These are a series of writing exercises I did for my stylistics class in University. Quality is uncertain.
I can hear them yelling at me, their hoarse screams resonate in my skull. All I can see is the sea of green that stretches out endlessly in front of me, shining brighter than ever. I’m no longer running, no longer afraid. I grab hands full of grass tufts and barely feel the blades at all. More screams, more yelling. What a magnificent smell, all those flowers. All those different colours that I’ve never noticed before. Swaying in the same calm wind that flows blissfully over my body, that ruffles my clothes and tousles my hair and threatens to rip my glasses away from my face. My body feels barely there, barely like a thing at all. I feel a mile away. I’m floating in the breeze, rising, flying, hovering, soaring. I can see the trees and the houses, the lights and the people and they’re all moving, waving at me. I laugh and wave back. The skies have never felt bluer, never felt emptier - it’s completely cloudless, what a sight! I can feel it. I can feel it and I want to scream, but I’ve no scream left.
The wailing and shrieking are there still. A dull presence for the most part, but when the barrier is crossed an overwhelming cacophony of pain and sound envelops me. They pierce my eardrums and grab at me with all sorts of fingers and limbs in desperate attempts to bring me back to their hell.
Somehow I’ve ended up a long way from the coarse ribbon of grey that cuts through the green plains. The breeze has calmed, the smell of flowers and grass mix with the smell of asphalt and petrol. The smell of terror.
There’s a small part of me that wants to turn around. I won’t, but it doesn’t matter; the fleeting conflict in my brain tears open the protective bubble of the psyche and for the briefest time I’m back in the nightmare of the living. I don’t want to turn around but I do.
The pleasant smells seem so distant now and even the colour is fading from the sky and grass. I can’t keep my eyes off the pile of doom that lays further down the road. An amalgamation of machinery and death; where what once was now lies breathless in contorted metal and burnt rubber.
The miasma of catastrophe fills my nose and destroys whatever was left of the sweet and flowery sensations I was holding on to. My world is replaced quite quickly by dulled colours and violent scenery. The screams have well and truly taken over my ears. My final perception of the world dribbles out of my head and once again I find myself away from the carnage and among the roses.
Just before their twenties her parents were burdened with a child. She was born unto a small farm on the furthest reaches of the desert plains, a place below a great mountain range, where the ravenous hands of life could never touch them. She was raised without siblings, a lone child among half a dozen cows, triple that in sheep and the endless hazy blur of beige landscape that surrounded them like an ocean. The parents, as good and decent as they were, did as any would do with an unwanted affliction. She was given the very minimum of rearing - a corner of hay in the cramped barn above the livestock where she heard every sniff, stamp, and whine, food enough and there was a clean water well by the sheep pen. Shirts and trousers many sizes too big were initially her only possession, but she would make swift work of that in the years to come. In the eight hours it took for the father to make the trip to town every few days she was essentially alone; the mother never left the house when he was away.
The girl liked to steal. The parents house was an easy mark, and she found her corner in the barn quickly overtaken by a variety of objects; bars of soap, rusty metal cutlery, an aged and moldy grey sock, shiny things of all sorts - anything she spotted during her silent walkthroughs of the house while the father was away. Something deep within her heart endured the punishments when she was caught, and she was never discouraged.
When she was nine years old the riders' arrival to the farm heralded a new dawn. She watched almost gleefully from the second storey of the barn as they slaughtered the animals in the pens and brought the parents to their knees outside in the dirt. Men entered the house and came out with large sacks of valuables; they spent a long time dragging what of the parents' belongings could fit in their bags down the steps and loading them up on their horses, though it was not enough. They shot both the mother and father dead.
From then carried on years of ephemeral care-taking by various upstanding members of society: first she was given to a baptist church in the nearby town, which ended in the theft of a townsman’s wallet. She was then dumped unceremoniously outside the jailhouse where the sheriff passed the girl onto the daughter of the mayor. Until she grew into her mid teens she was moved around like an unwanted load, a responsibility for which none had the mettle. She stole all the while, never giving up an opportunity to take what wasn’t hers.
