Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → Alt's Menagerie of Art! Writing! Fractals! (Warning: Lots of images)
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Managing two threads has become tiresome. Consider this a collision of the two - Alt's Assorted Authorings and Pwetty Fractals!
Fractals first.
To be continued. . .I don't want to blast you with too many images.
Storypoemtiem!
Deepening
It was a strange sensation, drowning. Once could not call it unpleasant - though it by no means was a joy ride, it brought about a morbid calmness. Even though he could have grabbed on to one of the scraps of metal from the blasted-apart boat he was passenger on, he didn't. He would never know why. Of course, the few waterlogged minutes he had to contemplate this decision as his lungs filled with saltwater were not suitable for mulling over such an issue - quite to the contrary, actually. Perhaps it was some sort of requiem he had been searching for. . .? An elegant ending to the trainwreck that his life had been, a way to add some flair to an otherwise gray experience? Of course, this led onto another tangent of thought - why is gray always considered boring? Is it a stereotype? A general walk of thought? A trail of thinking paved over and 4-laned for it to become a highway of synchronized human thought? A widely accepted epoch of relation?
He would never get the chance to finish thinking through this tangent. One's brain can only function for so long with no oxygen, after all. I guess it's time to return to the water. . . .
He had always found sanctuary in some aspects of Hindu and Buddhist thought - the reassurance was something comforting to him.
Of course, this was not a common circumstance - a idiosyncratic death sequence, to say the least. He had, all his life, lived on a British island. It was during WWII - U-boats were patrolling the water, shooting down any ship that left port. Vultures, willing to kill for an evil man and an evil cause. . .even civilians were the enemy, of course. . . . He, however, wanted to leave. The attacks had come to a lull, and he was confident his ship would be spared from the salvos of torpedos customary for the ships attacked before, especially since they appeared to be departing to some other mission.
He wasn't sure that his family would beg him to stay if he had one. He had always viewed them as a burden. People who live with you? Talk to you all the time? Depend on you? what a waste of molecules, families are. . . . He prided himself on his lack of a family to a point. Whether it was genuine or a psychological filter put up by his subconscious to feel less self-pity was not something he could determine - nor did he want to. So he didn't, and he never would.
He took his money and his ticket to the port, presenting them to the manager of the place. He waved him through - appearing more concerned with his lack of hair then the chance of his passengers dying painful deaths - and the rest of the passengers as well, snatching the money and stashing it.
He gripped the rail as he got on the boat. He could move to London, write a book or two, and sit on what he had - easy enough. Of course, for him, the boat ride itself would be the hardest part of the path to success for him.
He hated riding on that boat. It never stopped rocking enough to give him a rest (he was a light sleeper) and the food was platry in flavor when applied to his (according to him) impeccable palate.
Then, he was shocked out of his half-asleep state on his bed. The captain had ordered the passengers awake. They were to prepare to be sunk, just in case. He didn't deem this necessary. He sneaked back into his room and did his best to re-enter that state of dazed resting.
Then, he heard a crunch of metal. A visceral tearing of the ship's hull, the inside exposed to the ocean. The water seemed eager to pervade the interior - to soak the decor, waterlog the halls, and lap against every door. So it did. Ocean water is not easily denied entry into a boat - not least when the entrance is so large. So, the humans yielded to the saltwater.
Then, another hit - the ship couldn't stand being hit twice at all. It was torn apart. Shrapnel flying every which way, scraps of metal and wood relaxing on the waves. The passengers were not so buoyant. Not being proficient swimmers, most of them drowned.
He had the clout to resist the water by treading it - an audacious act that couldn't go on forever. So it didn't.
The water seemed never to lose it's energy - it was always hyperactive, splashing around, coaxing his head under the water. He conceded. Such battles of force are not like debates. Oh, how I wish they were. . . .
His mind wasn't racing - it was taking a walk in the park, really. It sped up to a jog, before breaking into a run the deeper he sunk. It was short-lived. As aforementioned, you can only think do long when waterlogged and deprived of oxygen.
