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Literature Text
He can't remember when he last took the medication. It could have been weeks. He doesn't know, can't think: skull pulsing with maggots. They've burrowed into the cavity of his braincase, squirmed against the flat bones of his cranium. He hears them sliding, feels them fester in his grey matter. Feels them breed.
He can't go outside. Hasn't tried, too afraid, yet promises each time, huddled in a dull corner, he will do it, soon. He sees a flickering shadow waiting. He hears metal screams. He is cured but they will poison him. To leave was slavery, to stay starvation.
He reaches a hand but his fingers are palm leaves. His body is a knife, too sharp to move incautiously. He has no choice, never had except for the when of his fate. Leaves wrap around the scaled handle of his door-turned-tree. Feels the jolt of electricity when it resists, but he pushes through and turns.
His footsteps fail. He steps outside the monolith. The shadow is behind him, above him, somewhere he can't see. The tree closes and green hills split themselves, brown soil vomiting from the ground like geysers. He hears the splash of water and smells the brackish, syrupy infection coursing through him. A toxic sunrise ascends. His skin burns from the radiation light of the green sky-crystal.
One root grows then his guts are clutched by a clawed hand. Blood turns to acid. He heaves caustic, retching fleshcraft distortified when alien insects writhe segmented from his lips. Black mass slithering up his throat, grabbing onto his tongue, expelled by kin. He tastes them, loses their names.
Child of ink on the lupine carpet, devour no fruits. When the membrane erupts, a trothed woman is reaved, nameless she. Many are passing, to the east, direction of fetid creators of coffee. West, three monochrome horses and blue giraffe for happy lion. North is panacea, the amber grace of mead. Four hundred seventy nine stars into a fiery downpour; the subduer wakes, veins of the universe intruding at an angle he perceives, transpiration of ichor.
A darkling approaches, then another. They push the air, vibrate their structures. Them animated dead, one of the firmament risen again, the other full of brain. Crying both, that futilitarian pursuit, signalling more of their number, howling and shrieking in the devil's interval. Congregating neurotypes all the same, all colorless green asleep and grazing on furious dreams. Obscured and shaded, madness hidden from sight. Unlike he, empyrean child of celestial virtue, radiant counsel of numen. He self-determines, is utterer and audition, one being of all in all.
Into him they carve an adumbrated blossom, marrow and stem, that spiked flower of language. Knotted and twisted and tied, awkward and swollen, flushed and bleeding, grainy effluent of an empty returning mark. He hears their chatter gather around him, meaningless vocables wailing closer. All around him false: bones of the sky, chimes of the silver wind.
He collapses, fibrous column of earth, then shadows take him.
He can't go outside. Hasn't tried, too afraid, yet promises each time, huddled in a dull corner, he will do it, soon. He sees a flickering shadow waiting. He hears metal screams. He is cured but they will poison him. To leave was slavery, to stay starvation.
He reaches a hand but his fingers are palm leaves. His body is a knife, too sharp to move incautiously. He has no choice, never had except for the when of his fate. Leaves wrap around the scaled handle of his door-turned-tree. Feels the jolt of electricity when it resists, but he pushes through and turns.
His footsteps fail. He steps outside the monolith. The shadow is behind him, above him, somewhere he can't see. The tree closes and green hills split themselves, brown soil vomiting from the ground like geysers. He hears the splash of water and smells the brackish, syrupy infection coursing through him. A toxic sunrise ascends. His skin burns from the radiation light of the green sky-crystal.
One root grows then his guts are clutched by a clawed hand. Blood turns to acid. He heaves caustic, retching fleshcraft distortified when alien insects writhe segmented from his lips. Black mass slithering up his throat, grabbing onto his tongue, expelled by kin. He tastes them, loses their names.
Child of ink on the lupine carpet, devour no fruits. When the membrane erupts, a trothed woman is reaved, nameless she. Many are passing, to the east, direction of fetid creators of coffee. West, three monochrome horses and blue giraffe for happy lion. North is panacea, the amber grace of mead. Four hundred seventy nine stars into a fiery downpour; the subduer wakes, veins of the universe intruding at an angle he perceives, transpiration of ichor.
A darkling approaches, then another. They push the air, vibrate their structures. Them animated dead, one of the firmament risen again, the other full of brain. Crying both, that futilitarian pursuit, signalling more of their number, howling and shrieking in the devil's interval. Congregating neurotypes all the same, all colorless green asleep and grazing on furious dreams. Obscured and shaded, madness hidden from sight. Unlike he, empyrean child of celestial virtue, radiant counsel of numen. He self-determines, is utterer and audition, one being of all in all.
Into him they carve an adumbrated blossom, marrow and stem, that spiked flower of language. Knotted and twisted and tied, awkward and swollen, flushed and bleeding, grainy effluent of an empty returning mark. He hears their chatter gather around him, meaningless vocables wailing closer. All around him false: bones of the sky, chimes of the silver wind.
