[x]

Death of Titans - FFM 2010I have lately become greatly consternated by some rumours I have heard. For years, harmony has reigned, yet now some of you – who shall remain nameless – have gotten it into your heads that this harmony must be broken. I understand the young may be restless, but restlessness must be abandoned in favour of the adult. Let me ask you: when your sock has a hole in it, and you need it mended, who do you turn to? That is right, no need to answer, it was merely rhetorical. Likewise, when you have a question you need answered, a hole, if you wish, in your mind, who do you turn to?

Me.

Yet now, you want to give your sock to the machine ope

Over a Wasp, Down a MountainDuring the years before I stuffed a Ford Taurus full of my earthly belongings and pointed it toward Texas A&M, my family had an annual ritual involving a dying piece of technology. Every year, never at the same time, either Mom or Dad would find some kind of reason to go shuffling through the Buffet, an ancient piece of furniture with which I grew up, guarded for decades by an ugly ceramic frog that Dad won in some contest or another.

The Buffet was festooned with drawers, one of which was solely devoted to stacks of tiny boxes of Kodak slides. What are slides, you ask? You see, kids, before we could take pictures with our telephones, our ca

FFM26: Inheritance I inherited the house when my father passed, and it was the first thing he'd given me in twenty-seven years. In light of twenty-seven missed birthdays, a missed wedding and two missed grand-children, I thought it was a nice parting gift on his part.
The circumstances of his death were vague at best; he had no known health conditions, and none of the coroners could find signs of heart failure or stroke. For all intents and purposes, it looked as though he had just fallen over where he stood one day, and lay there until a neighbor came over for the weekly poker game.
I didn't want to attend the funeral, but my wife told me that I needed

PlansTimothy Carlton Lindrick was the second son of a duke, and lived in a stately home. This wasn't nearly as impressive as it sounded. While Timothy's ancestors had done all that was right and proper, spreading out across very nearly half-a-dozen continents like a particularly virulent influenza and pillaging and plundering and despoiling and increasing the family coffers where'er they went, recently things had taken a turn for the worse.

Timothy's father was an antithetical Midas, at whose every spendthrift touch the Lindrick gilts were exchanged for other, baser commodities. Casino chips, mostly, and horses which were dead-certs and, by th

TomOn Tom's tenth birthday, there were five years left to go.

The world watched jealously as the boy opened his presents. Nonetheless, he was a good-looking kid and the weight of the world was on his shoulders, so mothers wept. Even the newsguy couldn't suppress a tear as Tom opened an exact replica to 100th size of the capsule that would be carrying him away. The kid took a moment to wave from his hotel balcony at the crowds watching below. It was a nice touch. Many waved back, and a woman shouted, "God bless you, son." Tom turned to his handlers puzzled, intending to ask a question, but his Birthday was over and they whisked him back to

BoxenThe boxen were lowing in the field as James 27664 awoke, although the sun was not yet up. Most days he liked living on a farm, but the mornings were the hard part. His alarum was set for 05:00. The other juveniles in his cohort could continue their dormancy, ofttimes, until as late as 08:00, but that luxury was not available to him. His mat- and pat- both worked late on the farm, birthing animals and processing and packing Textured Vegetable Protein for retail sale. Sighing, James 27664 climbed from his berth and proceeded toward the eatroom.

James 27664 fed himself and then he saw to the nonimals. The Tofukens were first; they scratch

To The Left"Goodnight, Emily." Her mother kissed her forehead and tucked her in.

"Goodnight mommy." Before her mom even shut the lights out and left the room, her eyes began to gently close.

The library was a little fuzzy, but it was packed with all sorts of people, and the overworked librarians were very busy sending people to the appropriate room. Emily approached a desk where an old man with tall, frizzy hair that was badly in need of a combing sat. Papers of all colors were scattered in mountains all over his desk. Emily thought he looked funny in his red and white polka-dot bow tie, baby blue suit, and mustard-schemed plaid shirt.

"Name, please.

