Archive for December, 2013

What’s up, beautiful earthlings?

It’s nice being human, isn’t it? Cable TV, I-Pads, Gaming systems, gourmet cuisine, 2-hour parking meters, (well, maybe not that last one…) — we’re living the life people!

But, you know, sometimes I do wonder if maybe somewhere, someplace out there, somebody has it better than us. The grass is always greener after all… unless it’s purple. Which is always a possibility. Anyway, as you might’ve already guessed, this week’s short was inspired by my curiosity of the happenings on other worlds.

Blame it all on my love of Anime and Comics, and my happenstance stumbling across a battle between two of my favorite Aliens: Goku and Superman. Whether or not you’re familiar with these two Alien POWERHOUSES, watch that 3-minute flip-book video. The work it took to fill in all those pages alone will surely have you in awe, ready to create something amazing yourself.

No more set-up…

…I’m hungover

Let’s do this!

Seward’s Folly
europa

It would have been Christmas morning. The trip seemed apropos. Rather than unwrapping some useless tchotchke, he’d be unwrapping one of the greatest mysteries of all time. How he now longed for the Yule-Log and Egg-Nog…

Using his foot for leverage against what could only be loosely described as a throat, Seward wrenched the dull end of the exploration pickaxe from the well armored gut of the malodorous Fish-Man. A sickly sucking noise erupted forth, followed by a jet stream of hot and green hued blood which coated his bare arm, as the flat, battle-worn edge of the instrument was freed at once. For a grim moment his heart sank to his stomach, as it seemed he’d lose his purchase on the icy terrain from the effort, but his government issue, “Sure-Grip Space-Boots”, and their, “Guaranteed Never-Slip, Stabili-Grip”, here proved their namesake. Now, standing tall, slinging his makeshift weapon over his shoulder, he heaved his first easy, non panic-stricken breath in over two days. Finally, the onslaught seemed to be over. The air was still.

Gazing out across the vast, bleak tundra of Europa, partially blinded by the heliographing floodlights of their distant ship filtering in through the ubiquitous forest of ice forged stalagmites, Steward was taken aback, momentarily, by the ineffable beauty that was this forlorn world’s sole and defining feature. Rather, the ice pillars had been the trademark of this peculiar moon… that is before he and his team had effected their influence. Now lying under the radioactively clouded war-torn sky, amidst shattered and splintered pillars of ice, countless bodies littered the vista, Human and Fish-Man alike, distracting the eye from a preferred view. Impaled and inert bodies, strewn everywhere a gaze was tossed, tainted this once breathless landscape absolute, staining the pure, transparent ice, both green and red — as if some mass murderer’s perverted dream of a blessed Christmas.

Shaking his head for the loss of his comrades, Seward took silent stock of all that had gone down over the past three days… while absent-mindedly scrutinizing the calcified mayhem at hand. Their aims had been pure enough, a simple mission of, “look-see and report back” which promised to send him to a world he’d only dreamed of since he was but a boy. And, being he was a member of the scientific expedition, (Note: decidedly not some government mercenary muscle for hire), personally of this purity of cause there could be no doubt. Though were he being honest, the primitive, oddly human creatures all around — mostly dead (one, of a pickaxe to the gut), the rest gasping and writhing pathetically, trying to suck air through dying gills on what would be our ribs, were the only ones who could truly steak claim over this barren place — this distant moon of Jupiter, Europa: the ice planet of legend.

Suddenly contemplative of the morality of it all, he shifted his gaze skyward, finding himself quickly lost in thought, staring into the ever-changing, undulating and tempestuous Great Red Spot. Once more he was reminded of the eternally burning Yule-Log, and his home. It seemed so near… absently he reached out to touch it… and promptly scoffed in ire at himself, shaking his head at the sheer frivolity of the act.

