Tag: fiction

1. 4

Protocol requires that every major scientific installation possess at least one full outfit of troops in the case of attack. For front line installations, this requirement is tripled. In addition to the regular equipment rulings, officers are also expected to be armed even when off duty, and are so provided a sidearm. The AV Burst pistol is the weapon of choice in most instances. A plutonium battery provides a functionally unlimited reserve of ammunition, and a switch just in front of the trigger guard allows choice between high power semi-automatic and balanced burst fire modes. The projectile itself is a plasma bolt with an optimal range of two hundred and fifty meters.

Nadia Beauvarde. 30. Unmarried. Marksman, Colonel of the fifty-seventh division. Top marks in long range combat aptitude tests. Current assignment: Redacted.

[My, quite the audience here today. Dignitaries, ambassadors, generals. Tim, I have to profess I’m rather curious as to the occasion.]

Tim and Janice share a look, but continue their final diagnostic, neither willing to so much as glance to the observation window, to see the faces of judgement. Tim coughs.

“Well Zen, it’s time for a real assessment. All those discs were called training for a reason, right?”

Silence. Another shared look. Zen is uncharacteristically quiet, his monitors freezing, then cycling through new code with no fanfare. He turns his head, and seems to make lens-contact with a camera in the middle of the crowd. His head dips slowly, then raises.

[I see.]

Janice picks up a tablet from her station and takes a deep breath, straightening her glasses and muttering before turning and giving a simple smile towards the onlookers.

“Alright, we’re ready to begin.”

Tim puts his hands on Zen’s cheeks in a manner that suggests he is checking some alignment in the sensors, but his eyes seem to suggest something different. Having waited for the crowd to settle and take up attention, Janice continues.

“As you know, the past three months have seen a lot of material demands and work hours in just one of the thirty-two labs allotted to this building. I’m sure all of you are a little anxious to see if your investment was worth it.”

A small chuckle ripples through the crowd, accompanied by a shift to a more relaxed stance in the less military attendees.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, it is my distinct pleasure to introduce you to ZN001, known to us as ‘Zenith’. Those of you who are familiar with the work of myself and Professor Reine will perhaps be a little skeptical when I say that our previous efforts are frankly dull in comparison to what Zen represents. In three months, he has demonstrated one fact over and over: that the greatest strategic mind in all the universe occupies this room.”

As hoped, this declaration produces murmuring and the squeaking of fifty some chairs as the bodies on them tense to lean forward. She releases a celebratory huff, and swipes a command on the tablet. The monitors in the observation chambers flicker on, and begin running highlights of the training programs. Behind her, she can hear Tim running his final diagnostic.

“As you can see, Zen has, at every turn, outperformed the Strategy AIs at their own game, even rewriting the programs to be more challenging. Upon examination, Zen’s key concerns in battle are efficiency, victory, and the preservation of his forces. You will note, I hope, that the latter concern is not one we initially imposed on him, but one he introduced when he found the first two to lack enough challenge.”

She flicks another command, sending a slew of performance data to the screens.

“This represents only the top fifty percent of Zen’s attention. In the background, he has been reviewing general strategy and weapon design, and presenting improvements, unprompted. Already, one of the other labs has tested three of his new weapon designs, and confirmed a minimum improvement of ten percent combat effectiveness, in categories ranging from firepower to ease of deployment. Some of you may recall the prototype released last week for a new orbitally deployable hard point. This was Zen’s design, with minor tweaks according to restricted data.

“But, it is one thing to tell, and another to demonstrate. With approval from the committee, today we will be providing Zen with a new sort of program: a combat prediction. We have created a sort of trial which will involve Zen making decisions in real time against a team of five Strategy AI. Each will have a section of an invading force whose combined ranking is rated at 50,000 points. Zen’s force is rated at 35,000 points, and must defend with limited resources. The win condition for the opposition is breaching the primary base and setting an explosive at the depot. For Zen to win, he must destroy one-hundred percent of the invading force.”

The resounding silence that follows brings an uncontrollable smile to her lips, and she swipes a third command.

“Without further ado, I will hand it over to Zen.”

[Thank you, Dr. Beckherd.]

All eyes turn to the monitors. The simulation loads. Janice takes the opportunity to walk out into the hallway, and into one of the stairwells. Being on the tenth floor, the stairs are nearly pristine.

Her arm shaking, she puts her hand over her mouth and suppresses a painful sob. Tears cloud her vision, and she leans against the wall, clutching the railing to fight her lightheaded weakness.

