Jubilate, 2024
“Would you look at this?” Ellen said breathlessly. The door swung slowly inwardly. The entrance was dark and dusty, a few beams of light flittered down, casting shadows against the unwashed tile. Scratches from feline paws lined the corners of the wall along with strips of drywall that looked as if it had been torn away. “They weren’t supposed to have pets.” Ellen said, her throat already starting to cry havoc. “My god…” she mouthed as she moved into the house, stepping overcautiously across the floor, lest she contaminate the crime scene. She was horrified. Her husband, Erick was flummoxed more than horrified, but he was still beaten into silence over the scene that displayed itself through the first few rooms of their rental. He coughed, so did she. There was something in the air, something thick and filmy. It wasn’t the cat hair. There were swirls of dust, footprints maybe, all through the house. It was caked everywhere, as if nary a rag had touched this place in the last twelve months. The air smelled musty. Ellen sneezed, gagged, and sneezed again. “They weren’t supposed to have pets.” Ellen repeated, this time to herself as she explored her home. There is something namelessly horrible about walking through your home after someone else has stayed there, you’re an alien in your own home. The touches you put on the place, to accentuate your comfort, twisted, removed, and replaced with something strange and repulsive. Ellen wanted to throw up. The kitchen was the worst.
Words to Destroy the Universe
- Points: 6 125
Balrog
Posts: 3682
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
- Points: 6 125
Balrog
Posts: 3682
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
María's Last Show, 2024
María Villalobos-Cabrera was poised to become world famous. Everyone told her so, had been telling her for years. It was only a matter of time until the right person saw her art and catapulted her from the decaying, rusty taupe shadows of rural New Mexico into the neon-stained lights of Los Angeles. In the meantime, depictions of nightmarish landscapes reminiscent of the Southwest littered her one-bedroom apartment. By day, María worked as a runner for a law firm; by night, she feverishly slashed varying shades of ochre, umber, and saffron at unsuspecting canvases, goring and ripping away the white to replace it with visions of dark speculations. On the weekends, she would go out with friends, either to the local bar, the Green Man, or to one or another of their houses to take part in the newest streamable game.
She needed the time away from paintings, her friends told her. If she didn’t separate herself from the apartment, sleeping, eating, and bathing would fall by the wayside. María, though, cited the likes of Stephen King and Tommy Johnson and their obsessive artistic outputs, to which many of her friends countered that perhaps these were not examples she should strive for.
María’s latest obsession came, as most of them did, from a dream. She did not remember falling asleep in this dream. She walked down her street, past decaying and dilapidated houses yawning and howling at her— until the street itself gave way and she was surrounded by terra cotta shadows and swirling lightning. It loomed in the distance, a monolith that was ancient long before Naqada or Çatalhöyük were settled. There was a face, a simulacrum, underneath the stone that whispered to her.
She had had this dream a dozen times now, and each time she moved closer to this place and heard the whispers just that much more clearly.
María Villalobos-Cabrera was poised to become world famous. Everyone told her so, had been telling her for years. It was only a matter of time until the right person saw her art and catapulted her from the decaying, rusty taupe shadows of rural New Mexico into the neon-stained lights of Los Angeles. In the meantime, depictions of nightmarish landscapes reminiscent of the Southwest littered her one-bedroom apartment. By day, María worked as a runner for a law firm; by night, she feverishly slashed varying shades of ochre, umber, and saffron at unsuspecting canvases, goring and ripping away the white to replace it with visions of dark speculations. On the weekends, she would go out with friends, either to the local bar, the Green Man, or to one or another of their houses to take part in the newest streamable game.
She needed the time away from paintings, her friends told her. If she didn’t separate herself from the apartment, sleeping, eating, and bathing would fall by the wayside. María, though, cited the likes of Stephen King and Tommy Johnson and their obsessive artistic outputs, to which many of her friends countered that perhaps these were not examples she should strive for.
María’s latest obsession came, as most of them did, from a dream. She did not remember falling asleep in this dream. She walked down her street, past decaying and dilapidated houses yawning and howling at her— until the street itself gave way and she was surrounded by terra cotta shadows and swirling lightning. It loomed in the distance, a monolith that was ancient long before Naqada or Çatalhöyük were settled. There was a face, a simulacrum, underneath the stone that whispered to her.
She had had this dream a dozen times now, and each time she moved closer to this place and heard the whispers just that much more clearly.
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
- Points: 6 125
Balrog
Posts: 3682
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
The Kingdom of Nopales, 2024
The first time Albert heard about the sleep study he was getting coffee. He was minding his own business, sitting, tucked away, in a small corner booth of the shop. His shoulders were hunched over as he watched the people moving in and out, milling about, and talking. He drank his latte without interest, the perfunctory motion brought him some comfort. He hated going outside. The sun was far too bright and there was so much noise. He nearly died when he had to give his coffee order to the barista. His throat had become so dry he was certain he’d vomit up his tongue trying to speak. He didn’t see the two men talking about the sleep study, didn’t catch what they said before or after. They were blurs in a world of blurs to Albert. He didn’t finish his coffee, dumping a half-filled paper cup into the trash. The trip from the coffeehouse to his studio apartment three blocks away was harrowing, he did not relish it. Blurs moved around him, barely even shapes. He waited to cross the street, staring at his fading brown penny loafers. He’d forgotten his headphones, the only real armor against the outside. His sunglasses wrapped around his head, just slightly too small for the size of his skull. By the time he made it back, locked the door and slumped onto his couch, he was exhausted. The trip to the coffee shop was a weekly one, something he did at the behest of his late mother to “get out every so often”.
