Every night the world ends.

Posts tagged “despair

Sorry, Depressed

So I’ve not written anything in a while. I guess it’s time I put finger to keyboard and got something out there, so here goes.

I feel like all the parts of my brain that handle writing have switched off. All the lights and bells and whistles that used to flare and buzz and make me feel well and truly alive have just winked out, and have left me a shell and… wasted. Why is this? What’s changed?

Medication, I think. Maybe.

I once said to my girlfriend that I was surprised to hear she was on anti-depressants because she didn’t seem dead inside. Now I am, and I feel it. I’m considering going off the medication to get the fire back, but I want to be well and not… how I was before I started taking the meds.

But I feel more depressed since I started taking anti-depressants than I have ever felt before. What’s with that? My sister says that it’s probably because the medication hasn’t actually taken effect yet, but it will, and that then I’ll feel better. I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to find out. Everything feels so broken and wrong and I feel like a derelict merry-go-round, nobody wants to play here anymore because it’s lost all the music and fun and love and now it just feels kind of oppressive, and ramshackle, and if you tried to play on it it’d probably kill you.

Probably.

I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I know that I want to write. I want to go back to when I was churning out stuff every couple of days. But I just don’t feel it. And I hate that. I feel like I’ve been neutralised, and I feel impotent. But I’m writing this right now, so maybe there is hope for me yet. Maybe if I could fire up the drive to start something then the words would flow again. If I can break this dam and gush words out, hundreds of thousands of the bastards, all over the screen in something beautiful that I have made again… maybe I’ll feel like I’ve got my purpose in life back. Maybe by writing this now I’m taking steps to get back to that point.

Maybe.

I hope so, anyway. Because I don’t want to be a shell. I don’t want to be wasted. I know that I do still have the power to write stuff that people will want to read, but it’s hidden away underneath a woolly cover of drugs and depression. There has to be some way to let it all out again.

Thanks for reading.

Kedge


Every Door, Shut

It’s like I can’t see. So much has happened and yet not really much has happened, but my life is changed and I’m not sure where I’m going anymore. Every door has closed and I can’t see out and my course is all blurry and I don’t even know if my ship is still moving in the fog or if it’s just floundering, uncertain.

There was so much I wanted to write but I can barely bring myself to.

But I know I have to. Because if I don’t, who will? I know no one else can write my words for me. That’s why they’re my words. And there is power in me  yet I know it. It’s just uncontrolled at the moment and that scares me, it doesn’t have a focus or direction or intent and I’m afraid if I don’t get to work on it soon it may all fizzle out and I’ll just be a shell rather than just feeling like one.

I’ve got to write. I’ve got to stop procrastinating. I’ve got to do it. But I can’t do it now. I just can’t do it now. I can’t see through these shut doors and I can’t just create words on the other side.

Or can I? Maybe I can. Maybe we’ll see.


Risen [Just In Case]

Raise your head

Open your eyes.

Blink, maybe.

Rub.

Blink again.

What do you see?

Morning’s just a word.

Sometimes it’s always dusk,

Time is relative.

Is anyone coming for you,

Or are you alone here?

Abandoned?

I’ll be looking.

Just in case.

Just in case.


Meat Factory

You can smell it. That’s the worst thing. Worse than the sights of stretched, cured skin or of bodies being fed into the grinder. Worse than the sound of bone snapping and crunching or of children and men sobbing in the pens. It’s the smell that really gets to you in this place, not of rotting flesh but of fresh, treated and lovely for the consumer.

No matter how hard you look, it doesn’t actually seem there’s a door to this place. There must be some sort of way in because you weren’t always here but, perhaps more distressingly, there doesn’t seem to be a way out. And every step you take from where you started takes you past further horrors. A pile of bodies waiting to be tossed into the hungry grinder. Men and women chained like cattle in a line to have their throats slit. Some weep, some scream but others are ghostly silent as the grave, dead already.

There’s another smell in this place, just as strong as the flesh. Saltwater.

Tears.


Empty Rooms

An empty room has character, mainly due to the lack of it. You can take away the people and the wall hangings and the furniture but you’re left with a feel, often bleak, and of course you’re left with a smell, perhaps of unwashed leather or infested mattresses, perhaps of damp. A reminder of things that were, not things that are, an imprint on a place of what had once been, and any feel you can pick up from an empty room is coloured by the fact that whatever once lived there is now lost.

Yet some of the best things happen in supposedly empty rooms. The revelations and epiphanies that strike when everything is stripped bare and all that remains is the cold and isolated you, preferably in the dark. Nobody’s watching and nothing you do will actually dramatically change the state of the room, it’s just you, and there will never be anyone else with you in this empty room save what you conjure in your own head.

Maybe you could have a party in the empty room.