“Janice?”

She gasps, and wipes at her eyes furiously, turning her face away from the voice. Her cheeks burn.

“Yes, Ken?”

“Is… Um, is everything alright? Something wrong with the demonstration, or-”

“No, Ken. It’s nothing. I just need a minute.”

She glares over her shoulder and catches sight of his blocky glasses, his messy bangs. There is a bite of vitriol in her voice, perhaps more than she intends. Ken raises his hands in defeat, and walks away, glancing back in a way that makes her stomach turn over. Her fingers flex, and she gulps air, smoothing down her hair.

~

“You’ve made quite the breakthrough, Dr. Beckherd.”

She accepts the outstretched hand and shakes it firmly, leaning forward slightly.

“Thank you, general. We couldn’t have come so far without your support.”

His dark eyes flash as he grins and shoves his hands into his uniform pockets, nodding to where Zen sits under the watchful eyes of various enthusiastic ambassadors, earnestly answering questions.

“How soon can we expect live tests? I’ve got a few fringe colonies in mind, high risk, low commitment. I think your boy could really shake things up.”

“Well, Professor Reine and I want to iron out a few more details before we ship him out, but if all goes well, he’ll be on a shuttle to Terra command within the year.”

Punctuating her pledge with a sip from her prosecco, she follows his gaze, and watches Zen raise an open palm, perhaps giving a philosophical answer to impress one of the guests. His head swivels, and briefly seems to point directly her way, tilting in that same, eerily sympathetic way, as if he has pierced through her facade: glimpsed the red tinges in her eyes, the elevated temperature of her cheeks; the moment is brief, and he shelters her from his own attention by showing some demonstration of his prowess on a monitor pointed away from her. She flinches as the general exclaims.

“Terra command! Then, the senators got to you first? He’ll be installed on earth?”

“Ah, I don’t mean to mislead you; his eventual posting will be kept under wraps while the situation is so delicate.”

The man’s expression becomes much more solemn, and he straightens his cap under his arm. He glances towards one of the senators, who is smiling quietly, standing in a group a moderate distance from any of the larger clusters.

“I understand. The Xalanthii representatives have been particularly accusatory recently, there is some suspicion of subterfuge. They levied a suggestion that we had created some kind of infold weapon that would give us an advantage over everyone else. Thankfully the Khanvrost matriarch at the summit was more interested in our mutual foe. Called the minister a ‘slime-brained coward more interested in gossip than loyalty’, shut him up nicely.”

He leans closer, his whisper smoky and hot.

“I think they’re hiding something of their own, to be so forthright. Some infiltration, concerned with your department. As a matter of fact, we’re currently investigating some unscheduled transmissions-”

He suddenly becomes silent, as the senator he was eyeing earlier approaches, and smirks, his cheeks blush with drink.

“General F’Touzehn, hoping to snatch up Dr. Beckherd’s next contract opening?”

He laughs, glancing at Janice in a clear message, which she shows her understanding of by bowing out, going to stand by Tim as he jokes with another scientist. Her eyes drift to look at Zen again, and she sees him engaged deep in conversation with one of the ambassadors. One of the cameras on his back, however, is focused directly on her. A distant ringing, like an overcharged battery, settles in the back of her skull. She feels she can hear his voice, deep and crackling, in the whine.

[My condolences, Dr. Beckherd. Today is two years, isn’t it?]

Bereft: on Sublime 8

In comes the new year. Looking back always tells me that I’ve changed with time, though I did not feel it happening.

This chapter is the first to arrive truly adjacent to the one that precedes it. It also seems to hold much more in the way of comfort. In my pursuit of variety, I ended up seeking to recreate the sort of atmosphere that appears when the protagonist of a war movie awakes in a hospital behind enemy lines.

Again I make use of dreams, which will occur with some frequency in this story. In this case, the dream sheds some light on a earlier, omitted period of time.

I am a little under the weather currently, so I will make this short. A lot of my time these days goes towards the fervent consumption of media: largely to moderate my mood, but also for the cause of inspiration. I struggle to read tragedy as much as I struggle to write it. A relieving catharsis invariably feels better than a sorrowful one.

But, the real danger when writing is that, as long as the work is unfinished, tragedy can be unwrit. Characters can be ressurected. The sentiment “No one stays dead” in popular fiction applies here. But the world can only seem so dark when only nameless characters are allowed to rest in their graves.