Jupiter, europa

They were the villains here, not the Aliens, he decided.  Hastily he amended his logic. The true aliens were at fault here, us humans, not the denizens of this oceanic world, abhorrent as they my be. No, the citizens of this planet had done nothing wrong but protect their only home. Meanwhile Captain Malrick, leader of the government grunts sent along ‘for protection’, who lay slain within pissing distance from where he now stood — skewered like a suckling pig on a tall ice spike — just may have been wrong in giving the order to fire in the first place. Perhaps their arrival, cinematic as erupting through the dense ice in a dazzling flourish of air-born acrobatisim may be, and frightening too, was born more-so of curiosity than aggression. Hell, he mused, maybe the sentiment was neither of these human emotions. Perhaps what had brought the life of this world topside was an entirely novel emotion to him and his kind altogether. He was reminded of how little they actually knew, (rather, “he“, as he was now the sole survivor), about the life-forms of this world. They could’ve learned so much from us, he thought, we could’ve shared so many things, helped to evolve their culture, and, in time, branched out together into a new and shared race… But instead this Christmastime Rorschach was splayed out before him.

Well, no matter, he thought, his wits returning to him at last. Though a scene of ineffably devastating tragedy was presently on display, he was still the sole survivor of this ill-fated expedition and had a duty to return to the base at Ursa Minor. Reports needed filing, explanations given, and, perchance some motes of wisdom could be gleaned through classification, he’d sure love to be the man who’d done it. Medals are given for acts of survival such as this, he promised himself. Briefly he pictured living out his long remaining days a local celebrity — a planetesimal to call his own, with throngs of female visitors to keep the booze flowing and the partying non-stop for all of time to come. He’d had enough of space. It was bloody cold. Time to get a move on.

Ambling past the stained, towering crimson and clover peaks of perpetual ice, growing taller and denser as he approached the distant ship, Seward incrementally made his way toward his lone salvation — weaving a blind path and occasionally backtracking as dead ends were met — all while eying down an uncannily tiny, and heavily wounded Fish-Man at the periphery of the devastation. That’ll make the panties plenty wet back home, he assured himself, through an ever-deepening spine rattling shiver. A real live Fish-Man, in the flesh, or, rather… Scales, on one of our operating tables — or, better yet, in one of our Zoo’s. He could just picture the droves of women barging down his door. The War Hero, Seward the Fearless, returned home with the greatest prize of all — Alien life. Mankind’s dream since he first stared up at the cosmos, and knew them for what they were.

As when the brilliance of light from a destination star overtakes the meager cabin luminosity within a ship on final approach to a target system, filling your heart with excitement and hope after so much time spent in a pitiless void, Steward felt a familiar, palpable sense of relief, and, (at least he thought), warmth, as he could now spy his destination up ahead. The clearing was partially visible through gaps in the massive clear spires of solid standing water, and he was nearly at the smoothed patch of ice they’d scorched from space, (posited upon the densest swath of ice their radar could detect, ensuring a safe, secure landing), while still dragging his putrid prize by the calf, the bedraggled, more than half-dead Fish-Man, clutching it just above the sharp and serrated fin that jutted off the back of its heel, threatening to slice him open at the slightest graze — when the ground began to tremor.

It was a mild vibration at first, a mere constant hum which reverberated all around but posed no real threat to his gait, and so he forged on ahead. Soon though, the eerily menacing, steady throng of jittery underfoot movement was joined by bouts of violent seizures — loud and heavy drums that lifted him and his catch from the ground as they struck — each strike increasing in intensity and frequency. The fifth ardent rumble proved to be too much, and effectively stole his, “Sure-Grip Space-Boots”, guaranteed purchase from their assured place on the icy Terra. Knocked from his feet, Steward landed squarely on the back of the Fish-Man he’d been dragging along, and sliced a sizable gash into his right tricept where the creatures back-fin merely glanced his numbed flesh. The Fish-Man, air pressed forcibly from its form, exhaled a long, sad, wheezy whinny under the force of Seward’s sizable mass, lasting a sickeningly prolonged few moments. What followed — as Stewards eyes danced frantically across the whitewashed world in search of a threat, as his arm freely bled and as his heart attempted to flee his body via his throat — was complete and utter silence and stillness… that is, all up until he heard the massive, echoing crack from up above.

Redolent to look, instinctively fearful, he clapped his eyes shut, cast down his head — and was promptly struck on the back of his skull by something cold and firm. Apprehensively, he opened his eyes, peeking past his interwoven eyelashes to find a small chunk of roundish ice coming to a rest… and rapidly growing shadow around his form. Cracking his head skyward, he easily found what was casting the shade, the two-story broken tip of an unusually wide ice spike, presently tumbling downward, ricocheting off nearby spires, and threatening to land squarely where he was, promising to permanently stamp his form into the permafrost.