The first time Albert heard about the sleep study he was getting coffee. He was minding his own business, sitting, tucked away, in a small corner booth of the shop. His shoulders were hunched over as he watched the people moving in and out, milling about, and talking. He drank his latte without interest, the perfunctory motion brought him some comfort. He hated going outside. The sun was far too bright and there was so much noise. He nearly died when he had to give his coffee order to the barista. His throat had become so dry he was certain he’d vomit up his tongue trying to speak. He didn’t see the two men talking about the sleep study, didn’t catch what they said before or after. They were blurs in a world of blurs to Albert. He didn’t finish his coffee, dumping a half-filled paper cup into the trash. The trip from the coffeehouse to his studio apartment three blocks away was harrowing, he did not relish it. Blurs moved around him, barely even shapes. He waited to cross the street, staring at his fading brown penny loafers. He’d forgotten his headphones, the only real armor against the outside. His sunglasses wrapped around his head, just slightly too small for the size of his skull. By the time he made it back, locked the door and slumped onto his couch, he was exhausted. The trip to the coffee shop was a weekly one, something he did at the behest of his late mother to “get out every so often”.
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
- Points: 6 125
Balrog
Posts: 3682
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
Red Hills of Juarez, 2024
It is fair to say the metropolitic behemoth of Cuidad Juárez is not the safest place in all of Mexico but contributing the entirety of its hazardous nature to singular, mundane, all-too-human aspects is not. Nestled against the slow waters of the Río Bravo del Norte and the Sierra de Juarez, the city is a mess of outward expansion run into an immovable, imaginary objects. However, if one travels down the federal highways, the city melts away in the grand Chihuahuan Desert. Towns and roads are not sparse but the distances between can be deceiving. American tourist on their way to Chihuahua City often pass these towns and villages by with heads down and eyes averted, so spun on by the fear of being murdered and never even learn the names of the places they trod through. Somewhere along Federal Highway 45 is a little farmer’s market without a name. They sell good tomatoes there, pinto beans too, and the green chili cultivars are something of a legend. Take a left turn at the innocuous looking intersection instead of straight on toward the capital will lead you on a winding road that hugs the mountains as it curves around and leads down into an open valley. Before heading into the valley proper though, is a small town, one of those towns of which Americans are so desperately afraid but so morbidly curious. The first thing a newcomer will notice about this town is the chapel. It is not dedicated to the Virgin of Guadalupe or any saint so pedestrian, it is dedicated to Santa Muerte.
It is fair to say the metropolitic behemoth of Cuidad Juárez is not the safest place in all of Mexico but contributing the entirety of its hazardous nature to singular, mundane, all-too-human aspects is not. Nestled against the slow waters of the Río Bravo del Norte and the Sierra de Juarez, the city is a mess of outward expansion run into an immovable, imaginary objects. However, if one travels down the federal highways, the city melts away in the grand Chihuahuan Desert. Towns and roads are not sparse but the distances between can be deceiving. American tourist on their way to Chihuahua City often pass these towns and villages by with heads down and eyes averted, so spun on by the fear of being murdered and never even learn the names of the places they trod through. Somewhere along Federal Highway 45 is a little farmer’s market without a name. They sell good tomatoes there, pinto beans too, and the green chili cultivars are something of a legend. Take a left turn at the innocuous looking intersection instead of straight on toward the capital will lead you on a winding road that hugs the mountains as it curves around and leads down into an open valley. Before heading into the valley proper though, is a small town, one of those towns of which Americans are so desperately afraid but so morbidly curious. The first thing a newcomer will notice about this town is the chapel. It is not dedicated to the Virgin of Guadalupe or any saint so pedestrian, it is dedicated to Santa Muerte.
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
- Points: 6 125
Balrog
Posts: 3682
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
There is Something in the Fog, 2024
The cold desert morning air made Jean Gabriel’s joints hurt. He rose slowly from his bed, inhaled and then exhaled. One of these days, he was going to have to find a more temperate place to live. Of course, Jean Gabriel had been saying this for the past ten years and not once had the decision gone past the “someday” stage. His partner, Michael, had endured the complaining with grace, as he had so many other things. The hardwood floor was cold and hard, Jean Gabriel winced as he took the first few steps out into the world. His calves threatened to seize up then relented, resigned to their fate. Percival, his senior Gordan Settler and constant companion, greeted him in the kitchen. They watched the river through the glass door. There was a fog on the southern shore today, unusual but not alarming, it was spring after all. Jean Gabriel brewed himself some coffee and poured Percival a bowl of water. Following their morning ritual, they exited to the porch, both of them still having eyes for the fog as it watched them from the opposite bank. The porch creaked as they sat, Percival on his favorite rug and Jean Gabriel on his favorite rocking chair. The first sip of the dark brown liquid flooded him with warmth, wakeful slowly seeping into his bones. He sighed. Between the wisps of steam from the coffee, the slow, almost sludgy, movement of the river, and the fog, he thought he saw something.
The cold desert morning air made Jean Gabriel’s joints hurt. He rose slowly from his bed, inhaled and then exhaled. One of these days, he was going to have to find a more temperate place to live. Of course, Jean Gabriel had been saying this for the past ten years and not once had the decision gone past the “someday” stage. His partner, Michael, had endured the complaining with grace, as he had so many other things. The hardwood floor was cold and hard, Jean Gabriel winced as he took the first few steps out into the world. His calves threatened to seize up then relented, resigned to their fate. Percival, his senior Gordan Settler and constant companion, greeted him in the kitchen. They watched the river through the glass door. There was a fog on the southern shore today, unusual but not alarming, it was spring after all. Jean Gabriel brewed himself some coffee and poured Percival a bowl of water. Following their morning ritual, they exited to the porch, both of them still having eyes for the fog as it watched them from the opposite bank. The porch creaked as they sat, Percival on his favorite rug and Jean Gabriel on his favorite rocking chair. The first sip of the dark brown liquid flooded him with warmth, wakeful slowly seeping into his bones. He sighed. Between the wisps of steam from the coffee, the slow, almost sludgy, movement of the river, and the fog, he thought he saw something.
