If it’s going to happen at all, it has to be soon.
One alter. One vote. Life or death. First to five wins.
The problem, of course… we’re still missing one. Clarence is gone. This is a problem. Should the vote end, then one way or another we’ll have to live with it. But if it’s a tie… we have to find him.
Our life depends on it.
For the first time, well, ever, the Nine are trying to work together.
“Where did this table come from?” muttered Lank. Seven of the Nine sat around the round wooden table set on a plateau on the north-east face of the blue mountain. Even the haich was there, squatting awkwardly on the ground. The others were respectful yet wary, trying not to look directly at it. Wraith, understandably, had hidden in her cave and refused to come out.
“Okay,” began Styx, “what do we know? He’s in the Palace, that’s for certain. What sorts of things are we expecting to find in there?”
“A ghost wall. Frightening imagery and illusions.”
“Monsters, shadows and darkness.”
“The worst things we can imagine.”
“A green lumpy thing with claws, chained to a wall.”
“Some kind of toxic spike trap, most likely.”
“Rats. There’s always rats. Well, not always.”
“All around bad stuff. Okay. But it’s from our subconscious,” Styx insisted, “so whatever it is, we can work our way around it.”
“And supposing we can’t?” Lank looked up. “Even the gate threw IMPACT away, and if it can frighten him it can easily scare off all of us.” IMPACT sniffed and looked proud yet displeased.
“But we’re all together this time,” argued Whisk. “It can’t get us all. We can help each other.”
“We will overcome,” stated Skeleton. “Clarence [must] be [saved].”
“Why?” Lank glared. “We should finish the vote now and find him if needed. If in the end we die, it’s not going to matter much anyway.”
“Clarence,” said Skeleton fiercely, “Must Be Saved.” Lank backed down.
Prophet jumped up. “We must open the Big Blue Box.” Most burst out laughing. The Big Blue Box was (and is) a box, about eight feet tall, and blue. Found amongst the rocks to the northeast, it has never been opened. Presumably there is something inside.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” chuckled Styx. “No one knows what’s in the Big Blue Box.”
“It may be a powerful weapon,” muttered Prophet, sitting back down.
“Yeah,” countered Lank, “or it may be yet another monster.”
“Or it may be a memory,” concluded Skeleton. “In any case, it is not what we need right now.”
“So,” said Styx, “do we march? If we procrastinate forever we’ll never find him. Combined, we’ve been able to do so much. We can work out a way in. If it’s a matter of strength it shouldn’t be too bad, providing…” Everyone tried not to look at the haich. It was staring grumpily at the table, apparently ignoring the proceedings. “So come on. He’s depending on us. We need him. We can do this. Are we in?”
Lank stood. “When do we leave?” This change in attitude surprised no one. Whisk nodded slowly, looking scared but determined. IMPACT slammed his fist down on the table and nodded decisively. Prophet only sighed. Skeleton and the haich did not move at first. The smaller Guardian placed his hand on the beast’s arm. Suddenly the claw resting on the table clenched into a fist and the wolflike face took on a look of such passion and intensity that those across the table stepped back.
“It’s decided.” Styx smiled grimly. “Together, we march.”
Notes: I wonder if a normal impulse would be to open the box? I know I wouldn’t.
Apr 27, 2009
Apr 22, 2009
I have stories to tell, dammit.
Other worlds:
Viola: the Purple Dream
Description: A fairly normal-looking place. The surroundings match the solid ones in places, but sometimes differ entirely. Certain colours are also very different; blues and especially purples are everywhere, while greens and browns are right out.