To counter the previous sentiment, life tells us that everybody dies. One day I hope my work will mirror that clinical honesty. I want my work to have readers on edge, knowing the other shoe is always waiting to drop.

8: Subservient

I wake with a jolt, and experience all over again the heavy sensation of disorientation and soreness. I look out from the thick patch of shiny brown grass and watch another herd of the brutes stomp their way into the palace. I now know I can never enter this place, not until I have been eaten against my will and made a part of this terrible ecosystem. The shadow of the birds trace dizzying patterns in the marsh grasses, and I am compelled to attempt plucking some of the grass, to see if it is edible. I select a long strand and pull at it, but find that it is rooted firmly, and pulls much of the surrounding ground up with it, bending and not breaking. I relent and stare out across the alien vista, ignoring the grumbling of my stomach and the throbbing in my head. Sleep beckons me again.

My dreams are violent and familiar, painted with the sounds and sights I’ve digested since waking in the ruined city. First I dream that I am again being pursued by the stalking spider machine, with its lurid, contorted face grinning at me through eyeless, lidless sockets. Then I am hiding in the locker again, but the surgeon opens my door this time, and places me on a hook. Suddenly it is Julia, cupping my face in her hands and smiling, as something churns in my stomach, buzzing like flies. She whispers to me, and I gag as something with many legs crawls up my throat.

“Welcome home.”

I gasp and retch as I wake again, and claw feverishly at the wet ground, my torn shirt damp with sweat. I look up and see someone standing over me, a woman wearing a red robe. I pull away in fear, but she stays still, simply watching me. Her face is white, white as can be, and her eyes are red. She has dull, dark black hair flowing over her shoulders, and her hand is outstretched as if offering help. Her voice is soft, and sounds muffled leaving her mouth, as though her throat is stuffed up with cotton.

“Come with me.”

I shake my head and breathe with great difficulty, my body beginning to shut down all but the most essential functions in rebellion against lack of food and water. She insists.

“Come with me, the sentinels will permit you, so long as I am accompanying you.”

I attempt to refuse further, but am too weak to resist as she draws near and lifts me by my shoulders to my feet, making me lean against her. Her hand is cold and hard, and I dimly grasp that it is so pale because it is within a porcelain gauntlet. Perhaps her face is, too. She leads me gently, and together we cross the bridge unassailed by the sentinels.

Inside now, I feel weaker than ever, and barely notice as we cross carpets and pass monochromatic paintings. I feel myself being laid upon a bed with my chest upright, and a vessel is pushed to my lips. I attempt to object, but warm savory liquid passes my lips, and I must swallow it so as not to choke. Almost immediately my vision clears, and the throbbing in my skull fades. I look about me and see half a dozen porcelain women in red robes and dresses, each staring inquisitively at me, as though I am a strange specimen in a jar. The one who came and found me leans back, holding an empty bowl stained red.

“Now rest, and Mother will see you when you are ready.”

As though hypnotized, I feel myself sink down into the soft warm bed, and descend into dreams once more.

Gone are the nightmares, and replacing them are strange sensations with few accompanying images, as though I am first being carried aloft on many hands, then smothered in paint. I feel a sharp pinch, and am suddenly wide awake once more, with another red-stained bowl being pulled away from my lips.

“Enough ichor, or you may become worse.”

Holding the bowl and speaking with a familiar voice is a woman made of ceramic and something like silicone, with hair that flows in an invisible wind. She is wreathed in a red light, and her eyes glow crimson as she looks almost fondly at me. I look around the room, and gather that I am in the guest chamber of some wealthy castle. Paintings of inhuman battles and bizarre congregations adorn every wall, and a window bordered by purple curtains looks out into the marsh. The bed itself is central to the room, and hosts enough pillows to bury me. The woman sits in a chair to one side and sets the bowl down on a nearby table.

“I worried that we might lose you. You stank of Tower’s territory when you first arrived, so I expected to find some of your organs missing or worse- but it seems you were only dehydrated and starving. Both of which, the ichor has remedied.”

Looking at her, I begin to remember, and finally place her as the individual I saw from the catwalk after my brush with the surgeon. Her smile is calm, a work of curiosity allowed by the careful interplay of her flexible and inflexible sections. Much of her arms and legs are porcelain, as is most of her face, with silicone and black rubber providing the flexibility required of joints. Her torso is wrapped up in red cloth that forms a sort of draping skirt longer at the back, but what I can see of her body appears to be black silicone and rubber, as with her joints. Here and there I see tubing like IV lines carrying an opaque, metallic golden fluid throughout her body. She watches me as I watch her, then sits back and looks out through the window.