Careers DayYou probably think it will be nothing but glamour. All you think about is the uniform, the danger, the heat, the speed and the stars. That's what they show on the adverts, isn't it? You think your career will be atmospheric, yes? Your innate potential will be spotted day one and you'll be pegged for stardom, for the Fast Track? It doesn't work like that. Oh, sure, there's the possibility for career advancement, but you'll have to work at it. There are no free rides in The Company.

Perhaps you think there'll be different girl every night. There won't be. You are forbidden to fraternise. Perhaps you think there will be perks and freeb

The SoundAmy and I are sorting through my CD collection. Amy says I should just sell all of them on EBay, because only losers and old people listen to CDs now. So I say, 'Who would buy my CDs, then?'

That stumps her. We carry on looking through the CDs, and not doing anything with them, until Amy comes to the one CD I've never listened to. She stares at the text on the cover, typewritten in big red Arial Narrow, size twenty-eight or so, bold.

'What the hell is this?' she asks.

'That's pretty self-explanatory, isn't it?'

The writing says, If you listen to this CD, you will DIE! Amy continues to stare at it.

'So many questions!' she says.

'Su

Mir An ibashta, I claimed in one of my first stories, was a dull spear that was excellent for fighting. Since then I've often wondered about the practicality of that. But then, I wasn't a very practical child, was I? I suppose few children are, but then most children construct things that fall apart. The things they imagine don't stick together, and they go away once they've been formed and imagined. They're the lucky ones. I'm the one who's haunted by every story I've ever thought of, because the world I've built is always there. I hear the one-dimensional characters – people, I suppose they are, though they're such shallow people – b

Tick

The clock on her grandfather's mantelpiece had been broken since she was a little girl. She could remember the day that he opened its tiny glass door and moved the hands so they would read a minute to midnight. He turned and gave her a wink before closing the case again.

The night he died, she was sitting in the living room reading a book. Her eyes went up and unbidden to the clock. Its hands moved, just once, of their own accord. Midnight at last.

Her book fell to the floor; for she knew, then, that he was gone.

----- ----- -----

Destory     "Are you ready?"

     Edith's partner heaved a sigh and reached for the door. "I guess so."

     They stepped through into an open field. It was raining. The door eased shut and disappeared behind them.

     "I don't like this setting," Eve said. "It would work better if we were in a city." She raised her hand and the field slid away. Trees were replaced with skyscrapers, cricket chirps became honking horns.

     "I like the rain, though," Edith said. "Let's keep it."

     Eve shook he

Lot 12: Primitive artefactsChair

A well-made item which would grace any home depositary or gallery. Material: Polyvinyl Chloride. Colour: Orange.

Historians believe these objects were once used during the "meal" ritual, where the younger and weaker of the group were sacrificed for the sustenance of the rest. It is believed that the individuals participating in the ritual would in some way "sit" on the chair, thus raising themselves from the ground*. The evident discomfort that the chair must have given the "sittee" was part of the ritual, the lack of ergonomic posture support meaning that only the strongest of back would survive. These objects are increasingly r

Kings Of Oblivion"Someday," said Wax, "Someone's gonna write a book about us."

"Bullshit," said Stone, "We're indescribable."

And really, they were.

"Bullshit," said Wax, "That Ezekiel chappy did not a bad job, even if he was silly as wheel. A WHEEL! Ahahahaha! Geddit? D'ye geddit? And then there's… oh, whatsisface… gah, you know, lanky feller, colourful, had a bung eye. Liked the tights."

"Pfft," said Stone. "You're cracked. Told you we shouldn't just drop in like that."

"Pffffffffffffft," countered Wax. Pleased with that retort, he slipped his fob-watch from his pocket. "Look. Look, here. It's the late Nineteenth Century."

"Again? For fuck's

Hungry Household Appliance

It wasn't particularly noticeable at first. Just an inch here, an inch there. Maybe a streak left behind where the stubby rubber feet dragged across the floor. I certainly didn't think much of it. Washing machines have a way of getting jostled out of place.

Then, one night, while my wife and I lay barely conscious on either side of the bed, each tugging at the too-small stretch of sheet between us, there came a banging that woke us with a start. My wife tore the covers to her end and held them ready to pull over her head. "What is that?!"

I was trying to think. "It seems to be coming from the laundry room."