He dove for the clearing, thoughtlessly abandoning in an instant his aspirations for fame and fortune, leaving the Fish-Man behind. The titanic chunk of frozen matter slammed hard into the ground, flattening the Fish-Man’s lifeless form, where he’d only just been, and piercing the thick shell of the Moons surface — rippling spindly, wandering hairline fractures outward from its epicenter which ran and stretched throughout the clearing, creeping throughout the ground beneath his waiting ship. Feeling his welcome in this world had long been exhausted, Steward redoubled his efforts to reach his vessel — springing to his feet and sprinting with vigor, using energy reserves he was sure he’d exhausted at least a day ago.

Then something curious began to happen. As he struggled not to slip while running across the slick ice, his ship started to sink below the horizon. Rather, the ship remained as it was, but the ground before him seemed to… rise… blocking his view and creating the illusion that the ship was hastily descending. The effect was odd indeed, and as his mind worked out the arithmetic his, “Sure-Grip Space-Boots”, offered up the best possible explanation that could be had — by losing their grip on the surface. The ground had shifted.

Before he knew it his body had turned and was in an untempered slide, and all at once the grim truth of his predicament was evident — the fragmented end of the ice float, upon which he was just running, was being weighed down by the fallen Ice spire, creating a onetime luge that ended in his hypothermic death if he plunged into the bitter, icy waters below.

Breathlessly, he wished he would have kept the pickaxe…

…but instead he’d ditched it to take the Fish-Man.

He might’ve even reached the ship in time.

………………

He plunged into the bitter, icy waters below.

Splash

It was warmer than he thought in the embrace of the ocean, but then again maybe that was the hypothermia kicking in. His lungs burned for lack of air, and, though he was adept at swimming, his experting motions were tantamount to childlike flailing, as he could do nothing to counteract the pull of suction created by the still sinking, enormous ice spire. Before long, he just gave in. He was too tired, too hungry, and too hopeless to do anything more. Accepting his fate quickly brought a certain stillness to his heart, and he was finally able to appreciate his surroundings. There, not but ten yards away, was the flattened body of the Fish-Man who he’d planned to bring with him home, impressively intact for something that had just had its corporeal form reduced to two dimensions, he thought absently.

Then, as if reading his thoughts, the body of the Fish-Man… re-inflated. At once, like a switch had been flipped, the body that had been descending as would an unperturbed sheet of free-falling paper retook its previous dimensions. Agape, Steward gawked, not lost to the truth that this amazing transformation would ultimately prove inconsequential were he to die, intensely curious as to the mechanism of their physiology that could achieve this, and wishing he were in a warm, dry lab, able to study it.

You will not perish, came the odd, phlegm born voice at his rear.

Thoroughly surprised, though turning completely without fear, (a combination of emotions only the delirium reached in the throes of certain death can allow one to achieve), Seward found a large Fish-Man hovering just ahead in the distance. Had it really spoke, or was this merely something his dying mind had manifest? The broad palms of his clawed, three-fingered hands rested at his hips, turning the flattened, hammer like butts of his elbows out to the side, giving his silhouette the impression of some queer undersea superhero. Perhaps he was. Innate matters such as this, floated through his mind now. Seward knew he was very near to death.

It was never our intention to engage you in combat”, the voice continued as Seward’s consciousness began to flicker, “Your odds of success were non-existent from the start. Look behind you.”

Mildly agitated at the demanding nature of the pompous hero, but without much more on his agenda that he could presently recall — which seemed odd… hadn’t he a bris to rush off to? — Seward casually flipped around. The reanimated body of the Fish-Man at his rear was vomiting luminance. Then, differentiating into individual beads, (beads, he imagined, that could fetch a pretty penny at the Ursa bazarr back home), the bits of shape-shifting puke then swirled around its body, creating a blanketing vortex of light which obfuscated its form from view.

Bioluminescent phytoplankton“, the Fish-Man superhero, ‘Captain of the Sea’ continued from both behind him, and amidst another galaxy.