“Julia told me you would be coming, but until one of the couriers depicted you following it, I never suspected you’d come all this way by yourself.”

Hearing Julia’s name, I sit up and look about, remembering how I had left her at the mercy of another again. Seeing my agitation, the woman presses her hand to my chest and firmly makes me lay back down.

“Stay put. While I cannot harbor you here forever, you must rest a while longer. Your body has yet to finish intaking the ichor. Be assured, none of the vivisurgeons or scavengers dare enter my territory. Your pursuers have given up on you.”

Anticipating the End

Incarnate’s overall first draft is approaching completion behind the scenes.

There are parts in the middle I intend to thoroughly edit and rewrite, but the overarching narrative is largely in the last lap. I do already have ideas for sequel material, but they are currently half baked at best. I also don’t think the story needs a sequel or prequel.

I hope to avoid premature celebration, so I’ll ignore the temptation to reflect in a profound way, and instead take a general view of this stage of the process.

There comes a point in every process where you realize the end is in sight. There are impulses at such a time, to either rush through what remains or draw it out. Part of the draw of a serial format is the opportunity to indefinitely extend the lifetime of a work, to repeatedly introduce conflicts to resolve.

However, at some point, the characters must either cease to resemble themselves via growth, or experience a frustrating regression, if the story is to be truly indefinite. Furthermore, one runs the risk of alienating even the most devoted followers by wasting time. A story must have an ending, even if that ending goes something like “And then something else went wrong, ad infinitum. ” The original The Princess Bride book has a pretty noteworthy ending in that regard.

I really could extend this series for a very long time, I have a talent for perpetually expanding the universes I imagine. But I think that despite myself, I’ve come to appreciate the power of an ending. Besides, once I close out the draft, I still have many weeks of editing and publishing to keep me busy while my next big idea develops. Not to mention, I may yet release some of the more lighthearted work I make in the shadow of projects like this.

Not every ending is a new beginning. But every beginning deserves a satisfying ending. And if one thing is certain, it’s that I love starting sh*t.

On being Wretched

I believe my favorite book is and always will be The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. In particular, I have a fondness for a character who did not make the cut in my favorite film adaptation: Caderousse. Spoilers for that novel follow, and I do recommend reading it. It’s a bit long though.

For context, Caderousse appears at intervals in the novel, always on the wrong side of things. First, he drunkenly overhears a plot to condemn his friend, and is blackmailed into staying quiet. When he next reappears, he is the owner of an inn, with a wife who can best be described as sick in several senses. Here, greed and his wife control him, spurring him into murder over a small fortune. He reappears later, now a conniving thief, who finally dies at the hands of a villain he enabled.

Caderousse’s story is one of a man too weak to do what he knows is right, becoming wicked as he submits to bad influences. Throughout his first two major roles, he displays a significant sense of morality and loyalty, which are opposed by the company he keeps. His life takes a twisted path, and ends in a slow, terrified death, sweetened only by the presence of the man he failed to save.

I really love his presence in the story. He adds a layer of depth that cannot be denied. He is not outright a villain, but continuously acts out evil because he cannot find the strength to resist.

He is wretched. He suffers and becomes warped by his suffering. I frequently consider his contribution, wondering at the way a person can act against their own will.

I do not have much commentary on today’s addition to Incarnate, except to remark on how short it is. I considered tacking it onto the previous chapter, but felt that it would’ve been worse for it.

1. 3

The FNB satellite series is a covert operational tool used to transmit messages near-instantaneously across great distances, by using a jump drive to create a microscopic fold in space through which the data is then sent. This is only used when strictly necessary, as, while undetectable to all but the most sensitive and focused instruments, widespread use would surely reveal its existence and so deprive it of its unique usefulness. Being so unique, these installations are granted extreme priority, and great care is taken to protect the information they transmit. Misuse of this system carries a heavy penalty.

[You look tired, Dr. Beckherd. I hope you aren’t overworking yourself.]

It takes a full moment for her to register the statement and turn her face towards him, smiling half-heartedly.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night. But, how was your night, Zen?”

[Oh, business as usual, Doctor. I performed a few diagnostics, and ran fifty-thousand new iterations of each training session, then spent some time rereading King Lear. I must confess, I am eager for new material. I can only arrive at the same conclusion so many times.]