You could even lay out an imaginary table with imaginary tea cups and imaginary cakes, yes, imaginary Battenberg for all your imaginary guests to come and sit and take an afternoon with you in this room. Obviously you’ve closed the curtains. It wouldn’t be a party if someone wasn’t excluded from it, and by this time, by the time you’ve put the imaginary cloth on the imaginary tables and set out the imaginary chairs just right, you’re probably quite at home in your empty room, even before the Mad Hatter and March Hare arrive.

As with all parties though, there will probably be gatecrashers. With nothing real to anchor the empty room and just what you create, one supposes that things may get a bit out of control and you the writer may lose your grip on who you’re inviting to the party, and just as Sylvia Plath hands you the last of a joint to hand grenade and the imaginary marmoset who was just oh-so-stoned is throwing up with his head down the imaginary toilet in the imaginary bathroom there’s a knock on the door and it looks like your mother’s arrived and she’s not happy with the drugs you’ve been taking, no sir.

What happens next is up to you, really. You don’t have a choice in the matter as such, but it’s only your head that can determine for sure. Maybe swarms of imaginary jellyfish descend from the ceiling and orbit your head  before attacking your mother in acrimonious rage. Maybe your guests encourage you to simply ignore the maternal spectre, “Come on”, says Sylvia Plath with Thom Yorke nodding in the background, “It’s your party, you kill the joint.” Maybe you do that and eventually your mother leaves.

Maybe though the instant she opens the door your guests all disappear, or warp and melt until you’re surrounded by the face and form of a disapproving caregiver. Or perhaps she opens the door and that’s it.

The room’s empty again and it’s just you and the smell. Maybe you write your name in the dust with one finger and play with the hem of your dirty dress that was probably white once with the other hand. You look at your name and it looks back and you can convince yourself you’re real. Or you can let that glimpse of reality seal you here in this prison forever.

Elsewhere.


Let’s Go Elsewhere

Where the skies are mystic purple

And the signs are neon blue

I can rot here in my own cold cage

So far away from you.

Where the buildings blaze in fire red

And starving screams fill the air,

If you look in the gloom you might find me;

I’m not here, I’m Elsewhere.

The ground beneath is coarse bone dust,

And smells of fresh pressed flowers,

And things with wings circle above,

Singing away the hours.

This whole world bleeds into what is real,

But how far I don’t know.

If you find yourself in this place too,

The way out I might show.

Yet leave myself I cannot,

Though it pricks my heart full sore,

I must remain in this bleak plane

Perhaps forevermore.

Where the skies are mystic purple

And the signs are neon blue,

You find yourself in my bone cage

And you are lost here too.

Now in my home of fire red,

With signs of neon blue,

I cannot show you the way out yet:

You’re with me. I love you.


Melancholy Planets

I had actually forgotten about this. It’s the last thing I wrote before I started putting things straight to the blog. So here it is, a bit of one off fiction. Well. Probably one off. Have a read.

Kedge

 

Melancholy Planets

Its face is blank and featureless, yet somehow sad. It stretches the length of the height of six men, but as it lies prone any man can tower over the terror.

Its limbs are long and thin, its torso emaciated, no larger than the trunk of a mediocre tree. On the end of its arms are claws as long as your arm, and sharp as the razor’s blade.

They call it a Planet. It means Wanderer.

This one is dead, slain by men, slain. Was it slain for a purpose? It does not know. Perhaps its murderer knows.

They are indeed terrifying. Stalking the wilderness with a ponderous gait, bladed hands swinging with each step, enough to rend a man’s head from his body. Their faces are empty, there is no nose, no mouth, no eyes, and atop its… skull, if indeed it has one, is a circular growth that evokes the image of a wide-brimmed hat.

They have no names.

They come in the night and stalk the streets, too. Peering in at windows. Glancing at the decorations inside the snow-topped houses, watching children sleep.

They only watch, though. They do not harm.

Harm is the province of men.

This one is dead. Murdered by our hands. Its blood pools around its elegant form, black like the night sky and perhaps even spotted with stars.

The people say they are dangerous. They do not speak, they do not negotiate, they simply kill. To an untrained observer it would seem they simply wander. Hence the name. Wanderer. Planet.

Do they love? Do they long, as they gaze into the windows, for the life that we build for ourselves? The life they cannot have? These creatures the size of buildings with natural weaponry enough to tear an army asunder, do they desire? Or do they simply exist?

This one is dead.

Its killer stands over its corpse, its giant corpse, triumphant. His blade is coated in its blood, and he roars aloud.

“The monster is dead!”

Perhaps the “monster” is still alive.

What did it do to him? Had it killed? Had this one killed? Some do, of course. But so do some men. Are all men murderers? Can anyone truly make that judgement?

‘Tis truly a marvellous thing. Tall and thin, sad and proud, and this one is dead.