First experience: My first jaunt to another plane, this occurred about two years ago at camp. (I think.) It took place during a dance, with people standing on benches at the edges and the middle of the room and all over the floor everywhere in between. I, of course, was a wallflower. Suddenly, I was simultaneously somewhere else. The room was cast in shadow. A great hole was dug into the floor in front of me, surrounded by a guardrail, with another level and circular balcony above it. The wood was a dark, fiery red (mahogany?) and the people were… different. In more or less the same places, still dancing, but laughing… jeering. Several appeared to be in partial states of undress. From the hole there was a harsh yellow light. Everyone was staring down. I don’t remember what was going on. Perhaps I blocked it from my memory, or perhaps I simply couldn’t look. I ran. The door was in the same place, so I made it outside without a problem. I stopped. Laid out before me was a dark, cobbled street. I’d never even seen a cobbled street before then. Tall, looming houses stretched off to the right. A young couple walked by, staring at me. I must have been quite a sight, wide-eyed and panicky. Something about their dress seemed somehow Victorian, though I’m not totally sure how. I walked. My hand touched a pillar on the porch; though it was solid, it seemed somehow immaterial. Someone asked me if I was okay. It sounded as though they were coming from far away. Then the street vanished, and the grass and the lake were all I could see.
Decay: the Corrupted File
Description: Decay is to the solid world what a virus is to a computer. It’s glitchy to the point of being unbearable. The images jump around madly, the sound varies from fizzling white noise to disturbing barely-human warbles, and even the floor feels like it’s going to drop out of your feet at any second. A massive programming error that badly needs a patch.
First experience: Unknown. Due to the warped and painful nature of the place it’s hard to pin down a time.
Chaos: the WTM
Description: Non-stop information overload. It’s simultaneously one thing and the other and everything in between, but at the same time nothing in particular. The only recognizable image is static.
First experience: Oddly enough, shortly before a meeting with the Dark King. And then during. He seems to be able to manipulate it. Still confused as to the specifics. It’s cropped up now and again ever since.
Ice: the Banshee’s Hill
Description: A barren, frozen wasteland. There is light. And snow. And the Banshee.
First experience: A walk outside, a month or two ago. There was snow on the ground. Absolute silence, not even the wind. The Banshee appeared before me, bringing with it shadow and storm. It appeared to me as it appears in my dreams, glowing, towering. “Did you forget the promise you made to me?” It raises its arm. A splinter of ice tears through my body, the same ice I felt so long ago, that day in December. “What promise?” I gasp. It disappears. Like an old wound, I can still feel that ice sometimes.
Pandaemonium: the Gate
Description: Darkness. Up and far in the distance is a light, leading onwards to Bigger and Better Things. In every other direction is Darkness, that’s Darkness with a capital Soul-Crushing Blackness. Somehow it’s cold. Are there serpents moving, down there somewhere?
First experience: Unknown.
Viola: the Purple Dream
Description: A fairly normal-looking place. The surroundings match the solid ones in places, but sometimes differ entirely. Certain colours are also very different; blues and especially purples are everywhere, while greens and browns are right out.
First experience: My first jaunt to another plane, this occurred about two years ago at camp. (I think.) It took place during a dance, with people standing on benches at the edges and the middle of the room and all over the floor everywhere in between. I, of course, was a wallflower. Suddenly, I was simultaneously somewhere else. The room was cast in shadow. A great hole was dug into the floor in front of me, surrounded by a guardrail, with another level and circular balcony above it. The wood was a dark, fiery red (mahogany?) and the people were… different. In more or less the same places, still dancing, but laughing… jeering. Several appeared to be in partial states of undress. From the hole there was a harsh yellow light. Everyone was staring down. I don’t remember what was going on. Perhaps I blocked it from my memory, or perhaps I simply couldn’t look. I ran. The door was in the same place, so I made it outside without a problem. I stopped. Laid out before me was a dark, cobbled street. I’d never even seen a cobbled street before then. Tall, looming houses stretched off to the right. A young couple walked by, staring at me. I must have been quite a sight, wide-eyed and panicky. Something about their dress seemed somehow Victorian, though I’m not totally sure how. I walked. My hand touched a pillar on the porch; though it was solid, it seemed somehow immaterial. Someone asked me if I was okay. It sounded as though they were coming from far away. Then the street vanished, and the grass and the lake were all I could see.