Tim coughs and adjusts himself in his chair.

“I can try to get approved for another library to be appended, would you prefer fiction or nonfiction?”

[To be honest, either would be fine. I spend so much of my time reading. I particularly like reading The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. It is rather poignant, and leaves just enough up to interpretation.]

“I don’t know if I’ve read that one myself, actually. I’ve probably read more textbooks than novels at this point.”

[I really recommend it.]

Tim shrugs and makes a small note in the corner of his notebook, before opening up a disc case and carrying its contents over to the input rack.

“Okay Zen, another batch of training programs today. Committee wanted to see how you handled ground conflict, so these should be a breath of fresh air.”

[Indeed? I wonder.]

The disc inserted, Tim turns to Janice and motions for her to follow him as he exits the room, leaving Zen to his new scenarios.

The door closed, he watches through one of the windows for a moment, then crosses his arms and juts his chin at Janice.

“Missed you this morning. Did you really have a rough night?”

“Yes, really. What did you want?”

Struggling to keep the irritation from her voice, she leans back against the wall and lifts her glasses to rub her eyes with her palms. Tim studies her for a brief moment, then speaks in a hushed tone.

“I reviewed the reports I mentioned, Zen didn’t just have any thought repeatedly, he revisited a four-thousand line string at even intervals throughout the day. That’s not even the strangest part.”

Janice stares at him, silent, waiting for him to make his point.

“Every time, he clipped and reorganized the string in different ways for twenty minutes afterwards. He dedicated almost a third of his attention to this. The tech who showed it to me said it was like if you or I sat down and wrote poems for ten days straight using only words we found in a sports article. He likened it to religious prayer.”

Janice frowns and closes her eyes, tilting her head back and pinching the bridge of her nose. A headache begins to nest in her forehead. 

“Okay, but… What does it mean for us? I mean, he’s expressed that he rereads books a lot, maybe he just, I don’t know, gets bored and rewrites stuff.”

“Ehhh. Maybe. It’s still unusual. There’s other stuff too, but even a twelve man team doesn’t have the resources to parse ten minutes of his unfiltered thoughts in a day. Unless we can demonstrate a real understanding of how Zen thinks, I’m not sure we’ll leave prototype.”

“I’m not sure we should.”

A tremor travels up the building, causing the lights too flicker. Sharing a look of discomfort, the pair part ways: Tim returning to the room, Janice heading for the stairwell. Her headache throbs.

Beguiling: Sublime 7

By now, some of the inspiration behind Sublime may be revealing itself. For instance, there’s a scene in Hellraiser: Hellbound that inspired the section with the things beneath the sheets early in this chapter.

On my mind right now, however, is the question of history. Specifically, omitted history. When performing the written equivalent of a jump cut, or intentionally creating a time skip, there’s a lot that the reader is left to interpret. And I am left to question if I should revisit later on.

Perhaps I decide that the scene in which a mentor and student cover a new subject adds nothing to the narrative that justifies the impact on pacing, and axe it. However, the student later uses something learned from this omitted lesson. How much do you clue in the audience to the source of this knowledge? If the effect is key to the narrative, then the scene likely would have been included, perhaps as a limited flashback. Is it enough to simply have the student proclaim their gratitude for having attended to their studies?

Consider the tragic backstory already contained in the term ‘orphan’. How much explanation is expected when they meet a parent, alive after all? Which are the questions better left unanswered?

Changing gears; the end of the holiday season is approaching. Having spent time with family and friends has been rejuvenating for my psyche, but potentially harmful to the mindset I cultivate for writing. I find that in some cases, I am suddenly being pulled to once again shy away from delivering the maximum impact.

I am a merchant of emotion, and therefore devote much time to controlling, or in some cases unshackling, my feelings. If I am to deliver catharsis of the highest quality, I must first lay the groundwork with great angst and want. If I become unbalanced and biased, I may become too cruel, or too lenient. It is for this reason that I space out the time between writing and editing, so that, in a sense, two of myself, in two different states of mind, must approve the work before it is published.

With any luck, I’ll be back to my typical level of self-inflicted distress. I may never be able to avoid seeming like a sadist/masochist, but my work will be the better for it, and that’s all that really matters. Satisfaction is worth all the struggle. I’m not really helping my case.