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
- Points: 6 125
Balrog
Posts: 3682
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
Running Partner, 2024
The sun was shining, a diamond atop a tower, this morning. The temperatures were already sky high, along with the humidity. Grasshoppers and dragonflies were out in force. Away from the bustle of Mesa Street, with only the occasional sound of vehicle moving down the hill, the street was quiet, expectant. Juan stood on the sidewalk, stretching. He’d stretched before, in his apartment, but he always did just a little extra before he began his runs. A bead of sweat was already forming on his brow. He’d only been outside for a minute. Today’s run promised to be a scorcher. He checked the laces on his shoes again, still tight. He tucked the ends into the side of his shoe. They tended to bounce around as he ran. He checked his earbuds, making sure they were, in fact, in his ears. Music wasn’t flowing through them yet and one could never be too sure. He had two bottles of water, one lukewarm in his hand and one frozen in his pocket. He looked up at the top of the hill, as it was every time, the hill looked much steeper here at the bottom than it did at the top. There was no shade along the path save for a tiny acacia tree clinging to the side of the arroyo. That was his first goal: make it the quarter mile to that tree. He took a deep breath, tapped his earbud to start the music, and began his run.
The sun was shining, a diamond atop a tower, this morning. The temperatures were already sky high, along with the humidity. Grasshoppers and dragonflies were out in force. Away from the bustle of Mesa Street, with only the occasional sound of vehicle moving down the hill, the street was quiet, expectant. Juan stood on the sidewalk, stretching. He’d stretched before, in his apartment, but he always did just a little extra before he began his runs. A bead of sweat was already forming on his brow. He’d only been outside for a minute. Today’s run promised to be a scorcher. He checked the laces on his shoes again, still tight. He tucked the ends into the side of his shoe. They tended to bounce around as he ran. He checked his earbuds, making sure they were, in fact, in his ears. Music wasn’t flowing through them yet and one could never be too sure. He had two bottles of water, one lukewarm in his hand and one frozen in his pocket. He looked up at the top of the hill, as it was every time, the hill looked much steeper here at the bottom than it did at the top. There was no shade along the path save for a tiny acacia tree clinging to the side of the arroyo. That was his first goal: make it the quarter mile to that tree. He took a deep breath, tapped his earbud to start the music, and began his run.
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
- Points: 6 125
Balrog
Posts: 3682
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
Myrmecophobia, 2024
The forest was the best place to discover God’s glory, Nathan decided. Still riding high from this weekend’s church retreat, he decided to set out on his own. He armed himself with all the necessities for a day hike into the Santa Fe National Forest: water (a gallon per person, per day), sturdy, waterproof boots, a good hat, sunscreen, a walking stick, a plethora of (somewhat) overpriced granola bars, and of course his Bible, a hymnal, and a devotional study book. The Bible sat next to him on the car ride, impossibly taking up the entire of the passenger side seat. The trip was not long, just a couple of hours, but it gave him time to reflect on the things he wanted for the day. The retreat had left him with a few ideas: listening for the still small voice of God, randomly flipping to Bible verses and allowing them to guide his mediation, and transcribing his thoughts and epiphanies to study later. He hummed one of the silly, bouncy songs they sang at the retreat, smiling absently as he passed through turn after turn, hugging the curve of the road a little too closely. The sky was bright and clear, a shade of light blue unheard of in the city. He pulled over on the shoulder as he crested a small ridge, got out of the car, and listened. It was quiet. A few birds here and there, a light breeze through the cottonwood and juniper created a gentle symphony. Nathan closed his eyes and imagined. He couldn’t say what he imagined there on the side of the road, but he imagined it all the same. He smiled, took a deep breath of refreshing air, and returned to his vehicle. There was not another soul around him for miles and miles.
The forest was the best place to discover God’s glory, Nathan decided. Still riding high from this weekend’s church retreat, he decided to set out on his own. He armed himself with all the necessities for a day hike into the Santa Fe National Forest: water (a gallon per person, per day), sturdy, waterproof boots, a good hat, sunscreen, a walking stick, a plethora of (somewhat) overpriced granola bars, and of course his Bible, a hymnal, and a devotional study book. The Bible sat next to him on the car ride, impossibly taking up the entire of the passenger side seat. The trip was not long, just a couple of hours, but it gave him time to reflect on the things he wanted for the day. The retreat had left him with a few ideas: listening for the still small voice of God, randomly flipping to Bible verses and allowing them to guide his mediation, and transcribing his thoughts and epiphanies to study later. He hummed one of the silly, bouncy songs they sang at the retreat, smiling absently as he passed through turn after turn, hugging the curve of the road a little too closely. The sky was bright and clear, a shade of light blue unheard of in the city. He pulled over on the shoulder as he crested a small ridge, got out of the car, and listened. It was quiet. A few birds here and there, a light breeze through the cottonwood and juniper created a gentle symphony. Nathan closed his eyes and imagined. He couldn’t say what he imagined there on the side of the road, but he imagined it all the same. He smiled, took a deep breath of refreshing air, and returned to his vehicle. There was not another soul around him for miles and miles.
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
- Points: 6 125
Balrog
Posts: 3682
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
Samantha Mezzasalma and the Rite of Molluscation, 2024
Samantha smiled. It was finally going to happen. How long had she been waiting now, how many dreams had she had? She took the knife proffered to her, silvery in the churchlight with a wormy, segmented handle. It felt warm in her hand, surely that was a good sign. A green garbed Father Melton bowed to her and moved on. There were four others that had made it this far, Stephanie, Samantha’s best friend, two other girls from a class below her, and two boys, one older, from the class in front of her, and one maybe two years younger. They all stood solemnly in a semi-circle around a raised pulpit in front of the congregation. Samantha could see Stephanie was quite nervous, her hands shook at her side. Samantha was practically giddy.