Decay: the Corrupted File
Description: Decay is to the solid world what a virus is to a computer. It’s glitchy to the point of being unbearable. The images jump around madly, the sound varies from fizzling white noise to disturbing barely-human warbles, and even the floor feels like it’s going to drop out of your feet at any second. A massive programming error that badly needs a patch.
First experience: Unknown. Due to the warped and painful nature of the place it’s hard to pin down a time.
Chaos: the WTM
Description: Non-stop information overload. It’s simultaneously one thing and the other and everything in between, but at the same time nothing in particular. The only recognizable image is static.
First experience: Oddly enough, shortly before a meeting with the Dark King. And then during. He seems to be able to manipulate it. Still confused as to the specifics. It’s cropped up now and again ever since.
Ice: the Banshee’s Hill
Description: A barren, frozen wasteland. There is light. And snow. And the Banshee.
First experience: A walk outside, a month or two ago. There was snow on the ground. Absolute silence, not even the wind. The Banshee appeared before me, bringing with it shadow and storm. It appeared to me as it appears in my dreams, glowing, towering. “Did you forget the promise you made to me?” It raises its arm. A splinter of ice tears through my body, the same ice I felt so long ago, that day in December. “What promise?” I gasp. It disappears. Like an old wound, I can still feel that ice sometimes.
Pandaemonium: the Gate
Description: Darkness. Up and far in the distance is a light, leading onwards to Bigger and Better Things. In every other direction is Darkness, that’s Darkness with a capital Soul-Crushing Blackness. Somehow it’s cold. Are there serpents moving, down there somewhere?
First experience: Unknown.
Apr 21, 2009
B(r)awl
I'm tired, I'm sick, I can't feel anything. I'm not happy and I don't much care if I am. I've resigned myself to loneliness. Give me a reason to live that's not simply "it's better than the alternative." Cop-out pseud0-philosophical answers that don't actually address the question are not welcome.
Apr 17, 2009
Withdrawl
I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm not in control of my emotions. I'm sorry nothing ever comes out like I mean it. I'm sorry I'm insensitive. I'm sorry that I hurt you. I'm sorry about a lot of things, but that never changes anything.
People glare at me when I try to explain how I'm feeling. They shout at me when I'm unresponsive. They snap at me when I twitch. They hiss sternly not to hurt myself and tell me not to be depressed with exasperation. They lecture me about the importance of being happy, although personally I've never found any of their arguments compelling, and sigh when I refuse to perk up. They're at their bitterest when they tell me I'm a good person. They never tell me why. I've yet to hear a convincing reason as to why I'm a good person that stands up to the opposite viewpoint. What kind of good person says, does the things I do? What use is being a good person anyway, if I'm depressed all of the time?
There was one person, once, who when I cut myself would cry and hold me and tell me that she loved me, and would stay up all night if she had to to talk me out of a depressive fit. I told her that I was hurting her and she should get out. I've long since forgiven her for walking out on me, but I've never forgiven myself. How can I?
It's occurred to me that I might get a sadistic pleasure from giving people the emotional runaround. With something like that haunting me, how can I have any faith in myself?
No. I can't turn my depression on and off whenever I want to. I can't control what triggers me, or the methods by which my alters switch out. Telling myself they don't exist does not stop them from hurting me. I cannot just "get over" deep emotional trauma. I go through so much that I never tell anyone about.
I don't want sympathy. I don't want special treatment. I just want people to know.
I don't love myself. Don't see how, really. Don't see much point. I thought that if I could love someone else, truly and completely, then maybe there was hope for me. Clearly I'm incapable of making a person happy. God? I've done all but ram my heart through his letterbox, but the most I've received in return is a pat on the back and some (stern) reminders to lighten up. My only option seems to be to keep going. Why? The only obvious thing I have to look forward to is more keeping going. But I can't complain, since I can already hear the condescending voices telling me to stop worrying, things will improve soon.
Times like this I wish I didn't believe in an afterlife so I could die with the assurance of some peace and quiet. It's almost a shame I'm not allowed to die just yet. I'm so tired.