7: Subsistence

I find that I have entered a room made mostly of iron and stone. What unnerves me, however, is the webbing of red arteries that clings to every surface, pulsing with the flow of liquid within. The growths end in small tips that connect with the walls, ceiling, and floor, and seem to carry their fluid cargo to these spots. The room itself has three openings, the first of which is the shut gate of the elevator behind me. The second is an iron gate that might typically present the entrance to a property outdoors, juxtaposed against the doorway it occupies, through which I can see a long corridor that seems to become more fleshy as it continues into darkness.

I approach this gate reluctantly, and press it lightly, finding that it swings open readily. I look back at the third opening to the room; A staircase descends down into an area that is better lit by a light like incandescent bulbs gathered in great quantity. I turn forward again and shudder, pulling the gate closed and making my choice. I make for the stairs, avoiding stepping on any of the vessels.

I have entered a broad open space that is lit from around the corners of gaps in the walls too narrow for ingress. Raised platforms make up tables over which translucent sheets are laid, to cover whatever might be laid upon them. As my eyes adjust to the welcome light, I pick out etched writing along the bottom of each platform, in a sharp language that I do not recognize. As I continue deeper, I feel a faint sense of pressure at the back of my head, and there is a dissonant ringing in my ears, as though someone is singing a dirge.

The music does not remain in my head, but moments later is confirmed by the sound of shouting, screaming. All around me, from beneath the sheets, hands stretch up and claw desperately at the air, prevented by the white material, supplemented by the pained shouts of the owners. I am stuck in place, transfixed by the overlapping screaming of men and women alike. More and more hands strain upward, more than should be possible from bodies within the platforms. I begin to run, again. There are stairs further down at the back of the room. I am discomforted by the etchings in the walls there, but most anywhere seems preferable to this cacophony of agony. Light and heat streams up at me from below, but I gladly continue to descend as the voices become more distant.

As I slow to a more sustainable pace, I rest my hand on the wall, and look back. The wall feels porous, rough. Though I feel the urge to submit, to roll over and die, rising in my gut, I force it down. I cannot yet. This hell cannot be where I end. I swallow dryly, so very dryly, and press on.

The stairs continue for what feels like hours, and at times I pause to give my aching feet a rest. At last, I come to an alcove to the side of the continuing steps, and lean my head in. A faint odor of sweat emanates from this chamber, and I hear soft voices. Though I recall no friendly encounters, no person who is not sadist or victim, I press in, hoping against hope that I have found a clutch of survivors like myself. The hall is squat and wide, and seems laid together from prodigious stone bricks. My hair brushes against the ceiling. The voices become clearer, and I make out what seems to be an exchange between two women, one who seems close to crying, and the other who comforts her in a language I do not know. There are many harsh consonants, and short vowels.

I come to the end of the hallway and turn the corner into a broad chamber with many translucent fabrics draped from ceiling to floor, tainting the light of many candles into a pink glow. The strange fabrics form a maze that I traverse slowly, my hands brushing the drapery. It feels warm to the touch. I hear the women sighing and huffing as though frustrated or bereft of someone dear to them. The walls and floor are of a pale, ivory wood, with unusual grains woven across boards that narrow and widen strangely as I cross them.

I find myself passing the last few layers, and am greeted with the sight of two people kneeling upon a bed, their smoky outlines in the fabric portraying a strangely languid scene. I draw closer, and one calls out, facing me. She rises from the bed and presses herself to one of the curtains between us, clearly painting the image of her body. I hesitate, her voice is familiar. I at last round the final curtain, and am greeted with the lurid sight of two naked women staring at me, their faces pulled into smiles, their hands extended in welcome. I hear my heartbeat in my ears as the one that rose earlier comes closer, and I immediately recognize her as Julia.

“You’ve made it. Welcome, come, lay with us.”

I take a step back, as I remember, ruefully, the last I saw of her, lying unconscious upon the table of the man on the surface, whose words haunt me now more than ever. I can see on her no traces of the trials we endured, not even puncture wounds upon her arm where he grabbed her. She frowns, and pulls away to sit invitingly beside her companion, who strokes her hair affectionately.

“Won’t you join us? It’s better here, no lunatic surgeons or monsters, or collectors. Only sensations.”

My feet seem to ache more at this offer, and I consider sitting with them. My clothes itch, my body shakes with exhaustion, my eyelids droop and my throat stings. But as I look in disbelief at Julia, I notice a smudge of red on her thighs. She seems to notice my confusion, and pats the spot as if calling me to it.