"I didn't put any clothes in, di

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The Transfer"Anger," said Father Joseph, "May at times be your ally, as well as your enemy. In fact, there will be times when, as it were, anger could conceivably be thought of as a sort of … friend . The tigers of wrath may indeed be..."

"Bollocks."

There was a mass and approving cheer at the outburst, which faded quickly as the Headmaster's upper lip curled back from his yellowed teeth.

Father Joseph had a pretty good idea from whence the disruption had come. His shoes tocked loudly on the linoleum as he strolled at a frighteningly casual pace toward the rear of the room.

"… wiser than the horses of instruction. Anger is an energy. One th

EveI had a dream, which was not all a dream.
- Lord George Gordon Byron

"Eureka! What luck!"

The light on Karl's helmet flashed toward the shout like a jaundiced cyclops-eye. He clambered over crumpled car bodies, unsprung sofas, wheel-less shopping carts, the smashed shells of televisions. His boots left dark splotches in the crust of frozen brine that covered everything. The remnants of a barren, washed-up world.

"This better be good…"

He found Wendell crouched on his heels with a battered soup can clutched to his chest, the dirt on his face streaked with tears, his breath pluming yellow by his own helmet's dim lamp.

Karl moved clos

ThirteenOne day I'll let her go -
my balloon child,
made of air and stuff so thin

I don't know how it holds her in.
Nor what I'm to do then,

but watch her go, with her string
still attached like a doubt

she's not cast off yet. Not today,
but soon. For now,
she's still my child balloon.

.

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Scars

by `salshep, Jul 26, 2010, 9:41:07 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

                  _{JUN 14}

I caught John's new show at Opium Flesh today. Outside, the usual tacky posters advertised 'X-mods Live, art past the realm of extreme'. Had the god-botherers out in force, placards and cops, a security detail out front.

The posters were blatant understatement; the exhibit itself was unspeakable. Everything was legal, but much of it came real close to crossing that line between art and criminal investigation. It was so far outside of anything he did when we were together—extreme animorph, borgware, limb grafting, spinal implants. The cicatrised scales were my favourite, though even I flinched, imagining the process. Every inch of the woman was covered in perfect-cut hypertrophic scars, some tattooed, so she looked like she was covered in reptile hide. The precision was insane. That's dedication.

I heard John is dating Thurma Ullman, which is not surprising. She always did like to slide into whatever spaces I occupied. I wonder if she still insists on using nerveblockers for inkwork, haha. Think I'll go see him at the loft, just to annoy her.

                  _{JUN 19}

So I get to the loft, expecting some upgrades after seeing the exhibit. But. God. Damn. He has a pair of fucking surgeons up there, one legit, the other some rad splicer he picked up in Japan who used to grow human ears on rats and the like.

John looks... Well, he's crossed a line, or two himself. I was expecting changes, change is what we do, but holy hell— spine extension, bone and hair grafts, amputation, skull enhancement, keratin and coral implants, foot splits.  The wheelchair was a shock. Science hasn't caught up with his surgeries yet, but the Jap splicer said John'd get use of his legs within three years, they've signed him up for trials at a biomech outfit in Tokyo, dealing with limb articulation and such. He'll be the first fully functional satyr in the world. Fucking amazing.

He must have gone through hell. Despite all the shit in our past, I found myself wishing I'd been there for him. We made a lot of awkward small talk. He liked my Taiwanese cicatrix, and my tongue, though he made fun of how I lisp now. Typical. It was good to see him again. I definitely saw a little of that old greed in his eyes as he looked me over.

Thurma was 'indisposed', sadly. John invited me for dinner next week.

                  _{JUN 25}

Fucking asshole.

                  _{JUN 27}

It's taken me this long to write. I'm not sure words can express what I am feeling.

We used to talk about plans. Share our secrets, our wishes. He's realised his own now, aside from the wheelchair and the last of the grafts. Mine? The scaled woman was my idea, originally, but it's not that unique as far as concepts go.

Still, I had my dreams, my own designs on what to do with those techniques he was learning and pioneering then, dreams of what I'd become some day. And the fucker just handed them all to that scalpel-whore. It's like he's given away a piece of me, sliced it off my flesh and grafted it onto her.