I'm on the brink of a decision. Life or death. Forever. I'm going to have to choose. One way I lighten up, accept the love people have to offer, get more involved with the church, apply myself in school, graduate with honors, find a job that I love, marry when I'm thirty or so, have a daughter, and do meaningful things with my life. The other I throw myself into another abusive relationship, allow myself to slip further and further, take up self-harming, attempt an overdose, spend years in and out of institutions as my self-destructive urges grow and I become increasingly disconnected from reality, then finally slitting my wrists in the middle of the night, leaving memories of me to haunt all those who knew me. The first person to ask why only those two choices gets their teeth kicked in. You'd think this would be a simple choice. It's not, for me. It's becoming harder to distinguish between the two. It's becoming harder to distinguish between anything, if it comes to it; fantasy or reality, confidence or paranoia, impulse or logic, pain or pleasure. It's all... hazy. Kresh I'm screwed up.
I'm a love junkie. Witness my withdrawl.
People glare at me when I try to explain how I'm feeling. They shout at me when I'm unresponsive. They snap at me when I twitch. They hiss sternly not to hurt myself and tell me not to be depressed with exasperation. They lecture me about the importance of being happy, although personally I've never found any of their arguments compelling, and sigh when I refuse to perk up. They're at their bitterest when they tell me I'm a good person. They never tell me why. I've yet to hear a convincing reason as to why I'm a good person that stands up to the opposite viewpoint. What kind of good person says, does the things I do? What use is being a good person anyway, if I'm depressed all of the time?
There was one person, once, who when I cut myself would cry and hold me and tell me that she loved me, and would stay up all night if she had to to talk me out of a depressive fit. I told her that I was hurting her and she should get out. I've long since forgiven her for walking out on me, but I've never forgiven myself. How can I?
It's occurred to me that I might get a sadistic pleasure from giving people the emotional runaround. With something like that haunting me, how can I have any faith in myself?
No. I can't turn my depression on and off whenever I want to. I can't control what triggers me, or the methods by which my alters switch out. Telling myself they don't exist does not stop them from hurting me. I cannot just "get over" deep emotional trauma. I go through so much that I never tell anyone about.
I don't want sympathy. I don't want special treatment. I just want people to know.
I don't love myself. Don't see how, really. Don't see much point. I thought that if I could love someone else, truly and completely, then maybe there was hope for me. Clearly I'm incapable of making a person happy. God? I've done all but ram my heart through his letterbox, but the most I've received in return is a pat on the back and some (stern) reminders to lighten up. My only option seems to be to keep going. Why? The only obvious thing I have to look forward to is more keeping going. But I can't complain, since I can already hear the condescending voices telling me to stop worrying, things will improve soon.
Times like this I wish I didn't believe in an afterlife so I could die with the assurance of some peace and quiet. It's almost a shame I'm not allowed to die just yet. I'm so tired.
I'm on the brink of a decision. Life or death. Forever. I'm going to have to choose. One way I lighten up, accept the love people have to offer, get more involved with the church, apply myself in school, graduate with honors, find a job that I love, marry when I'm thirty or so, have a daughter, and do meaningful things with my life. The other I throw myself into another abusive relationship, allow myself to slip further and further, take up self-harming, attempt an overdose, spend years in and out of institutions as my self-destructive urges grow and I become increasingly disconnected from reality, then finally slitting my wrists in the middle of the night, leaving memories of me to haunt all those who knew me. The first person to ask why only those two choices gets their teeth kicked in. You'd think this would be a simple choice. It's not, for me. It's becoming harder to distinguish between the two. It's becoming harder to distinguish between anything, if it comes to it; fantasy or reality, confidence or paranoia, impulse or logic, pain or pleasure. It's all... hazy. Kresh I'm screwed up.
I'm a love junkie. Witness my withdrawl.
Apr 16, 2009
Left hand twitch, twitch
I'm not going to lie, it hasn't been easy lately.