“Not to worry. Please, come and stay. There’s nowhere ahead better than here. You can stay forever.”

A twinge of distrust brings my senses back to full alert, and I watch in terror as her companion leans in as if to kiss her, but pulls her head back and drives a thick bony needle from where her tongue should be into Julia’s throat. Julia moans in something that might be pain or pleasure, even as I see her blood pour violently down her chest in striking waterfalls. The woman pushes her down onto her back, and crouches over Julia, her spinal column strikingly sharp under her skin. I now notice other details about both of them, like the hairline seams in their skin around their joints, and the unnatural length of their fingers.

I begin to flee, running back through the curtains, tearing some as I pass. I am revolted as I notice arteries and nerve clusters in them being shredded, driving sharp moans from the things behind me. I race desperately through the hallway back to the stairs, and am so eager to continue downwards that I trip, and begin to fall.

I wake at the bottom of the steps, bruised and bloodied, but alive. I rise to my feet and grip myself with shuddering horror, and glance about myself. Behind me is a long and narrow obelisk through which the stairs must run, leading unfathomably high up into the sky until it fades into the noxious green clouds. The ground beneath me is soft and wet, and seems rife with brownish narrow grasses. The sky is bright and gray, and speckled with the forms of solitary birds. I watch a pair of these meet and begin fighting, until one eventually drops like a stone, and the other swoops down for the spoils. In all directions are clumps of lumbering four legged creatures like gorillas, easily ten feet tall. They are faceless masses of sinew, bone, and muscle, and pay me no mind as they march about, though their bony hooves worry me.

Directly to my left I see a structure that rivals the monolith from which I have emerged. An immense castle of soft pinks and yellowed whites, with banners stretching from each pinnacle to the outer wall, stands resolute on the horizon. This, I decide, will be my destination, once I overcome the shaking and weakness in my limbs.

Many of the terrible beasts are heading in the same direction as I am now, and I entertain the possibility of sparing my legs by seeing if one will allow me to climb onto its back. I cross over the marshy plain to come up alongside one, and contemplate its hideousness. All red and slick, its front is shored up with what is surely bone and keratin. A chitinous substance protects much of its legs and back, and bone spurs jut from many of its joints. I prepare to grasp one of these in an effort to climb it, when I notice that its face has turned back towards me as it marches. A single seam runs from top to bottom of the ovalloid head, and I detect breath whistling and snorting from this crease, soon surmising it to be a mouth. I resolve not to ride the beast after all, and am grateful to have reached the decision when I did; The mouth opens to two rows of thick molars as large as my hands, and the beast makes a noise that could be the whinnying of a deranged horse crossed with the roar of a grizzly.

Thankfully, it loses interest in me, as a bird thing has swooped down closer, and I now see that the flying thing is closer to a four-winged bat, with a face like an insect, with hundreds of human eyes glistening on the sides of its horrid head. The flier shrieks through a beakish mouth, and the beast makes its uncanny howl again. The bird-thing swoops down and rakes its four clawed feet across the back of the beast I nearly attempted to mount. I begin to retreat in weak terror. The beast swipes its forelegs at the attacker, which is made wary by this defense, and seems to turn its many eyes on me. My heart feels set to burst with dread as it drops in to grab me with its talons, which I now see well enough to call true claws, at the end of almost canine limbs. As I fall to my backend, the monster suddenly halts, and is yanked backwards with an ear splitting shriek of protest.

The lumbering beast has the bird-thing by its long sinewy tail, its front hooves now revealed to be a pair of opposable fingers pressed into a cloven knuckle. The beast stands on its hindlegs with difficulty, but pulls the bird, which now seems frail by comparison for all its thrashing, close enough that the beast can bite around the horrible head of the thing, and crush it with a mighty display of muscle. The victim goes limp, and the winner sits back to feast noisily on its prize. I am stricken senseless, this only the latest in a series of trials.

Once the bone-brute has had its fill, it returns to all fours, and plods along once more, and I am possessed of the urge to stay nearby, as this thing has cemented itself in my mind as worthy protection. Our journey is a long one, and we are soon joined by more brutes, each sporting slight physiological differences. I notice that mine has begun developing a pair of human sized arms in its chest- limbs incredibly alike to the talons of the bird that attacked us- that it occasionally leans its head down to for an almost dog-like scratching. Other brutes boast similar trophies that I surmise have come from other prey; one sports a set of horns on its head, another has spikes all along its back, and another still has a tremendous pair of leathery wings folded at its shoulder. I feel a sort of fortune that my chosen brute seems to be on the larger side, as one of the more typical ones approaches with the apparent intent to make a meal of me, and add something of me to itself, but my chosen beast snaps territorially at it, shooing it away.