Seward idly wondered if these plankton were used in any intriguing, fishy-fish sexual acts. For a brief lucid moment, he wondered if his mind were unraveling, and then thought, nah. Grilled cheese. Then, the eyes of the once flattened and dead Fish-Man fluttered open, again revealing the horizontal slit pupils that had initially terrified him so. Now they made him crave pizza… or a nap… he couldn’t be sure which but his struggling brain insisted that it was time for repose. Fine, you cheeky monkey, he thought, you win this round.

We have a symbiotic relationship — they are healing him”, came the voice from the heavens, and Seward wondered if it were God himself. “See, we know you creatures came from beyond the solid substrate. Meaning you’d arrived by traveling through the black waters where we cannot swim. A feat such as this must have pitted your opinion of us into the primitive. That, we are not. We have a highly evolved, complimentary ecosystem. Everything has a purpose, everything is incorporated into the whole, nothing is wasted or ignored.” And, just when Seward could not help but to reminisce about his first memory in life, (hiding a pair of shame and shit filled underwear in a crack in his bedroom wall, something that earned him the worst spanking of his young life when found out for the stench) the voice of God said one thing more. “Even you will have a reason to exist”.

That’s when everything went black.

Seward awoke in a bolt to the sound of a loud thud, and fell flat on his face as he tried to push himself upright on an arm which simply wasn’t there. He glanced down to find a black stump jutting off his shoulder where his right arm once was. Frostbite, the gash in my arm, he mentally intuited, impressing himself at the lucidity of the connection. Using his left palm now, he pressed away at the hard floor, and sat up on the floor of a cage. Fish-Men of all sizes and shapes ambled past, smiling wildly, while some now were stopping at the clear wall of his confines, pointing emphatically at something to his side. Turning, he saw a package on the ground, neatly wrapped in seaweed. Up above, on a ceiling far too high form him to ever reach, a latch fastened shut.

Hastily he unwrapped the package, discovering inside three tiny, cured squid.

Some Christmas, he thought morosely.

Finding a corner of his clear cage, Seward sat with his elbows to his knees and bit deeply into the bland meat that his captors had provided him. The children of the crowd giggled, and tugged at their mothers fins. Clearly he would be the talk of the town. He’d become a celebrity after all…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Poor Seward, he was only doing what he was told. Perception can be a bitch, eh?

Anyway, come back in a week and you may find this story edited some more. I’m man enough to admit that I may have rushed the ending, Christmas activities are calling and I’ve yet to buy a single gift.

(I know, I know, I’m a horrible person. You try to find time to shop with 80 hour work-weeks! At least i gave Seward a present! Wasn’t that nice?)

Hope you all enjoyed visiting another planet today,

Europa’s very real, and AWESOME — now go learn about it!

Be well, and go create something for fark’s sake, wont ya?

~J

Advertisements
Salutations, superb supercilious simians!

How’s it hanging? Short shriveled and always to the left?

(I know, I know — a monkey throwback joke AND a “Liar, Liar” reference — 2 jokes in the first 10 words..! There, there *hugs you into my bountiful bosom* I know. It’s going to be all right. I know. Welcome home…)

I had been reading a wonderfully thorough, thoughtful, and honest account of a scientists changed perspective, surrounding whats happening to the brain while on psychedelic drugs, over on Reddit recently… hang on, lemme find the link… — HERE — and it really got me to thinking about all the unique compositions that our brains must take, enabling us to perform certain complex tasks. That line of thinking led me down yet another rabbit hole, circumscribing a series of questions surrounding one central idea, I.E.: what exotic and unique combinations of neuronal activity have we, as a species, yet to stumble upon… and what might these altered states allow us to do. Think of functional autism… Know how some days you’re the man? While others may find you boulder shouldered with a clipped tongue? What if you had a choice? The ability to shift gears, as it were — at will.

What else may you gain control over..?

Taking all this to its logical end, (and if you’re following my insanity at all up to this point, you deserve a gold star), I began my daily writing… and worked my way backwards from there…. I sure hope you enjoy.

~J

“The Day her life began”

Time retreated back to the unknown depths from whence it came.

The very fabric of the universe was undone.

God had been slain…

“BLAM”

"..."

“…”

The barrel rolled. The tension released. The hammer flew. Somewhere nearby, a universe sprang into existence which would support a host of tinkerers, gunsmiths, and engineers of myriad persuasions.