Trouble reaching out to people again. Being... you know, me, and everything, it's hard to make connections on even basic levels. The world hates people who claim to be different, because virtually all of the time they're just being pretentious. So when I say I hurt in places most people aren't even aware they have, even I stop taking myself seriously. Add this to the hyper-compression of ideas (you try explaining a twenty-minute thought in thirty seconds) and it's a wonder I can communicate at all.
I'm sick of emotions. I've come to accept that I really do feel things more strongly than most people, if only because I lack the processes needed to block them out. So yes, I do feel emotional extremes; I feel love, I feel terror, I feel hate, I feel pain. Don't tell me what I am or am not capable of feeling. I want to tell some people that I love them, but I don't think they want to hear it. I want to tell some people that I hate them, but I don't think they'd understand why. Some of these people are the same people. I've never been much good at getting over emotions.
I'll only say this once. The whole, I was lying every time I told you that I loved you, thing? That hurt. That really, really hurt. It's not just a slap in the face, it's a slap in the face with a barbed wire glove filled with fire ants and thumbtacks. If I wasn't such a self-destructively forgiving person I might even be a little bit angry about that. As is I'm just bitter and deflated. Someone regrets my involvement in their life. My existence feels significantly less justified.
I should stay away from people. Honestly, I'm a horrible person. Clingy. Oversensitive. Completely self-obsessed. Indecisive. Impossible to talk to. Constantly putting himself down. No one needs someone like me in their life.
1st draft of poem: The Man With Many Masks
There was a man who wore a mask.
On that mask was a smiling face.
He made no attempt to hide it, and most people assumed that underneath his mask he really was happy.
A few, though, who talked to him, learned that he wasn't really happy at all. They wondered what he was like under the mask.
So they looked.
And beneath his smiling exterior was the saddest, loneliest face they had ever seen.
And those who were overcome with pity swore that they would help him smile again.
They left, of course, when they discovered he was wearing his angry mask beneath that.
Trouble reaching out to people again. Being... you know, me, and everything, it's hard to make connections on even basic levels. The world hates people who claim to be different, because virtually all of the time they're just being pretentious. So when I say I hurt in places most people aren't even aware they have, even I stop taking myself seriously. Add this to the hyper-compression of ideas (you try explaining a twenty-minute thought in thirty seconds) and it's a wonder I can communicate at all.
I'm sick of emotions. I've come to accept that I really do feel things more strongly than most people, if only because I lack the processes needed to block them out. So yes, I do feel emotional extremes; I feel love, I feel terror, I feel hate, I feel pain. Don't tell me what I am or am not capable of feeling. I want to tell some people that I love them, but I don't think they want to hear it. I want to tell some people that I hate them, but I don't think they'd understand why. Some of these people are the same people. I've never been much good at getting over emotions.
I'll only say this once. The whole, I was lying every time I told you that I loved you, thing? That hurt. That really, really hurt. It's not just a slap in the face, it's a slap in the face with a barbed wire glove filled with fire ants and thumbtacks. If I wasn't such a self-destructively forgiving person I might even be a little bit angry about that. As is I'm just bitter and deflated. Someone regrets my involvement in their life. My existence feels significantly less justified.
I should stay away from people. Honestly, I'm a horrible person. Clingy. Oversensitive. Completely self-obsessed. Indecisive. Impossible to talk to. Constantly putting himself down. No one needs someone like me in their life.
1st draft of poem: The Man With Many Masks
There was a man who wore a mask.
On that mask was a smiling face.
He made no attempt to hide it, and most people assumed that underneath his mask he really was happy.
A few, though, who talked to him, learned that he wasn't really happy at all. They wondered what he was like under the mask.
So they looked.
And beneath his smiling exterior was the saddest, loneliest face they had ever seen.
And those who were overcome with pity swore that they would help him smile again.
They left, of course, when they discovered he was wearing his angry mask beneath that.