                  _{JUN 28}

He's a scar. A mark that won't wash off. Bastard.

I can still see her smug fucking face. Her, stretched out on the sofa like goddamned Cleopatra, ears and nose pared off, hairless and smiling with her hollow fangs, her gold dust eyes.

He's stripped her tongue thin, extended and forked it. Had her jaw redone so she can distend it a ways. But what fucked me over the most was, he's given her scales, and not like the woman in the pictures. No mistaking that sour, musky smell. He gave her anaconda skin.

And he's grafted her legs together. I just fucking stared at the bitch, who's wearing MY body.

No wonder he wanted her. I am a dreamer. I am willing to suffer for my art, be my art, put my dreams into my flesh. But when he said she was booked for dual arm amputation… I could never have gone through with that, and he knew it.

It was supposed to my decision to make, though. He had no right.

                  _{AUG 22}

So. Fuck them. I took it back.

To Thurma, it was all just a way to keep a man, and stay in the spotlight. For me, it was about baring my soul. Like, one day I'd be turned inside out and show the world my real skin.

I had the loft raided last Sunday. Shut down. Thurma's in care, with one arm gone already and suppurating ulcers where the snakeskin's rejected her.

John's in a prison hospital. The splice artist's done a runner, and I'm not sure what happened to the other guy. I thought about making John sorry, hunting down our old friends and letting them work on me. Letting somebody else's hands craft me into my dream. I know that would eat him, from the inside out.

But it's time, I think, to leave myself the fuck alone. This is not about sour grapes, or Thurma doing it first. It's that I don't need hollow dentures in order to bite somebody in the ass. And I sure as sugar don't need any more scars.

I have bared my serpent soul. And I will wear my scales on the inside.

Scarsby `salshep

Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

ffm 23

Responded to by ~edzull for an ffm challenge: [link]

`raspil Sep 9, 2010 Writer

He'll be the first fully functional satyr in the world.
That's so hot.

This is a very interesting concept for a story, I'm impressed by how extreme it is yet how natural it all is for the narrator. "I went to the store. I also had my legs fused together so I could be a mermaid."

!smolkingmerrors Aug 21, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

"It was supposed to my decision to make, though. He had no right." Missed a word.

Under June 27 I want her to still be angry. Maybe a little more controlled after having a few days to stew but still angry and that first sentence makes the journal entry sound too well thought out. I would suggest that for this date maybe make her thoughts a little more disjointed, poisoned. You don't think so clearly when you're angry, especially when you're talking to yourself. If your character was talking to another person it would make more sense, but since these are her own private thoughts I expect logical fallacies and run on sentences and stream of consciousness. Maybe even a few petty jabs. Get rid of the pretty language too. Make it more raw. Pretty language in the other entries works fine because obviously this character has a thing for beauty and it's going to show through in her writing. But for June 27th I just don't feel her anger.

`scaramoushe Aug 20, 2010 Hobbyist General Artist

This is amazing! I like how controlled and real it is, I could see all of it, and it didn't seem so surreal that it's cartoon. The swearing and the conrol of emotion, and the diary set up makes this work. This is brilliant!

*AlecBell Jul 31, 2010

Stunning piece of decadent imagining!

(with Biblical overtones!)

Tiny glitch, para 3 "she was always did"

`salshep Jul 31, 2010

Ooh thanks- will fix!

And I'm really glad you liked it. : )

~lullaby4fire Jul 30, 2010

this was all extremely enjoyable. i love the structure. "But it's time, I think, to leave myself the fuck alone." really hit me, its literal and figurative meaning.

and i adore the ending. she's different, dynamic, unconventional, and she chose to keep it on the inside! no artificial modification necessary. <3

~Sperpy Jul 29, 2010 Hobbyist

This is freaking awesome. No critique, just praise.

`salshep Jul 29, 2010

Thanks, chica. That made me smile.

!dimerization Jul 28, 2010

Creepy... I really like it.

*nunheh Jul 28, 2010

It might be hard to justify, and my memory often fails me, but to me this has the definite feel of Lovecraft, and outside of this I can't recall what that feeling was.

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