As one, they raised their knives and began reciting the sacred kyrie, their voices rising and falling in nonhuman rhythm, seeking favor from their most high. Samantha’s voice was clear, reaching higher than her fellows. She could feel the fervency of her beliefs, her hopes and dreams, pouring into the words as they lilted out of her. The voices ceased and each of the acolytes thrust the knives into their chest, right into the sternoclavicular joint. There was a great intake of breath from the congregation as the ceremony reached its peak. Each eye was fixed on the dais. Soon the crackling began.
Samantha smiled. It was finally going to happen. How long had she been waiting now, how many dreams had she had? She took the knife proffered to her, silvery in the churchlight with a wormy, segmented handle. It felt warm in her hand, surely that was a good sign. A green garbed Father Melton bowed to her and moved on. There were four others that had made it this far, Stephanie, Samantha’s best friend, two other girls from a class below her, and two boys, one older, from the class in front of her, and one maybe two years younger. They all stood solemnly in a semi-circle around a raised pulpit in front of the congregation. Samantha could see Stephanie was quite nervous, her hands shook at her side. Samantha was practically giddy.
As one, they raised their knives and began reciting the sacred kyrie, their voices rising and falling in nonhuman rhythm, seeking favor from their most high. Samantha’s voice was clear, reaching higher than her fellows. She could feel the fervency of her beliefs, her hopes and dreams, pouring into the words as they lilted out of her. The voices ceased and each of the acolytes thrust the knives into their chest, right into the sternoclavicular joint. There was a great intake of breath from the congregation as the ceremony reached its peak. Each eye was fixed on the dais. Soon the crackling began.
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
- Points: 6 125
Balrog
Posts: 3682
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
The Reason Janitors Have So Many Keys, 2024
Martin unlocked the door, pulled the key out, and entered Tonia Ransom Hall, the same gesticulative motion he’d been doing for the past three years. He would never walk out of it.
It was 4:00 AM. Light blinked on at his presence, flooding the building with bluish, opalescence.
Four hours to clean clogged toilets, marked up walls, spilled coffee, overflowing trash cans, pizza boxes with the uneaten crusts tossed in, and a hundred other things that Martin couldn’t imagine, the same routine he’d been fulfilling for the past three years.
Martin slipped on his special behind-the-ear headphones, donned his goggles, n95 facemask, and blue plastic gloves and got to work. No use in waiting. The horrors of janitor work would be there, creeping around the corners, if he were ready for them or not. That’s why, naturally, he had the headphones. They were the shield against mundanity.
Each morning, he started on the first floor of the building: the labyrinth of offices.
The students at Tonia Ransom were dumb, every student is dumb in college, but here they had some common sense. The professors, too, treated Martin with a degree of dignity, they didn’t treat him as they might catch something if they spoke to him.
Martin unlocked the door, pulled the key out, and entered Tonia Ransom Hall, the same gesticulative motion he’d been doing for the past three years. He would never walk out of it.
It was 4:00 AM. Light blinked on at his presence, flooding the building with bluish, opalescence.
Four hours to clean clogged toilets, marked up walls, spilled coffee, overflowing trash cans, pizza boxes with the uneaten crusts tossed in, and a hundred other things that Martin couldn’t imagine, the same routine he’d been fulfilling for the past three years.
Martin slipped on his special behind-the-ear headphones, donned his goggles, n95 facemask, and blue plastic gloves and got to work. No use in waiting. The horrors of janitor work would be there, creeping around the corners, if he were ready for them or not. That’s why, naturally, he had the headphones. They were the shield against mundanity.
Each morning, he started on the first floor of the building: the labyrinth of offices.
The students at Tonia Ransom were dumb, every student is dumb in college, but here they had some common sense. The professors, too, treated Martin with a degree of dignity, they didn’t treat him as they might catch something if they spoke to him.
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
- Points: 6 125
Balrog
Posts: 3682
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
Plasmapheresis, 2024
Welcome to—oh, first time donor? Just sign your name here, yes right there, and I’ll get to you in a moment.
Sorry about the wait, I hope it wasn’t too long? Oh good. So, have you ever donated plasma before?
Okay, so you generally know what to expect, that’s good. That’s very good. I still have to go through all the rigmarole and explanations, but it’s good that you understand what you’re getting involved in. You have all the required documents too, I’m assuming? Yes, an ID and a piece of mail with your address. Good. Oh, from the New Mexico Educational Retirement Board? You don’t look nearly old enough to have retired already, and from the school system? How did you manage to survive with your sanity intact? My mother was a schoolteacher, fifth grade mostly, she would tell me such stories. She didn’t escape with her sanity. Ah, but that’s neither here nor there. Apologies, I can go off of tangents from time to time, the curse of being loquacious. When I was growing up it was hard to get a word in edgewise. I suppose I punish everyone I meet for that injustice. Yes, of course. I’ll just be a moment now.
Still here?
Welcome to—oh, first time donor? Just sign your name here, yes right there, and I’ll get to you in a moment.
Sorry about the wait, I hope it wasn’t too long? Oh good. So, have you ever donated plasma before?