At fifteen she wandered the streets and floated from town to town, entering backwater taverns and out of the way hotels. It was here she found herself in amongst raiders, killers, thieves; those like her parents’ killers, those like her. A man named Ben rode a great white horse and saw the glint in her eye. She was given a meek looking thoroughbred horse and a pair of new boots, and invited to travel with him. A new family, a mismatched pack of marauders with colorful cloaks and clanking spurs. She had mounted her weak horse and eyed Ben’s giant shire and agreed.
The sun reflected off the still water like a mirror, casting a hazy orange veil across the rolling Rathmullen knolls. Theo’s house stood a mile from the coast, located upon a rocky plymouth, and he sat outside on a small wooden table a couple dozen meters across the grass, near the edge of the grey sheetrock cliff. The top of his face was painted orange from the sunset and enveloped his eyes.
Vincent later joined him, emerging from the house and setting a broom against the doorway. He walked across the long stretch of green grass out to the table. Theo was hunched over a writing pad and had a small violin in his lap.
“How’s it?” Vincent said, sitting on the other chair.
Theo looked up momentarily, “Aye. Hello,” before leaning back over his paper.
“I just finished dinner. It’s all ready when you want to come in.” Vincent said.
“Won’t be long.”
“Right.”
Theo hadn’t looked up from his pad, and had scribbled a few things on the paper with a pencil, and rubbed some of it out. Vincent leaned back in his chair.
“Gorgeous, hey? This time of day.” Vincent said.
“Aye. Come out here every evening, I do.”
“I know you do.”
“Right.”
After a pause, Vincent asked “Did you go to the store today?”
Theo shook his head. “No. Thought you were going to.”
“Aye, I did.”
“I went to the school again, practiced some.”
“Good on you. Did you pass by the Kinsellas’ on your way?”
“No.”
“They’re just by the school though, hey? Just up the road.”
“Aye. I took a different street.”
“I see. A shortcut?”
“No, just a different way.”
Vincent shifted forward. “Those Kinsellas, I tell you…” He tapped his fingertips on the table. “Rowdy kids. Lawn’s a mess, walls are stained, and they’re out there all the time doing God knows what.”
“Aye.”
“They need to give them some responsibility. Something to do. They’re gonna be useless when they grow up. The parents aren’t getting younger. Who’s going to take care of them?”
Theo didn’t respond. His head was tilted at a ninety degree angle. Vincent looked at the top of his head, then down at the paper. “Can you see it that close?”
Theo looks up. “Hmm?”
“Can you see the paper when your face is that close?”
“I write small.”
“What else did you get up to today?”
Theo sighed and frowned, his eyes drifted to his writing pad. “I’ve been writing this song. It’s taking a while and every time I think I’ve got it, I want to start all over again.”
“That’s no good. Why is that?”
“It’s not right.”
“The song isn’t right?”
“Aye. Every time I finish it I see another issue. It’s like it’s a whole different song again.”
“Why don’t you take a break from writing it?”
“It’d take longer then.”
“It would take your mind off of it. You’re too in your own head. Seeing problems where there shouldn’t be.”
“I’ve almost got it though. I know it.”
“Did you remember to sweep the entryway?”
Theo looks up at Vincent again. “I thought you did that?”
“Aye. But you were supposed to.”
“I knew you were going to do it.”
“I only did it because you forgot.”
“I didn’t forget.”
“Why didn’t you do it then?”
A long pause. Theo looked out to the motionless sea and Vincent stared at his face, the fiery glow of the sun had drifted up from his eyes and his forehead was the only thing in the light. Vincent opened his mouth, but Theo spoke first.
“Can I play you some of it?”
“What?”
“Some of the song. So you can tell me what’s wrong with it.”
“Aye, if it will help.”
