squirrel doing?
Never mind… Where was I?
I listen to the eternal song of sweet Persephone.
Her enchanting melody elevates me through the forest,
And allows me to touch the souls of every tree.
In my trance I stare away into the depth of the wood,
And I feel the spirits of the animals that reside within,
The fox, the deer, the bear, the wolf, the hawk, the owl …a squirrel…
Go away!
It is from my enlightened seat,
That I view the many wonders of this ancient grove.
Anxiously, the secrets of the forest I greet.
What perfect thought does the pine’s whisper convey?
It sings a hymn against the cruel encroachment of the city,
Their concrete tombs block even the light of day.
For it is in these earthen depths in which the Old Gods hide,
The King in Yellow, the Man of the Silver Mountain,
And the venerable Lord Oberon here reside.
They call to me to join their court,
To declare me their Knight Errant,
And to make the lives of their squirrel
- damn it- enemies short,
They bid me to save the gods’ great grove.
To protect their hallowed halls from the engines of man,
For to them it is nothing but a banal treasure trove.
Then in the bushes below something moves,
Is it bold Satyrane come to hold palaver with me?
No, it is that stupid squirrel again.
The spell is broken,
I realize my ass has gone numb.
I am cold and hungry.
All I have to show for my trouble is some pretty words and no truth.
I’m going home.
Damn squirrel…
---
This was just an expression of my distain for certain forms of poetry that I made for my creative writing class. Figgered I might as well post it. I've been deleting files and I stumbled across it.
To the deep mountain forest I have come,
And to the glorious muse I pray,
That my words might dance to Pan’s pipes and drum.
I sit upon the highest rock.
The hazy blue sky encircles me,
And to me the mountain spirits flock.
Is this where dryads live?
Is it here that the faerie-kin play?
Is this where the nymphs of the trees...
What’s that squirrel doing?
Never mind… Where was I?
I listen to the eternal song of sweet Persephone.
Her enchanting melody elevates me through the forest,
And allows me to touch the souls of every tree.
In my trance I stare away into the depth of the wood,
And I feel the spirits of the animals that reside within,
The fox, the deer, the bear, the wolf, the hawk, the owl …a squirrel…
Go away!
It is from my enlightened seat,
That I view the many wonders of this ancient grove.
Anxiously, the secrets of the forest I greet.
What perfect thought does the pine’s whisper convey?
It sings a hymn against the cruel encroachment of the city,
Their concrete tombs block even the light of day.
For it is in these earthen depths in which the Old Gods hide,
The King in Yellow, the Man of the Silver Mountain,
And the venerable Lord Oberon here reside.
They call to me to join their court,
To declare me their Knight Errant,
And to make the lives of their squirrel
- damn it- enemies short,
They bid me to save the gods’ great grove.
To protect their hallowed halls from the engines of man,
For to them it is nothing but a banal treasure trove.
Then in the bushes below something moves,
Is it bold Satyrane come to hold palaver with me?
No, it is that stupid squirrel again.
The spell is broken,
I realize my ass has gone numb.
I am cold and hungry.
All I have to show for my trouble is some pretty words and no truth.
I’m going home.
Damn squirrel…
---
This was just an expression of my distain for certain forms of poetry that I made for my creative writing class. Figgered I might as well post it. I've been deleting files and I stumbled across it.
суббота, января 07, 2006
Quick
So, I'm sitting around at my computer at 3 in the morning looking up pictures for backgrounds on my desktop when a thought popped into my head:
Dolly Parton seems like a really nice lady.
Just though you needed to know that.
Dolly Parton seems like a really nice lady.
Just though you needed to know that.
четверг, января 05, 2006
The Adventure of Panzerfaust
Sunday. The day of rest. Families go to Church. Football fans go to couch. Travel slows and businesses close. Sunday is a day of rest for everyone, but not Panzerfaust. That's because this Sunday was the day that they would come for him.
Panzerfaust sat in his tube, his world colored orange by the walls of his prison. He inhaled from the butt of a Camel. It took him two months to get the drag he wanted. Two months of escaping, stealing, and concealing, to get the cigarette and match he would need for one last puff before the real work began.