Poor Excuse
Nothing but a poor excuse
a pale barrier of protection
a neon sign would be of better use
a weak tool of attraction, reflection
you don't need glasses to rob someone blind
or a crutch to be crippled
divinity to be kind
or a pond to make a ripple
don't need fire to make a spark
don't need dynamite to light a fuse
don't need to be naked to be stark
and you don't need a reason when you have a poor excuse
More to come! Many more!
- 156 Replies
No, Apophysis.
this thread focuses on writing, though. Please pay attention to the poor writings 
The Other Half
His vision blurred. . . .
Footfalls were heard on the linoleum floor. Oh, the linoleum floor.
He remembered it pristinely- more clearly than most other aspects of his surroundings. How it seemed to swallow all thought- before spitting it out in a transparent ghost of the lights on the ceiling, warped from their shape. Warped like his consciousness. Warped like his perception. He felt some sort of ethereal bond with this floor- like him, it was forced to be a patron to the other half- the distorted view.
He wasn't sure what had happened. There were few thing he could remember- a noise. The roaring of a gaggle of drunken people, talking the hell out of every small subject they could find. There were hors d'oeuvre. . .music. There was a tender of some sort- behind a large wooden table, with bottle upon bottle stacked behind him. Chairs. People. One person, in particular.
His perception of the situation was dampened by the daze and the noise. His senses were assaulted by the area. His sight was overpowered by lights and the wave of humanity dancing and walking around the small area. He stumbled to the door. . . .
A person bumped into him. It wasn't a small bump, more of a slight collision, knocking both of them bck and shocking them. When the other person regained his senses somewhat, he was angry. His fist flew forward, and it hit something. Was it him? He couldn't tell. He felt something. Something painful. There was also something on his face- it wasn't supposed to be there. It was a red shock running down his lips and his chin. an unwelcome visitor upon his countenance; he wanted it to go away. He didn't want it there. But very time he wiped it away, more of it flowed down, as if it was purposely angering him in his drunken daze. His emotion welled up inside him, coming to a point in his fist. It was like pure momentum- it had to go somewhere. And the man he had bumped into was within arm's reach. He threw his anger forward, giving it to him. Contrary to his expectations, the other man wasn't happy with the gift he got. He quite frankly took it rather badly, all things considered.
The man was an Indian giver, for sure. He didn't want to keep what he had given him- and he decided to return it in a new packaging. A chair. A nice new way to wrap the gift of his force and anger, though the liquid red visitor upon his face seemed to fancy it too much. It truehsed out to greet the chair as it came back around onto the floor.
At that point, others took notice. Bar fights were somewhat common, but not taken lightly. The violence found itslef broken up by men in uniform. Badges- now little pinpoints of light in his vision- were pinned to their lapels. They faded away into blackness, just as did the bar and the irate man, still holding the chair in his grasp.
He could feel himself moving- but he couldn't see or hear. He could taste blood in his mouth, it's metallic taste lingering on his tongue.
They took him far down the road- or whatever they were travelling on. Some conduit of public motor of transportation, kt was, being used by the ar and it's lights as it sped down the highway to an unknown destination. The lights crooned their message over and over again- the same WEEEEEEE-OOOOOOOOO repeated. The red and blue lights welcomed him along with the men- they appeared to be police- as he regained his consciousness.
He asked, "Wh-what happened?"
"You, sir,were in a nasty fight. Busted up bad. You are going to the hospital first and foremost," the driver replied.
"Oh. So that was what happened?"
"Yes."
"Hmmmmm. . .why did we fight?"
"Someone at the scene said that you just bumped into him, and he punched you in the face. Then, you hit back, and he got you good with a chair."
"Oh. My head hurts. . . ."
"Now THAT'S a surprise."
He didn't dignify the policeman with a response- he faded into sleep once more.
He emerged from the depths of unconsciousness half-heartedly- never fully pushing above the surface tension, but not dwelling in the deep. There were lights all over the place- warped by the linoleum floor of the. . .was it a hospital? Yes, that sounded right. . . .
He felt a sympathy for the floor as he was supported by the policemen to his hospital room. The floor could never see nor display the complete truth of what it was reflecting- like he couldn't make anything of the hall-of-mirrors that was the barfight. Both of them were part of the other half. They couldn't see or act clearly when under the spell of distortion. They had only one difference. . . .