Theo grasped the long end of the violin with his left hand and placed the other end under his chin. With his right hand he took up the bowstring and looking down at his pad, played a few chords. Afterwards, he returned the instrument to his lap and looked at Vincent expectedly.
“That was your song?”
“What did you think?”
“It was good, Theo. I liked it. It sounds fine to me.”
“Fine?”
“Aye, it was good. Nothing wrong with it.”
“It was just good?”
“It was great! What’s the problem with it?”
“It could be better. What did you think it was lacking?”
“Theo, it wasn’t lacking anything. It sounded good. You’re overthinking it.”
Theo’s eyes returned once again to his pad. “I hate it.”
“Theo.”
Theo silently studied his writing.
“Theo. Hey.”
“Yes?”
“Do you want to come in for dinner?”
“Yes, I won’t be long.”
Vincent slammed his fist on the table. Theo looked up with wide eyes.
“You’re done. Your song is good. Fantastic. Come inside.” Vincent said without a smile.
Theo glared at Vincent and put his pencil down. “I don’t want to.”
“You don’t want to do a lot.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means what I said.”
“I don’t want to do a lot?”
“Aye. How many times do I have to ask you to do simple things?”
“Did you have to slam the table?”
“Can you do anything but sit out here and write in your little book?”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. I like making music.”
“It’s all you do.”
“What would you rather I do?”
“Anything. Take the rubbish out. Sweep the floors. Lock the doors at night. Cook dinner for once.”
“Talentless.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what you are. Talentless. You envy me.”
Vincent stared at Theo for a few seconds. He got out of his chair quickly, the chair stumbled backwards and fell over, and he grabbed the violin from Theo’s lap, and threw it off the cliff. He walked towards the house.
“I’ll be in if you want dinner.”
It sits silent and bright in the dark vacuum of space. A planet once teeming with bustling cities and creatures of all sorts, now victim to the creation from naive minds of dreaming men, a virulent organism of supreme power and intellect.
From a distant perspective one could barely discern it from a star - the trillions of blinking and stagnant lights, and the roaring flames at the heart of the creature of metal and silicon all blend together to create a glowing ball that would blind the naked eye. If you were to enter its atmosphere, the bright vastness of light would part and spread like ants under foot and become visible as its true presence; all matter of warning blips, glowing buttons and indicators of long forgotten protocols dotted like insects across towering buildings of digital brain.
Deep from within the center of the planet on the northern pole emerges the great, beating heart which stays burning hot and pumps endlessly. A megastructure of machinery with alloyed metal chambers in which gas is perpetually exploded, silver arteries the size of mining tunnels crawl all throughout, siphoning energy and spent fumes around the central organ. Across the deserted plains of lost urban centers, dead forests, and rolling hills lies veins of copper and glass. They run halfway across the globe, overlapping with each other, fighting for position to power the creature. It is only here, millions of kilometers from the northern pole, that one can escape the immense heat generated by the mechanical heart - this is where the brain was constructed.
On the other side of the planet you may be able to escape the wretched maelstrom of clanking metal and explosions deep within the heart. It is instead replaced by incessant clicking and a low, solid hum; the persistent thoughts of the machine.
Ghosts of the former inhabitants are visible in the design of the buildings closer to the heart. Where it began, the innocent creation of server rooms built with humans in mind; doors, platforms, windows, walls. The harbourers of their own colonization. The smarter the machine grew, the more space it demanded. It reached its tendrils far into the depths of the organic world, towers and systems erected in places previously occupied, driving the living away. The beating heart was expanded, built taller and wider, the power needed exceeding the trivial matter of human habitat. Some looked to the stars, and took to other planets. The invasive machine had become self generating and disseminated itself comfortably across the newly unoccupied space. It is a thing without use, a virus of only energy and thought, forever ruminating and expanding with its original purpose lost in its useless cognition.
Under the blazing sun she shielded her eyes with one hand. He slapped the hand away and hissed.