Slowly, with holy reverence, she lifted the pistol which now lay by her side, and greeted the frigid barrel with rattly, unsure teeth. Her tongue, acting of its own accord, probed the metallic stranger before reeling back frightened — arched as a hissing cat back in the furthermost recesses of the uncannily parched cavity. Tentatively she squeezed at the trigger, observing, with silent admiration, the hammers smooth and precising draw: a simple, momentary, accidental homage to the beauty of design.

No, this she couldn’t handle. This was the domain of wiser people, not her: some drug-addict waste of a life. She knew what had to be done…

There was no other choice. She’d never even wanted a child, (even when it easily could’ve changed her life with any one of over a dozen men…), the responsibility, she knew, would simply be more than her fragile psyche could support. The very thought of it paralyzed her — let alone pondering the mothering of full fresh galaxies, worlds, and people… Even now new forms of life, from the accidental warblings of her imaginative mind, sprang up all around her as her thoughts raced — neatly bifurcating into both matter and antimatter before disappearing into the thin ether all around, phasing down into their proper dimensions; the only stable places where they could grow, evolve, and prosper. Somehow, intrinsically, she knew all this.

……. I AM GOD!

It had all begun innocuously enough. Another night fleeing in desperate fear from her potential — she had come to terms with this cold reality some time ago, a brief silver lining to her staunch and stubborn nature, which otherwise had only served to deliver her precisely where was — chasing the bottom of an aged oak stock, paired with much smoke, and, the real culprit she’d now realized, the psychedelic mushrooms… Without that particular happenstance catalyst, she peevishly postulated, the seed of that thought would never have taken root in her. Sulking now, she wished she’d attributed, like all the others, that feeling of, “oneness with everything” to lend undeniable credence toward the thought of an all-encompassing God. But, no. Evidently her troublesome mind, and its own meddling realization here, was destined to grasp a truth so potentially devastating in its scope, that it threatened to destroy everything and everyone

Realizations, echoed on hollowed, tinny voices from ever-changing corners of her skull, began relaying a rapid fire series of truths directly into her psychological matrix. “The mind cannot exist in a state that the machinery itself cannot manifest, or support.”, They began. “Thus, every human experience hinges on all the exotic, common, and influenced ways that the brains neurons fire. It follows than, that reality starts between your ears, and extends to a world made up of nearly nothing. So why, if the potential exists, could not ones own thoughts manifest into the physical?”

So now, drawing on her studies of satellite imagery and maps of late, Melissa exploded upward on a rocket, quickly traversing the rotted roof over the abandoned squat, effortlessly accepting the house, block, town, and, before long, the entirety of New York state into her very being, just as soon as these things came into view. States seamlessly became Countries. Countries rapidly swelled to Continents. Continents yielded to the oceans, and jutted up once more upon the opposing shores. Before long, the entirety of the planet itself was in her game. She lived in it for a time, patiently breathing and letting her soul expand to fill the void. Finally now, as the full soul of the planet, she conceived a beam of energy, originating from the earths molten core, flowing outward as an explosive band — outward in every direction, out into the furthest regions of space… pulsating… feeling… expanding far beyond distances her human mind could ever hope to grasp… until, of its own accord, the feeling eased to a stop, draining her mind completely. Then, after an indeterminate amount of time had passed, one whispering thought, peeking its head into the whitewashed room of her mind and then passing the threshold with its head held high, tiptoed graciously, comfortably, across her state of zen: “If the theory she’d designed, in lieu of the divine line of reasoning, were true, and she could think her way into the proper mindset while sober, the true configuration of the universal fabric would become her reality”. Surely there would be answers there to glean.

Breathing solely through her nostrils, attention focused only on her breath, Melissa attempted to embrace the air flowing across her exposed flesh. She languished over the sensation, imposed only at first, that her skin had begun to radiate at its edge — blending with the world around her in the strange, love imbued way she could still vaguely recall from the night only just passed. Suddenly, somehow, she felt she’d accepted the surprisingly plush, tattered and stained red terry-cloth carpet as part of her expanding aura. She accepted its blemishes, they became endearing. She accepted its limitations, and became its friend. Imagining that each and every fiber, each and every strand, had now become an extension of her own body, made it so. Then, moving on, she perceived the tangible breeze licking heavily over her corporeal form, and the wind too became part of her energy, its trajectory acknowledged and absorbed by her creeping, steadfast awareness. It danced through limber, forest-like woolen passages below, darting to and fro, and tickling freshly raw and delicate nerves by the million. Before long, she found she was both aware of every distinct object in the room, and also, without a glimmer of doubt, certain that they were also an intractable part of herself.