Okay, so you generally know what to expect, that’s good. That’s very good. I still have to go through all the rigmarole and explanations, but it’s good that you understand what you’re getting involved in. You have all the required documents too, I’m assuming? Yes, an ID and a piece of mail with your address. Good. Oh, from the New Mexico Educational Retirement Board? You don’t look nearly old enough to have retired already, and from the school system? How did you manage to survive with your sanity intact? My mother was a schoolteacher, fifth grade mostly, she would tell me such stories. She didn’t escape with her sanity. Ah, but that’s neither here nor there. Apologies, I can go off of tangents from time to time, the curse of being loquacious. When I was growing up it was hard to get a word in edgewise. I suppose I punish everyone I meet for that injustice. Yes, of course. I’ll just be a moment now.
Still here?
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
- Points: 2 817
New Soul
Posts: 3091
Joined: Thu Sep 02, 2021 6:24 am
Frost: Ah there you are again! Quite a lot to read. I'll sum it up in a few replies I think and starts with the first ones. 
Aspire: wow you wrote it much intensity that you can feel to be there. Wonderful!
Southwestern Drone: Oh the hangman wow, really cool!
The Sotolero: Here it is not exactly clear what is going on, but might be my misunderstanding?
Jubilate: How pictoresque written, I love it!
María's Last Show: What a kind of woman.
I wouldn't want have her life. 
The Kingdom of Nopales: I had to laugh over this small tale. A drained formed of life.
I leave it with this for the moment and go to making dinner. Thanks for sharing!
Aspire: wow you wrote it much intensity that you can feel to be there. Wonderful!
Southwestern Drone: Oh the hangman wow, really cool!
The Sotolero: Here it is not exactly clear what is going on, but might be my misunderstanding?
Jubilate: How pictoresque written, I love it!
María's Last Show: What a kind of woman.
I wouldn't want have her life. The Kingdom of Nopales: I had to laugh over this small tale. A drained formed of life.
I leave it with this for the moment and go to making dinner. Thanks for sharing!
Just call me Aiks or Aikári. Notify is off.
Find me stuff in Gondolin.
And let us embark to Valinor!
Find me stuff in Gondolin.
And let us embark to Valinor!
- Points: 6 125
Balrog
Posts: 3682
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
Aik: Thank you for stopping by again! It's always lovely reading your responses. I find them helpful and insightful!
Aspire - I like this opening a lot better than my original, it feels more organically me rather than imitative of another's style
Southwestern Drone - I'm almost tempted to leave this story as is in it's original state (previously posted here too) with a few cosmetic touches. I feel like it's my most complete story
The Sotolero - This is going to be my attempt at writing a crime story, I know the outline but I'm not sold on the format yet. The first 200 words are meant to read like a police report while the second part would read more like an interrogation.
Jubilate - I originally came up with this story when a coworker was telling me how her rental property was severely damaged by tenants, I like how it's shaping up so far
María's Last Show - I wrote half the story back in 2023 but it fell apart, I'm trying once more with more color palette references and use of artist vocabulary
The Kingdom of Nopales - I'm definitely drawing on my own feelings of isolation and agoraphobia for the character of Albert. Don't worry though, his life is about to get interesting
Aspire - I like this opening a lot better than my original, it feels more organically me rather than imitative of another's style
Southwestern Drone - I'm almost tempted to leave this story as is in it's original state (previously posted here too) with a few cosmetic touches. I feel like it's my most complete story
The Sotolero - This is going to be my attempt at writing a crime story, I know the outline but I'm not sold on the format yet. The first 200 words are meant to read like a police report while the second part would read more like an interrogation.
Jubilate - I originally came up with this story when a coworker was telling me how her rental property was severely damaged by tenants, I like how it's shaping up so far
María's Last Show - I wrote half the story back in 2023 but it fell apart, I'm trying once more with more color palette references and use of artist vocabulary
The Kingdom of Nopales - I'm definitely drawing on my own feelings of isolation and agoraphobia for the character of Albert. Don't worry though, his life is about to get interesting
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
- Points: 2 817
New Soul
Posts: 3091
Joined: Thu Sep 02, 2021 6:24 am
Frost: It is my real pleasure to provide you them. 
Here is the rest of my replies.
Red Hills: Sounds pretty pictoresque as you describe the road. This is my impression.
The Fog: Sounds creepy already! Quite relaxed sitting on your porch. When does the drama happen?
Running partner: Ah yeah the music, what else can it be? If you run, you ought to listen to all sounds around. I think that is more exciting than being distracted by music. Doesn't matter where you when cut off by music, indoors or outdoors. Way I see it.
Myrmecophobia: I think he exists in some other world than the real one. He reads like a real happy and content sort of guy... bit too complacent for my taste, than laying in a coffin wouldn't bother him either.
Rite of Molluscation: Ah a lady... Well it is one way to leave the world.
So Many Keys: This sounds like satire. He uses just one key. What is the number?
Plasmapheresis: Isn't that a telephone conversation, one way? It closes off so funny "Still there?"
That was about it then!
Here is the rest of my replies. Red Hills: Sounds pretty pictoresque as you describe the road. This is my impression.
The Fog: Sounds creepy already! Quite relaxed sitting on your porch. When does the drama happen?
Running partner: Ah yeah the music, what else can it be? If you run, you ought to listen to all sounds around. I think that is more exciting than being distracted by music. Doesn't matter where you when cut off by music, indoors or outdoors. Way I see it.
Myrmecophobia: I think he exists in some other world than the real one. He reads like a real happy and content sort of guy... bit too complacent for my taste, than laying in a coffin wouldn't bother him either.
Rite of Molluscation: Ah a lady... Well it is one way to leave the world.
So Many Keys: This sounds like satire. He uses just one key. What is the number?
Plasmapheresis: Isn't that a telephone conversation, one way? It closes off so funny "Still there?"
That was about it then!
Just call me Aiks or Aikári. Notify is off.
Find me stuff in Gondolin.
And let us embark to Valinor!
Find me stuff in Gondolin.
And let us embark to Valinor!
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Balrog
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Aik: Thank you for your lovely notes!