As the herd and I come close to the castle, I become aware of two things- firstly, that the castle itself is made of a white brick that seems carved from bone, and secondly, that a pair of tremendous creatures stand watch at the bridge over a suspicious red moat. These are nearly humanoid, with long arms ending in chitinous shears, four legs much like those of a hairless lion, and tails curled up and ending in a suspiciously sharp tip. Their faces, like the brutes’, are featureless, but host a single eye where the mouth might belong. Both seem to spot me immediately, and raise their arms with an intent I care not to learn.

The brutes pass by unharried, and I am soon left standing alone, unwilling to proceed forward and risk the giants’ Ire.

Revisiting: Reincarnation

Many times when I’m writing, I’m struck by the idea to see things another way.

I will be up to my neck in a story that practically writes itself with how natural and compelling I find it, when along comes a half-baked idea that really mixes things up. One of the first projects I completed started as two chapters of dreary sci-fi noir and mystery, followed by the sudden compulsion to take the same characters and drop them into a fantasy world with political drama and full scale battles. I was pretty proud of the piece, but these days I look back on it with a hearty helping of shame. The pacing was a mess, the characters were flat, the very plot was contrived.

But the duality was the real reason I felt so proud. I had the ambition to form such a harsh contrast between two settings, and I was astounded that I told a story that made sense in that mess. Someday I’d like to revisit the concept, even if only for myself. They say behind every successful book a writer puts out is a closet chock full of incomplete and failed ones. I wonder how many unpublished gems are out there in the sea of reasonably withheld floatsam.

Even now, embroiled in blood and gloom, I get the fancy to drop my traumatized creations off in worlds of whimsy and light, just to see what they do.

I am my own character, I suppose. My own cringing and manic passion is the primary cause of countless inclusions and omissions.

I read a lot when I write, call it research or inspiration-fishing. The fact is, a certain sub-culture of fantasy has its hooks in me even when I dream of epic starship battles and futuristic stealth devices. How am I to resist daydreaming when my art of choice is laying literal daydreams onto paper?

All this to say that my projects have projects of their own, and Incarnate is no exception.

Dreaming: reincarnation

correlated to incarnate 1.2

I like to schedule my posts in advance, but I only finished editing today’s post a few hours beforehand. There’s a lot on my mind with this one, but I’ll narrow it down a little.

Zen. Boy oh boy, Zen. Name derived from the model number ZN001, also refers to a peaceful, tranquil state of being. Very ironic. Zen is a character that started out as little more than an idea in my head, with a different name, of course. I had this concept, the AI that had more to offer than just cold, calculated violence and oppression. Skynet always struck me as the most unthinking intelligence in fiction. It’s inspired, of course, but it almost takes for granted that upon the very moment that machines gain sentience, they will turn on their creators. It’s a little absurd. Then you have things like ultron and hal-9000, with a bit more nuance, who follow their design faithfully, but become warped by the imperfections of their creators and so attend their mission with warped perception. The idea of Zen started with the horrific power of an ideal strategist, and a mind with desires beyond mere subjugation.

Let’s talk about dreams. A lot of my ideas originate from dreams I’ve had. Early in my teenage years I had a number of dreams that centered on violence and psychologically disturbing thoughts. These, I believe, set me on the path to developing some of my darkest characters, ones I needed to explore the places those dreams had brought to the forefront of my mind.

Dreams rarely make sense after we wake up. Their plots are messy, their characters are caricatures, and their purpose frequently seems obfuscated if it isn’t waking up to go empty your bladder. With the unknown necessarily comes unease. Even when the dream is not a nightmare, it’s strangeness compels us to become mortician, to dissect and autopsy it. We look for ourselves in the entrails of the fleeting images. Sometimes we get lucky, and our subconscious has left a message for us. Sometimes it all turns to ash before we can perform augury.

Writing up fake dreams is rather new for me. I have to act the subconscious, and create an abstract world that conveys my meaning, while also matching that level of incoherence that renders dreams so mysterious. And then I have to work backwards, and have the characters interpret the work, derive meaning without stealing it from my omniscience. Seeing everything and saying little is rather painful. Once in a while, you have to lie.