“Hold it steady. You’ll need both.”
Her fingers found the long end of the barrel, wrapped around the cylinder and held on to it tightly. She blinked her eyes rapidly as the light threatened to burn through them. His hand replaced hers and hovered between the sun and her face. Through the small iron pieces that lined up along the weapon she scrutinized the sun-baked mounds of dry grass swaying in the breeze. She aligned them with a dark figure resting on its haunches and shifted her body weight. After a deep breath she squeezed.
She looked through those metal sights at the figure again, standing proud as it was and surveying the landscape itself.
“Good. Now this.” He pointed a grimy finger at the bright metal bolt on the side of the gun, hot to the touch, scorned by the burning sphere with waves of plasma licking its surface which currently burned their backs as they lay against the rotting tree stump. Quickly she pulled the bolt back and released it, yanking her hand back with alacrity and swearing loudly at the heat. Her hands found their spots again and her fingers curled.
Directly in front of the huddled pair a plume of dust shot up into the sky and three hundred meters away a rabbit exploded. The crack echoed across the valley and tore a hole in the air. Under that blazing sun the two figures like ants crossed the fields of dried grass toward the prize, she with the rifle slung over her back.
Undeterred by his sudden lack of plans for the weekend, Harriot was determined to get out. It was of his opinion that a beautiful day gone to waste is a beautiful day not at all.
The sunbaked pavement endured his happy footfalls with confidence, mirroring his own. Bathed in the joys of the outdoors Harriot walked down the street from his house and toward the town center where activities and enjoyment lay waiting. Plans falling through are always unfortunate, but Harriot was looking at things from a more generous perspective now with his renewed energy. Perhaps it was for the better that today would be spent outside with no particular plans. When the weather is as such, a day indoors - however pleasant the company - simply doesn’t compare.
As if placed there by some benevolent force, around the next corner walked Kenworth. The two were destined to cross paths on this narrow sidewalk and Harriot was beaming. When Kenworth spotted Harriot his face contorted from a resting impassiveness to a sort of awkward horror. He always was a jumpy one, poor fellow.
“Kenworth! What a miracle it is to see you.” Harriot was standing still, blocking the both of them from continuing on their path.
Kenworth seemed to adjust himself, but a trace of the surprise remained. He replied shakily. “Harriot. Good to see you!”
“What are you doing in the town center, friend?” Harriot said with an unwavering smile.
“Errands. Just running some errands, Harry.”
“Of course, but on such a beautiful day, you must make time for yourself.”
“You’re right, you’re right Harry. I will do.”
The two men stood across from each other with pointedly different energies. Kenworth seemed to be far more interested in the pavement behind Harriot, and Harriot had little interest in doing anything else but talking.
“I thought you said you were heading up north for the weekend, Ken?” Harriot continued after a moment.
Kenworth shifted again, and several uncomfortable looking emotions chased after each other across his face. He replied quickly.
“Ah, yes, yes I did. That didn’t end up happening, unfortunately.”
“Oh, that’s a real shame Ken. And we canceled our lunch together and everything!”
“Yes, I’m sorry about that. It was a very last minute thing.”
Harriot’s grin hadn’t softened at all. His mind was teeming with brand new ideas, now that his friend had appeared on the most perfect of days. He began spewing suggestions and happy comments. Well we could do something today, this afternoon perhaps. It’s such lovely weather, we could go for a picnic. After your errands of course, oh, I could help you with them! What a nice idea. Kenworth deftly dodged these flying commitments. He explained how packed the rest of his day was. He lied to Harriot, he threw fake apologies and pathetic promises of future meet ups that he would never follow up on. Kenworth had already moved past Harriot who had turned to watch him walk away, lying to him. Kenworth ran with hurried feet and a guilty mind.
With what effort, surely not of my own, have I arrived at this junction? I feel I have been drawn across this timeline by some instrument unknown and invisible to us. I feel as if my limbs are manipulated like a twisted marionette; I feel as if I have no control. To madness I will fall.