Red Hills of Juarez: I appreciate the vote of confidence. Ironically I have never been to through Juarez, at least not on the side the story takes place
There is Something in the Fog: I want to explore the complex relationship between tragedy and horror in this piece, more a mood piece than action-y
Running Partner: I'll be pulling a lot of my running routine here because the story itself is going to take place on my old, favorite running route in El Paso
Myrmecophobia: Poor dude does have his head in the clouds, sadly he's going to find something that brings him crashing back
Samantha Mezzasalma and the Rite of Molluscation: Oh dear, you have nooooooo idea
The Reason Janitors Have So Many Keys: Definitely satire, but no he (and all janitors) have a plethora of keys, far too many keys, keys they almost never, ever use
Plasmapheresis: It does cut off rather abruptly, doesn't it? it's an experimental piece, a second person POV wherein you, the reader, are actively part of the story
Red Hills of Juarez: I appreciate the vote of confidence. Ironically I have never been to through Juarez, at least not on the side the story takes place
There is Something in the Fog: I want to explore the complex relationship between tragedy and horror in this piece, more a mood piece than action-y
Running Partner: I'll be pulling a lot of my running routine here because the story itself is going to take place on my old, favorite running route in El Paso
Myrmecophobia: Poor dude does have his head in the clouds, sadly he's going to find something that brings him crashing back
Samantha Mezzasalma and the Rite of Molluscation: Oh dear, you have nooooooo idea
The Reason Janitors Have So Many Keys: Definitely satire, but no he (and all janitors) have a plethora of keys, far too many keys, keys they almost never, ever use
Plasmapheresis: It does cut off rather abruptly, doesn't it?
it's an experimental piece, a second person POV wherein you, the reader, are actively part of the story"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
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New Soul
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Frost: I'll be the lookout. *g* 
Just call me Aiks or Aikári. Notify is off.
Find me stuff in Gondolin.
And let us embark to Valinor!
Find me stuff in Gondolin.
And let us embark to Valinor!
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Balrog
Posts: 3682
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
To help promote an upcoming Southern Gothic novel called "There Ought to be Shadows", Quill & Crow Publishing have released a month-long daily poetry prompt list.
It's been a very long time since I've written any poetry so this could be a disaster but, why not give it a try? The first prompt is "Family"
It's been a very long time since I've written any poetry so this could be a disaster but, why not give it a try? The first prompt is "Family"
The Wake
Dreary morning dawns
They gather in the kitchen
Clink and chirp and groan
Squawkish sighs, so faint
Ritual chants of “how're you?”
Fill the empty void
I cannot descend
Carrion foul, orn’ry thieves
They do await me
Homogenous
And robed all in naked black
They keen like sulfur
Hunted, haunted – I
Open the attic window
“Escape, ye carcass!”
‘Cross the brambled fields
And under the thorned mesquite
Shade 'til the gloaming
“Now, where have you been?”
Cries mother and bellows aunt
The ritual stalls
Heterodoxic,
Yet, yellow eyes upon me
I am made to pray
Wordsmith, I be not
Cowboy calls of righteousness
The appeasing chant
Meal with taloned hand
They pick clean and genuflect
I shall be dessert…
Dreary morning dawns
They gather in the kitchen
Clink and chirp and groan
Squawkish sighs, so faint
Ritual chants of “how're you?”
Fill the empty void
I cannot descend
Carrion foul, orn’ry thieves
They do await me
Homogenous
And robed all in naked black
They keen like sulfur
Hunted, haunted – I
Open the attic window
“Escape, ye carcass!”
‘Cross the brambled fields
And under the thorned mesquite
Shade 'til the gloaming
“Now, where have you been?”
Cries mother and bellows aunt
The ritual stalls
Heterodoxic,
Yet, yellow eyes upon me
I am made to pray
Wordsmith, I be not
Cowboy calls of righteousness
The appeasing chant
Meal with taloned hand
They pick clean and genuflect
I shall be dessert…
Last edited by The Good Hunter on Sat Jun 08, 2024 10:03 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
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New Soul
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Frost: Why should something from first glance be disaster? The Wake is a piece about a family of care-me-less-than-myself minds, or so the words give expression there is not much happiness. I guess the main character is very happy to escape the kitchen after a breakfast that doesn't taste either? Poem show your skills surely. *g* Well conducted.
Up to a next prompt!
Up to a next prompt!
Just call me Aiks or Aikári. Notify is off.
Find me stuff in Gondolin.
And let us embark to Valinor!
Find me stuff in Gondolin.
And let us embark to Valinor!
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Balrog
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Aik - You are very kind. I am often very critical of my skills relating to, well, everything. I'm a strange mixture of extraordinary arrogance and intensely low self-esteem. What can I say? I won't give too much of the meaning of the poem away yet, though I might if enough people are actually interested, I will say the title of the poem refers to the collective noun for vultures.
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
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New Soul
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Frost: Aye vultures, aye that was a word I was searching for. It's okay how you are regarding yourself. Low self-esteem is something I recognise in myself as well, you are not alone in that.
Just call me Aiks or Aikári. Notify is off.
Find me stuff in Gondolin.
And let us embark to Valinor!
Find me stuff in Gondolin.
And let us embark to Valinor!
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Balrog
Posts: 3682
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Aik - Thank you for your kind words
For Day 2 the prompt was "Nefarious" - rather a broad topic so I decided to try a sonnet. This has been an image that's haunted me for years ever since I had a single, glimpse of something beneath a streetlight nearly a decade ago...
For Day 2 the prompt was "Nefarious" - rather a broad topic so I decided to try a sonnet. This has been an image that's haunted me for years ever since I had a single, glimpse of something beneath a streetlight nearly a decade ago...