Floors can't drink alcohol.
Satan's Table
Disclaimer: This is not my worldview in any way XD
in this game, I hold a bad hand
sitting at the table
I know there'll be no reprimand
this won't be the stuff of fables
you hold the royal flush
and I have nothing to deal
You know you'll kill me, my blood will gush
working meal-to-meal
I have one trick up my sleeve
in cold blood, but necessary
I guarantee you, none will grieve
and I can fill my reliquary
I know you think you've got me beat
that you'll squeak by with your smarts and skill
if life's a self-concerned game of poker, why not cheat?
I know I will.
More to come! More to Come!
The deal had to be made. It was important. He wrapped his cloak around him, the wind walloping him in a creative way every time he shifted his cloak to insulate himself. The snow was overwhelming - it caked his face, turning his armor into a cage of frigidity. He was nearing the door to the weapon shop, his order in hand, to receive the dagger that was to do the job.
He was an assassin - his name was Cyris Anderson. Slipping Phantasm Cyris, he was called - rumors swirled around his being, though he was really a mundane-appearing fellow. Lean, with a scar running from his left eyebrow down to his cheek. He wore no helm, so his field of vision wasn't truncated - a standard for Vices of the Nycto Community, the organization which he was a part of. His armor was but leather, boiled and solidified to offer more protection, and his cloak was wolfskin.
Opening the door to the weapon shop, the shopkeeper slyly grabbed the dagger he was to use.
"Here's the order."
"I was alerted in advance. Your dagger, sir."
"Thanks. What metal is it made form? It looks like obsidian."
"It is. Obsidian. The blade is tipped with orihalcum though. It's one of the sharpest blades in the world."
"Good. Cleaner cut that way."
The dealer turned around for a moment to offer him a sweetroll as sustenance for the mission, but when he turned around to present the assassin, the door was open, the last glimpse of his cloak disappearing as tough it was never there.
The target was a man by the name of Cecil. He was a cleric, famous for his books on healing. But, some false information had been given to one of the other Vices in the Community about healing a wound, and he ended up dead from an infection. Vices are rare individuals - such a deed would not go unpunished.
Cyris sprinted over rooftops and towers, jumping over chimneys. He was an acrobat - a precision killer, who moved in fast and killed faster. The cold bit into him as he ran, once again constricting his thoughts and body, but he didn't mind. He was in seek and destroy mode. The dagger was held in his left hand, slicing through the air. It left a slipstream. He didn't have time to see his breath, as is passed behind him the moment he exhaled - his legs were moving like pistons, his eyes focused on the entry point. He made a leap into the air, landing on a window ledge.
Taking his dagger, he proceeded to cut out the glass of the window. It fell to his side, making little noise as it landed against his foot. He slid it to the side, and climbed in the house. He saw Cecil in bed, asleep. He was the only one in the house.
Cyris sneaked up, and grabbed him by the throat. He administered a slice to a nerve on his left foot, to prevent escape, and began interrogation.
"Why did ytou give false info out?"
Cecil's breath was semi-choked, but he managed a response. "He needed to die. You don't know the implications of his death, do you?"
"What the hell do you mean? You might as well give me answers. You're not going to walk out of here alive, so give me the info and it's one more smiling face walking away from here."
"If you knew who I really was, you'd drop that dagger now."
"Would I? Don't test me. You don't know what I would do."
"Actually, I do. You'd hesitate. You'd spare me. You've never been one to kill without remorse."
"I assure you, I'll feel no guilt for killing you. You're just another corrupt doctor."
"A corrupt doctor who also happens to be a Vice."
"What?"
"Look here. See my arm? That tattoo is standard for the Vices. You have one too."
"Someone's given me false orders."
"Really? That's some deducti-"
"Shut up. I still hold the blade here."
"Let me down then."
"Agh, fine."
Cyris let go of his death grip, and Cecil stood. He leaned against the chair near him to prevent from falling over from the daze of having mitigated air intake for so long.
"Now, it had to be one of the higher-ups, right?"
"Yeah. . .one of the presidents. Maybe Bartimaeus, or Lazarus."
"Well, at any rate, we have to figure out who."
To be continued. . .if I ever have the will to.