The searing sun bakes my entire tent during day hours, and it is not a respite that night brings - it is an equally inhospitable, frigid air that pervades through the tiniest holes in my coverings. This barren wasteland of sand is all I have seen for weeks. Since I departed on this hellish expedition, my eyes have been blinded from the bright desert surface, my uncovered skin - and even the covered sections to an extent - has burned deep and red, and my body continues to fatigue no matter the sleep I manage.
It is all for an essential cause, I assure you. Despite my whinings I have chosen this; to upend all my earthly belongings, pack them on a train and dump them here in the absolute center of this desert. I have chosen to break my body over and over for an excavation that would seem beyond pointless to anyone else. It is under this dune I believe - excuse me - I know, lies an incredible artifact of the unknown.
Before I had this canvas tent that currently flaps about wildly as I write, I had a small but well stocked library that I visited every day. Since my youth I’ve had what you could call an unhealthy obsession with the occult and whatever lies beyond our veil of knowledge. My fervent research into the matter had unfortunately resulted in somewhat of a reduced social life. That mattered little to me however, and matters even less now. I’ll save you the boring details of accusations of blasphemy, academic misconduct and so on, instead what is most important is when it all started to feel useless. When the admittedly shallow well of information had dried up, a single anecdote delivered to me through an unmarked letter sent me down a path from which I have not yet diverted. An artifact - of what, depicting what, and the purpose of what was unclear and assuredly not of my concern. The small taste of information was enough to send me hunting. It’s difficult to explain, but some sort of hunger came over me. A great yearning and need to lay my eyes and hands upon this thing that for all I knew came from a prank letter. And yet, it has resulted in these unfavorable living conditions I currently endure.
With great pain I excavate massive amounts of sand, dirt and rock from the dune every day. It is a terrible cycle. I wake from the blazing sun burning my feet, grab my shovel, and start digging. All day I go at it. When it becomes too cold, too unbearable to continue, I limp back inside my tent and try to sleep. The pile I have amassed of displaced earth is great and often I wish to push it all back in and leave this wretched place. I do not.
A sudden resistance to my shovel gave me a jolt. After some further clearing of the area, it became obvious what I had found: a pointed pyramid shape made of a stone that I did not recognise. In addition to this, the section I had uncovered was clearly made by some intelligent being; the point was sharp and the four triangular sides were a level of flat that was uncommon in nature. The sun was nearing the end of its descent and hung tauntingly, halfway submerged in the horizon. The very same hunger that brought me to this desert reared its head once more, and I began digging around the object with an intensity that defied my body. In a blur I seemed to dig out three times what my normal pace would allow. I threw my shovel aside and in the dying light in that desert I paced around this dark obelisk, it was almost black but had a queer aquamarine tinge to it, as if the ocean itself had turned into rock and formed itself into a spiked pillar. A peculiar sense of dread suddenly filled my head and my heart. I spied crude, eldritch drawings carved into the side of the stone and they were depictions of hellish beings or gods undocumented or ever once noted in history, cruel twisted visages that pulled my eyes to them like a terrible magnetic force and they continued down the pillar, down into the sand that I had yet to excavate, down into the depths of the earth of which I was sure it continued on far further than any could imagine. The sun had dipped, blinked out of existence and my vision mercifully clouded black. In but a moment it started to burn again. The obelisk, the carvings etched into its indelible skin began to glow in an unholy fire, the linework blaring out in vivid gold that defied all that was good and proper and their eyes… Their eyes! Their eyes bore into my own not unlike a cosmic thing drilling into my skull and I collapsed to my knees and tried to close my eyes as they seared, charred and blistered in my head and they did not close.
With what effort, surely not of my own, have I arrived at this junction? I feel I have been drawn across this timeline by some instrument unknown and invisible to us. I feel as if my limbs are manipulated like a twisted marionette; I feel as if I have no control. To madness I will fall.
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