Abyssal Sonnet #3
There is a man that dwells in fractious light—
A witching-hour composer of strange songs,
A twisted, dancing ethereal wight,
And a balladeer of a score of wrongs
O, wandering child, you must stay away!
His knuckled fingers stretch more than you think
With grin and smoke wisp grace, his shadows play
He is an angler fish with teeth of ink
Don’t you remember your old friend Tommy?
Recall his final late night derring-do.
He wandered to that one streetlight, bonny
Now o'er his tiny grave grow feverfew
The man is hungry, the man is patient
On tonight's black moon, his song be nascent
There is a man that dwells in fractious light—
A witching-hour composer of strange songs,
A twisted, dancing ethereal wight,
And a balladeer of a score of wrongs
O, wandering child, you must stay away!
His knuckled fingers stretch more than you think
With grin and smoke wisp grace, his shadows play
He is an angler fish with teeth of ink
Don’t you remember your old friend Tommy?
Recall his final late night derring-do.
He wandered to that one streetlight, bonny
Now o'er his tiny grave grow feverfew
The man is hungry, the man is patient
On tonight's black moon, his song be nascent
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
- Points: 6 125
Balrog
Posts: 3682
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
Missed yesterday's prompt: "Unrequited"
We Were Supposed to Go Mad Together
I went, one day, to our favorite wall
Where we left each other notes—
It was empty this morning, save for a single crow atop the coping
He asked me why I was there
I told him I was waiting for you
That you would be along shortly
Again, he asked me why I was there
I told him I missed you, that I had not seen you in ages
I showed him the sonnet I wrote you
I told him of the oath we swore to Thanatos—;
He told me he recalled the oath
I recounted the books we’d read, the secrets we unlocked
I spoke of all the monstrous obscenities we discovered
We, who snuck into abandoned libraries and read by candlelight
We made a promise to one another, an oath
Walk to hand in hand, to close our eyes and descent to hell together.
We found each other there, midst the blood- and fungus-stained tomes—
The only voice that understood the whisper.
We read poems aloud with madmen’s automatic script,
We tested each other with sphynxian riddles writ by spirit boards
We found the arcane books, with badly translated Latin titles
And read them as if they were romance novellas.
I recounted all the depths we plunged and tombs unearthed to find and satiate our need for more
I told this crow upon the coping about the story you wrote
About the two boys that found a stairway in the graveyard, and descended and descended and descended
I can remember it word for word, and told it to the crow
“My boy,” the crow said upon my silence
“My boy, you broke your oath
“You were supposed to go mad together…”
I went, one day, to our favorite wall
Where we left each other notes—
It was empty this morning, save for a single crow atop the coping
He asked me why I was there
I told him I was waiting for you
That you would be along shortly
Again, he asked me why I was there
I told him I missed you, that I had not seen you in ages
I showed him the sonnet I wrote you
I told him of the oath we swore to Thanatos—;
He told me he recalled the oath
I recounted the books we’d read, the secrets we unlocked
I spoke of all the monstrous obscenities we discovered
We, who snuck into abandoned libraries and read by candlelight
We made a promise to one another, an oath
Walk to hand in hand, to close our eyes and descent to hell together.
We found each other there, midst the blood- and fungus-stained tomes—
The only voice that understood the whisper.
We read poems aloud with madmen’s automatic script,
We tested each other with sphynxian riddles writ by spirit boards
We found the arcane books, with badly translated Latin titles
And read them as if they were romance novellas.
I recounted all the depths we plunged and tombs unearthed to find and satiate our need for more
I told this crow upon the coping about the story you wrote
About the two boys that found a stairway in the graveyard, and descended and descended and descended
I can remember it word for word, and told it to the crow
“My boy,” the crow said upon my silence
“My boy, you broke your oath
“You were supposed to go mad together…”
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
- Points: 2 817
New Soul
Posts: 3091
Joined: Thu Sep 02, 2021 6:24 am
Frost: Hey! Earlier offline I read your new sonnet and poem. Your unique tone and style are returning and always a delight to read. Though it has dark tones, what I used to and know of you using. The rhyme is the sonnet is great and the picture presenting goes with the words by the streetlight. Little is needed for more imagination. Thanks for sharing!
Just call me Aiks or Aikári. Notify is off.
Find me stuff in Gondolin.
And let us embark to Valinor!
Find me stuff in Gondolin.
And let us embark to Valinor!
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Balrog
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Aik - Again you are too kind! I do not feel I deserve so much praise from you, though I will freely admit, I do like this particular abyssal sonnet better than the other two, it has a more refined tone and better imagery, not to mention a complete story within the 14 lines.
I missed yesterday's prompt "Starless" so I'll have to come back to it at some point, but today's prompt was "Moonstone" and I sort took that in a strange direction...
I missed yesterday's prompt "Starless" so I'll have to come back to it at some point, but today's prompt was "Moonstone" and I sort took that in a strange direction...
An Ode to the Moonstone
She rides upon a cemeterial air
A malevolent wind from the sickly moon
Woe for pedestrian unheeded prayer
She drives the ghosts and ghouls of lunar attune
O Selene, the mistress of the wild hunt—
With Stygian scythe, the earth she doth leave hewn
Unholy matron, for whom gods exeunt
Reverand mother of the black moon lupus
Listen to her howls, which no man dare affront
Plebian sunling, offer thy sambucus
And pray the wolves sees thy life as vacuous
She rides upon a cemeterial air
A malevolent wind from the sickly moon
Woe for pedestrian unheeded prayer
She drives the ghosts and ghouls of lunar attune
O Selene, the mistress of the wild hunt—
With Stygian scythe, the earth she doth leave hewn
Unholy matron, for whom gods exeunt
Reverand mother of the black moon lupus
Listen to her howls, which no man dare affront
Plebian sunling, offer thy sambucus
And pray the wolves sees thy life as vacuous
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
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New Soul
Posts: 3091
Joined: Thu Sep 02, 2021 6:24 am
Frost: Wow! I am little speechless. Odes can be really beautiful if written well. These days they are not written much anymore. They have fallen out of favour or people lost the skill to compose them. I think this would win a silver price on a contest. Thanks for sharing!