Will men stop? Will enough of these wanderers ever have died?

The people come, now. To see the body. To glance at the motionless terror that makes the grown-ups draw their curtains tight, and the children to lie awake at night with wonder.

Do they have souls?

The people rejoice, yet the children cry. There is no understanding here. No honour. This was not a hunt. The beast will not serve as food, nor as clothing. The best it can hope for is to become a trophy. Perhaps one of its claws to become a weapon with which man can kill more.

Do they hope?

Why would such a beautiful thing need to die? Why would a melancholy wanderer deserve this fate? 

The blood continues to pool, around its neck and running down its blank face. This one won’t sing anymore.

And even as this one is dead, the others do. Sing. Raising voices that come from no mouth across the forests and mountains and lakes, an eerie chorus that fills the night in mourning.

The man is triumphant. The people are happy. The children despair. And the planets remember.

‘Tis a beautiful thing. ‘Tis truly a marvellous thing. For one cannot help but marvel at the scene.


[Alone] In That Place

The walls stretch, up and away from you, black and hard but as they move horizontal splits form in them and warm blood seeps through. Winged horrors spiral overhead in this room that can’t be bigger than three feet square and you don’t know how you got here, there’s no door or other mode of entry in the stretching weeping walls. Images of people you loathe and adore swim in front of you, beckoning you to unleash it all at them and make them sob in this despair too. You might try resisting and surely that’s better for you, but then the horrors sweep down and grasp you by the shoulders, lifting you high above the walls and you can finally see the world rolling out beneath you. The cloud cover means it’s all misty and hard to see but you can make out the lights of the houses of your friends and family and people who you’ve never even met. And the graveyards of all the people you’ve lost.

And then the absurd horror drops you and you fall, and you scramble desperately for a parachute but you have none. What do you have? A blade, a cigarette lighter, your nails, your fist. You cut or burn or rake or smack any part of you that is within reach and as your body responds to the pain the ‘chute opens and then perhaps your landing isn’t quite so catastrophic, you either fall free or return to that room with that black stretching walls and pound your fists against them, desperately trying to break out.

I hate to be alone in that place, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But being alone there is not a necessity. There are those who are familiar with the obscene geography and rules of this realm, as you are for another, who can take your hand and lead you back through the hedge to light and security again.

Or perhaps someone else is stuck there too, in their own personal version of this infernal mind prison you crafted for yourself, and if you collapse there together at least the loneliness isn’t an issue, you can strike your parachute together and land safely holding hands as you bleed or otherwise make the scars to remind you.

If ever I know someone is in that place, I have to do what I can to get them out. Even if it risks me falling in too, because what’s more important is getting them out. That’s what matters.

I wouldn’t wish this on anyone and if I can do anything I’ll do it. Because I understand, because I’ve been there. So much so that it’s become a perverse kind of familiar, a domain I know intricately.

If you ever find yourself in that place, alone, try to find me. I’ll be around. And I’ll try to lead you back through the hedge to light and security, if I can.

That goes for all of you, and I truly mean that. Be safe.


Wrong/Distorted/Warped

If everything’s upside down and back to front, it looks a lot closer to normal.

A lot closer to natural, a lot closer to whatever it is that resides in my heart.

We all know what lives in my head. I’ve been pretty open about that. But my heart? That’s another story altogether. What fuels my passions? What actually gives me the drive to live? Am I a world factory, or a smile factory, or both?

Or a despair factory. An apocalypse factory. I have all the cards, I can see how it ends just by flicking through the pack. There’s nothing magic about this trick. Just a nihilistic engine.

I oversee the birth of my worlds, but I also render their unmaking. I can’t go into details, as there are people reading this who I know would rather cross that bridge when they come to it, but suffice to say it’s not always pretty. It’s not always clean. And sometimes, no matter what the heroes try, I know the casualties will be absolute.

The struggle makes it all worth it, I think. I’ve talked about this before. Let’s look at Deimon for a non-spoiler example. Our heroes, such as they are, are run in a bureaucratic mess of contradicting laws and orders, with vying groups within a society that should by all rights be completely united against the vast cosmic threat. The disagreements generally are a result of differing opinions regarding how much monstrosity they need descend to in order to effectively fight back against said threat, but people are people and they can be so entrenched in their views that the only way to proceed is to ignore those of others. Yet even if the “good guys” were united, they face a foe of unimaginable power and expansive reach. Their benefactors do not really care about individual soldiers, nor really the whole army. In a mundane war, the choice between sacrificing an attack dog and a human soldier is no choice at all. Even if it’s an entire pack of attack dogs. Every canine in the military. Human life is just ranked higher.

And we are less than dogs to these beings.