Apr 9, 2009
Artistic Break
A few notes about rocks:
Rocks for the most part are found in the sky, hovering steadily at around 1000 feet. A rock will begin life deep underground and move upward rapidly. As it climbs it will pack dirt onto itself, growing in size. By the time a rock reaches the surface it will be several feet in diameter. Approaching a rock partially out of the ground may be dangerous, as even the tremors of footsteps can set it loose and hurtling into the sky, sending debris flying in all directions. When a rock dislodges itself it will react with the air and expand rapidly. At its maximum height gravity will prevent it from expanding upwards so it will stretch sideways, forming an irregularly shaped platform flat on top. The bottom is curved and misshapen. The average rock is about half a mile wide in every direction and 10-20 feet thick when fully grown. This process takes around six days. The surface of the rock is porous and brittle, eroding quickly in high winds. This results in a cloud of dust and expanding pebbles, sometimes called the "asteroid belt" surrounding the main rock. The age of a rock can often be determined by the size of its dust cloud. After it has eroded down to nothing the cloud will scatter, spreading itself across the sky, until it reaches the ocean. When a rock of any size finds a large body of water it will absorb moisture from the air and take on weight, crumble, and in bits and pieces tumble from the sky. Rocks in water sink quickly and are absorbed into the clay far below. Over time these lumps will shift deep underground, clump together, and form a new rock.
Rocks for the most part are found in the sky, hovering steadily at around 1000 feet. A rock will begin life deep underground and move upward rapidly. As it climbs it will pack dirt onto itself, growing in size. By the time a rock reaches the surface it will be several feet in diameter. Approaching a rock partially out of the ground may be dangerous, as even the tremors of footsteps can set it loose and hurtling into the sky, sending debris flying in all directions. When a rock dislodges itself it will react with the air and expand rapidly. At its maximum height gravity will prevent it from expanding upwards so it will stretch sideways, forming an irregularly shaped platform flat on top. The bottom is curved and misshapen. The average rock is about half a mile wide in every direction and 10-20 feet thick when fully grown. This process takes around six days. The surface of the rock is porous and brittle, eroding quickly in high winds. This results in a cloud of dust and expanding pebbles, sometimes called the "asteroid belt" surrounding the main rock. The age of a rock can often be determined by the size of its dust cloud. After it has eroded down to nothing the cloud will scatter, spreading itself across the sky, until it reaches the ocean. When a rock of any size finds a large body of water it will absorb moisture from the air and take on weight, crumble, and in bits and pieces tumble from the sky. Rocks in water sink quickly and are absorbed into the clay far below. Over time these lumps will shift deep underground, clump together, and form a new rock.
Apr 5, 2009
Post of minimal length
Haven't updated. Things have been... difficult. Apologies.
Medication: not good. Panic attacks frequent and long-lasting. Often anxious and depressed.
New discovery: the one image that genuinely frightens me is the sacrificial alter of Moloch. Reasons unknown.
Sick of being told not to be afraid or not to be depressed. It doesn't help, it just gets me angry. Don't tell me what I should or should not feel.
Now single again. I would be lying if I said I wasn't upset, but I'm not angry. All I really want is someone to look after me, and unsurprisingly few people want that responsibility. I'm a burden. I know it.
More episodes. More dangers. There's a strange pressure inside my chest. I can't help but think there's something living inside of me. That's a notable symptom of schizophrenia, that is, but we'd rather not dwell on that.
Work to do. Can't focus on anything.
Can't sleep.
Can't.
Medication: not good. Panic attacks frequent and long-lasting. Often anxious and depressed.
New discovery: the one image that genuinely frightens me is the sacrificial alter of Moloch. Reasons unknown.
Sick of being told not to be afraid or not to be depressed. It doesn't help, it just gets me angry. Don't tell me what I should or should not feel.
Now single again. I would be lying if I said I wasn't upset, but I'm not angry. All I really want is someone to look after me, and unsurprisingly few people want that responsibility. I'm a burden. I know it.
More episodes. More dangers. There's a strange pressure inside my chest. I can't help but think there's something living inside of me. That's a notable symptom of schizophrenia, that is, but we'd rather not dwell on that.
Work to do. Can't focus on anything.
Can't sleep.
Can't.
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