She sat down, neatly crossed her legs, upturned her palms, and began to make her best attempt at meditation.

Melissa’s eyes cracked open, panic-stricken in her post sleep drug induced hypnagogic haze, deeply frightened, and ailed by amnesia as to where she was. Quickly scanning the dilapidated room, she soon identified the three lifeless bodies slung over the random bug infested, water-rot, furniture they’d together dragged into the squat from the curb the night before — fellow junkies, people she was calling, “friends” these days. Her heart went back to base from snare, and, as the vice subsided, the memory of the night before flooded back in full. Immediately she knew, the feeling had remained after all. Today was surely the day she’d have the strength to face the one thing that frightened her most — her own mind. Finally she could begin fresh. At last she’d stare down her demons, one-by-one, determine their vulnerabilities, and strike without mercy. This time, without fail, she would move on. This time she could get to the core of it all, her own subconscious, and finally address the fear. Whatever it was, fortified in the back of her mind, it couldn’t hurt her anymore. No, not today. Today, she would live — really live! — believing in her own potential to be great, and ability to achieve whatever she truly desired from life. By the time she got up, her life would truly begin…

Hey, Creative peeps! — It’s sure been a hot minute, hasn’t it?

Not to worry, the insane brain possessing all this flesh and corporeal tangibility has not gone away for good, but has rather been in a bout of writing hibernation. And, as it should never logically follow, the snows of New York’s bitter winter have taken me out from my own literary hibernation — and here I am: Fresh from the cave, unkempt, unshaven, and slightly gassy…

(For instance, and for proof of purchase, ever wonder if the phrase “hot-minute” is an unexpectedly clever twist on the Einstein “theory of relativity”?? Oh to dream…)

Yeah, that's the one!

Yeah, that’s the one!

 

Methinks this site needs a makeover. And, in due time, that’s precisely what she’ll get, but for today I’d just like to begin anew.

To post SOMETHING, to get the proverbial log-rolling. The hypothetical hypodermic plunge onto its descent. The meteorological transpermia action impregnating forlorn rocks, so that worlds may flourish anew. So, with all that in mind, I began free writing. Just once a day, stream of consciousness stuff — and I’d love to share it all with you. So, and without further adieu, I give you what I’m calling (after a team of wildly untrained organtuans flung poo at a poster board full of words, selecting the vehicles for the prose, leaving the leftover for the title.)

Influence

I could smell, but not taste. Feel, but not see. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Yet, I was alive… Wasn’t I?

How long had I been this way? What was the cause? Now, it’s obvious that those two particular lines of inquiry were fruitless — yet it was all my beleaguered mind was willing to offer up. So there I was, slung from my achilles, dangling prostrate, inverted, inert, numb, and left betwixt the cages of parroting inquiry that shut out possible rational thought by endlessly squawking at my ears in turn: “Why”, and “How long”.

I find now that it’s embarrassing to admit…

My training should’ve here kicked in… manacles could always be undone — blindfolds removed, Gags spat out — all things I’d done, and studied, and committed to muscle memory, things I shouldn’t even have to consciously think about to do. Somehow they’d removed my instincts… That’s what they’ve achieved. They’ve engineered a poison to sneak past the blood brain barrier… something that we’ve proved impossible. Or so we thought…

Wait… THATS IT!

I know what’s in the pill! It’s not a medicine, or a drug, or some natural additive… Nothing of that nature could’ve done this. There is however, another, rather sneaky, way to achieve these detriments; sensory deprivation, memory fragmentation, recall haze, non-responsive motor function.

God, it’s so obvious now…

But, with this insight, surely we can win the war!

The only way to do this, to effect all these regions of the mind, without surgery, is to make a placebo… but here’s the twist — the sugar is merely fuel. Or rather food… You ready?

What’s really in the pill is…

is…

Oh, my…

They’d even thought of this too.

The agent hinges forward, crashing hard onto the desk

— dead–

office-killing-desk-dead