He collapses, fibrous column of earth, then shadows take him.
Literature
Digging
Miriam always looked worse in hotel mirrors. There was something about the lighting in these places. Maybe it was the drying effect of the unfamiliar water or the biological washing powder on the sheets and towels. Maybe it was the aging effect of a full English breakfast every morning, clogging her arteries and colon, writ large across her pores.
Whatever the cause, a pallid, dry, wrinkle-faced hag with frizzy greying hair watched Miriam brush her teeth.
It was 6am according to her elderly Nokia. The wall clock in her room wasn’t working. She wasn’t sure what year it had stopped at roughly quarter past three, but the hands
Literature
A Dishonest Misunderstanding
"It's here, it's here!" I shouted excitedly, running back to the living room with my parcel clutched tightly in my hands to search frantically for a pair of scissors. My parents had promised me a smartphone for my birthday if I was good, after years of wanting one, and years of being the only kid without one, and I'd been as good as gold all year. Better than I'd ever been. My birthday had come and gone two weeks ago with nothing, but they'd promised it was in the mail, and sure enough here was a phone-sized parcel with my name on it!
Finding the scissors, I tore into the packaging with fervour and swiftly uncovered...a fisher-price smartpho
Literature
Fragments
Ici
Ni nuages
ni bruit
et le sol
est trop lisse.
Je vais mentir.
Qui suis-je?
J'ai grandi d'un seul coup et très vite, comme une enfant qui saute et dont la tête reste accrochée, suspendue dans les airs, pour seulement s'apercevoir alors, en regardant en bas, qu'elle ne lévite pas, mais a un corps plus grand qui a poussé sous elle.
Etat des lieux
- Quarante et un morceaux d'un vase balancé.
- Six morceaux d'une assiette écrasée sur le mur.
- Onze morceaux d'un livré écharpé sans pleurer.
- Trois morceaux de la table assommée d'un poing lourd.
- Xanax, Tuinal, Prozac, Wisterol, par milliers.
- Deux morceaux d'un seul nous, désespoir distendu
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
For Day 4
Challenge: Journey down the rabbit hole
"All personal history with language is destroyed as we grasp for meaning. Our conscious, filter-obsessed mind wants clarity, but there is none to be had—or very little at least."
—DJ Pangburn, Surrealism & Automatic Writing: The politics of destroying language
Title from The Spine from the Transistor Original Soundtrack.
Inspiration from surrealist automatism, specifically Les Champs Magnétiques (The Magnetic Fields) by André Breton and Philippe Soupault.
Language is a virus, Slouching Towards Bedlam. Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.
Red Pill: 500-word flash fic
Also satisfies the dream-like imagery of the blue pill but not its word count.
Challenge: Journey down the rabbit hole
"All personal history with language is destroyed as we grasp for meaning. Our conscious, filter-obsessed mind wants clarity, but there is none to be had—or very little at least."
—DJ Pangburn, Surrealism & Automatic Writing: The politics of destroying language
Title from The Spine from the Transistor Original Soundtrack.
Inspiration from surrealist automatism, specifically Les Champs Magnétiques (The Magnetic Fields) by André Breton and Philippe Soupault.
Language is a virus, Slouching Towards Bedlam. Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.
Red Pill: 500-word flash fic
- Use the name of someone who was in chat when you arrived at the beginning.
AGMeade (Amber Grace Meade) A-Shadow-Rose Augmented4th (also called Tritonus, diabolus in musica, the devil's interval, chord of evil, etc.) AveryHayes (Avery means elf-counsel, Hayes means descendant of fire) camelopardalisinblue (camelopard is giraffe) DamonWakes (Damon meaning one who subdues) distortified emptyxreturns FieryDownpour479 fyoot IntelligentZombie joe-wright (joe can mean coffee, wright is an archaic term for a builder/creator) NamelessShe neurotype shadowdjinni (Djinni etymology hidden from sight) TheBrokenBride The-Inkling ThornyEnglishRose Tobaeus (variation of Tobias, meaning goodness of God) toxic--sunrise UsamaSaeed (Usama means lion, Saeed means happy) Vocable WindySilver Wolfrug zombie-phoenix - Relate to a story written by an FFM'er on this day in 2009
Flash Fic 4 by CollectorsCaravan - Include a prompt from the 2010 bank
Write about someone who does the same thing everyday for years but stops doing it one day. - Have some reference to Ed's Assku. We'll allow you to decide what this entails (coconuts? Haikus? Etc?)
The haiku itself. - Utilize one of the challenge options from Day 31, 2014
Element three: Descent into Madness - Involve an important choice AND/OR drugs of some variety, whether prescription or otherwise.
The important choice of deciding not to take pills.
Also satisfies the dream-like imagery of the blue pill but not its word count.
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Comments15
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I was impressed by the intensity of the imagery by the first paragraph, but then it kept dragging me in deeper. Very impressed by the mounting madness in this.