Just call me Aiks or Aikári. Notify is off.
Find me stuff in Gondolin.
And let us embark to Valinor!
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And let us embark to Valinor!
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Balrog
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Aik - I'm so glad you're enjoying the poems so far. I want to add more lines to the Ode, the pitfall of this "poem a day" prompt list I'm following is that it doesn't allot much time to each poem. I really like how the poem is starting, perhaps with some more work on it, it could win a gold prize in a contest!
In the meantime, the next prompt is "Ghastly" which is, again, rather vague. I found a poetic form called a dizain: 10 lines, 10 syllables, with an ababbccdcd rhyme scheme. I do hope this poem is "ghastly" enough!
In the meantime, the next prompt is "Ghastly" which is, again, rather vague. I found a poetic form called a dizain: 10 lines, 10 syllables, with an ababbccdcd rhyme scheme. I do hope this poem is "ghastly" enough!
Gravelight Sonata
Let's walk in the cemetery tonight—
Darling, let us dance with hellish fervor,
With ghosts and the airy spirits of light.
You, in the gloaming arms of the Werther,
And I, with the red Witch of the Further!
Then we will dine on fruit of the hex-vine,
Whose taste the dead call honeyed and sublime.
Give me your hand, and together we’ll go—
Knotted eternal, our fingers, entwine—
Ascend with me, beloved, to shadow.
Let's walk in the cemetery tonight—
Darling, let us dance with hellish fervor,
With ghosts and the airy spirits of light.
You, in the gloaming arms of the Werther,
And I, with the red Witch of the Further!
Then we will dine on fruit of the hex-vine,
Whose taste the dead call honeyed and sublime.
Give me your hand, and together we’ll go—
Knotted eternal, our fingers, entwine—
Ascend with me, beloved, to shadow.
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
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Balrog
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Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
I skipped yesterday's prompt of "Spiteful" because I couldn't come up with anything good enough and began to prepare a blank verse poem for the next one: "Sleepy" which to me seems rather incongruous in comparison to all the other gothic themes but the route I took is probably in line with what they initially imagined. Ah, sleep paralysis...
Familiar
I cannot sleep in whispered gloom of night—;
I see a bristled form come a-slinkin',
Its quiet purr is so benignly sweet
Yet, ‘tis a lure for sleepy minded fools.
Beware, oh sleeper, the lyxian eyes
That harbors hunger illimitable.
Red eyes, red eyes, red eyes, red eyes, red eyes!
I see a Cheshire grin gleam in moon-shine,
A yonic shadow lengthens near my bed—
Horrid bloom, a dozen flexing fingers
Appear, multi-jointed and dysphoric
To steal away my calm and sanity,
And quicken my heart to panicked frenzy
I cannot move, I cannot breathe—
An undimensional kitten pounces
She sits now, so heavily on my chest.
Her paw reaches down, deep inside my soul
And scoops out ethereal viscera
Eyes bore into me, daring me to move.
She knows I cannot stir within this shell.
She dances and prances then bears down upon me...
Inhumane, feline, Bellatrixian!
O! Unfortunate, broken sleeper, I!
My heart held fast by noxicainous webs,
She rests a small grey paw upon my lips—
Then plunges, one and all, through my gasping throat.
And though I wake, I hear her yowls too well
Stalking grimalkin, wretched familiar
I cannot sleep in whispered gloom of night—;
I see a bristled form come a-slinkin',
Its quiet purr is so benignly sweet
Yet, ‘tis a lure for sleepy minded fools.
Beware, oh sleeper, the lyxian eyes
That harbors hunger illimitable.
Red eyes, red eyes, red eyes, red eyes, red eyes!
I see a Cheshire grin gleam in moon-shine,
A yonic shadow lengthens near my bed—
Horrid bloom, a dozen flexing fingers
Appear, multi-jointed and dysphoric
To steal away my calm and sanity,
And quicken my heart to panicked frenzy
I cannot move, I cannot breathe—
An undimensional kitten pounces
She sits now, so heavily on my chest.
Her paw reaches down, deep inside my soul
And scoops out ethereal viscera
Eyes bore into me, daring me to move.
She knows I cannot stir within this shell.
She dances and prances then bears down upon me...
Inhumane, feline, Bellatrixian!
O! Unfortunate, broken sleeper, I!
My heart held fast by noxicainous webs,
She rests a small grey paw upon my lips—
Then plunges, one and all, through my gasping throat.
And though I wake, I hear her yowls too well
Stalking grimalkin, wretched familiar
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
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New Soul
Posts: 3091
Joined: Thu Sep 02, 2021 6:24 am
*O_O* Two more entries.... Time to bring the hammer out. 
Frost: I have to read...
Sonata: Quite funny, I had a giggle after reading it. Amusing those dead that dance in the cementary. Imagine it.
Familiar: Isn't that a cat next to the bed and trying to get attention, while you're still asleep? Sounds like it, nicely written.
Frost: I have to read...
Sonata: Quite funny, I had a giggle after reading it. Amusing those dead that dance in the cementary. Imagine it.
Familiar: Isn't that a cat next to the bed and trying to get attention, while you're still asleep?
Sounds like it, nicely written.Just call me Aiks or Aikári. Notify is off.
Find me stuff in Gondolin.
And let us embark to Valinor!
Find me stuff in Gondolin.
And let us embark to Valinor!