"Smooth..." He murmured to himself. Anyone who was listening heard, "Squeaksqueaksqueak."But he wasn't talking for them. He had almost forgotten what it was like to hear any voice but his own. It kept him sane.
He finished the shoddy remains of tobacco just before a pair of thick fingers picked him up by the scruff of his neck.
"Here we go." He stated, grim and determined that they would go down before he did.
"MR. SQUEAKERS! MR. SQUEAKERS! MR. SQUEAKERS!" The shrill, booming voice of the children exploded in his ears. They would die, painfully, but not now. He needed them to put him down, and he knew they would. They revelled in watching him run frantically away from their clumbsy feet.
Panzerfaust hated them. In the old country, they lowered him on a rope from the streets to drop molotov cocktails on Nazi tanks. He was a hero. Here, he was a pet to some yuppies shitty children.
God, I hate them all. He thought to himself. If a psychic was nearby, they would have tuned into "squeak squeak squeak" but there wasn't. He was as alone as he always was, and always had been.
Just before they put him down, and he could make a break for it into the tunnels he had etched out over the years of his incarceration, they dropped a woman on the ground in front of him. She was a Dutch Longhair, pure white, a rare breed after the Nazi rats flushed out their people. She had the prettiest eyes Panzerfaust had ever seen. Of course, he hadn't seen anyone in years. The children put him down in front of her.
This left Panzerfaust with many options. "I could run and ignore her, I could wait and find a way for both of us to get out together, or..." Panzerfaust realized what he would do. He rushed her and bit out her throat as fast as he could, then bolted to his escape. He had realized that she would just slow him down, and he couldn't let them have a new captive.
I think I'll go to Prauge. He thought to himself as he relished the cries of anguish erupting from his tormentors. Someone there owes me big-big.
Panzerfaust sat in his tube, his world colored orange by the walls of his prison. He inhaled from the butt of a Camel. It took him two months to get the drag he wanted. Two months of escaping, stealing, and concealing, to get the cigarette and match he would need for one last puff before the real work began.
"Smooth..." He murmured to himself. Anyone who was listening heard, "Squeaksqueaksqueak."But he wasn't talking for them. He had almost forgotten what it was like to hear any voice but his own. It kept him sane.
He finished the shoddy remains of tobacco just before a pair of thick fingers picked him up by the scruff of his neck.
"Here we go." He stated, grim and determined that they would go down before he did.
"MR. SQUEAKERS! MR. SQUEAKERS! MR. SQUEAKERS!" The shrill, booming voice of the children exploded in his ears. They would die, painfully, but not now. He needed them to put him down, and he knew they would. They revelled in watching him run frantically away from their clumbsy feet.
Panzerfaust hated them. In the old country, they lowered him on a rope from the streets to drop molotov cocktails on Nazi tanks. He was a hero. Here, he was a pet to some yuppies shitty children.
God, I hate them all. He thought to himself. If a psychic was nearby, they would have tuned into "squeak squeak squeak" but there wasn't. He was as alone as he always was, and always had been.
Just before they put him down, and he could make a break for it into the tunnels he had etched out over the years of his incarceration, they dropped a woman on the ground in front of him. She was a Dutch Longhair, pure white, a rare breed after the Nazi rats flushed out their people. She had the prettiest eyes Panzerfaust had ever seen. Of course, he hadn't seen anyone in years. The children put him down in front of her.
This left Panzerfaust with many options. "I could run and ignore her, I could wait and find a way for both of us to get out together, or..." Panzerfaust realized what he would do. He rushed her and bit out her throat as fast as he could, then bolted to his escape. He had realized that she would just slow him down, and he couldn't let them have a new captive.
I think I'll go to Prauge. He thought to himself as he relished the cries of anguish erupting from his tormentors. Someone there owes me big-big.
Panzerfaust, the Anti-Tank Hamster!
(Because JMJ made it look cool.)
Soon I'll start smoking or something because of him...
Soon I'll start smoking or something because of him...
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