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!
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A'ight, this time the image is good quality, I hope . . . .