Even beyond the struggle I’ve made clear, the pervasive question of “What is 1?” and the tormenting “What is Σ?” lead to answers that, as some may have guessed, make much of what transpires through the machinations of both the Organisation and the Gentry at least somewhat irrelevant.

So if I’ve just established that there is no hope, then what is this all about? Why keep pushing it?

Because there has to be hope. Even when the world is ending, there’s something worth fighting for.

It’s who you are in the dark that really counts, and in Deimon it’s always dark. In the words of Gandalf (and I can’t believe I’m quoting the bearded bastard), “All you have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to you.”

Standing up makes a bold impression, even if you are immediately silenced.

But that’s not what this is all about, is it? The Deimon stuff right there, that was just a tangent. What this is about is what drives me. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, it’s still hope.

Because, like in the world of Deimon, our world is pretty dark too. In my head it can get pitch black. I know I’m not alone in travelling to dark places in the corners of my mind, but of course I’m the most relevant to me because I’m living it. But there has to be hope. If I lose that, I’m just… gone. To all of you readers and the people I know who don’t read this and to all the people I’ve not even met yet. In some ways perhaps it’s that last set that matters the most.

Things are wrong, and distorted, and warped, and twisted, and I could whack open thesaurus.com and go on but I’m not going to.

I’m gonna take another one of my pills and go to bed. And lie awake for an hour or so, shaking and twitching and if the previous two nights are anything to go on slinking into deeper madness than I usually get. And it’s self induced. But the professionals know what they’re doing, right?

If it keeps up I will stop, though. Because I’m not sure how much longer I can take it. A cure is not supposed to make a sickness worse.

This has been very rambling, and I’ve been Kedge. Good day and good night, folks.


Flensing Ghost

I went out tonight, to feed. On the emotions of others. To drink deep from their happiness and perhaps fill myself with it. It’s something I’ve not done in a long time, and I thought perhaps it might help.

To start with, it did. I drank water and I danced and I sang and I embraced friends not seen in time. But no matter how much I took in, my glass remained half empty, or less.

I went to sit by myself on a leather sofa in the corner of the bar, the music still thundering and the lights flashing and the people doing what people do. And then I was joined by a phantom.

Were she truly there, her skin would have been the colour of sweet caramel and soft and light as spring rain. But she was not truly there, and instead her skin was as crushed glass and icy blue. She cuddled up to me and wrapped her arms around my chest and rested her head on my shoulders, raking her scouring skin against mine and I bled and I wept. She knew not what she did. She wanted to love me, but this caustic ghost cannot give me what I truly need. With each stroke of desire my skin cries crimson and my pain builds until I can’t take it anymore. I cannot stay there. Not in her company.

So I left the bar and I came home, but she followed me. As we walked together in the rain we paused and held each other close and kissed but her lips were as jagged as the rest of her and I tasted my own blood in my mouth.

She’s here now, as I sit alone in my living room writing this. She’s behind me with her arms draped around my neck and she is resting her head on my back because I provide this ghost with some kind of comfort, somehow. I don’t understand it. I don’t think I ever will or even can.

I love this flensing ghost. With all of my heart. But I need her to be instead her true form. With skin as caramel and eyes of chocolate, a laugh as the streams of my home and a touch as purifying to me as oxygen to a man suffocating.

That’s… all, I think. I am so sorry I left without saying I was going.


Hollow/Untouched

Something’s burning on the outside. Not the inside. Just the outside. It doesn’t reach in. Inside’s just cold and cracked, unscathed now but oh-so-broken before. It was probably just made broken. A mis-mold of a toy. You don’t expect Action Man to come without a face, or with shallow pits scattered over his back. Plastic and unreal, that’s what he is, and that’s how it is here too. Plastic. And. Unreal. Nothing actually comes to touch because it’s freakish and warped.

If you had the misfortune to own the atrophied Action Man, you wouldn’t want to play with it either. You’d play with something soft and cuddly like a teddy bear that loved you and wasn’t a monstrosity.

Hold my face beneath cold water and as I reach up and break the surface force it back down again and drown the fucking beast and starve it of the air it craves.

Make my hair chill flat to my neck. Make me shiver.

Make me anything. I don’t care anymore. I just want to feel it. Touch me. TOUCH ME. Why. Won’t. You. Touch. Me.

I should lash out for this, for this spurning, for this denial. But I know you don’t mean it and that makes it worse. If it’s not you then it has to be me because it’s not like there’s anyone else in here now is there? Just you and me and this bathtub that’s filled with the ice water and flecked with floating oozing blood from when I struck out.

I’m sorry, but. I can’t be hollow. Either recognise something of me other than the defective deformity or just keep my head down ’til all the hollowness is filled up with that bitter, biting clear liquid and it freezes me alive. That’s better for both of us.

And stop asking if I’m okay.


Present

This is, eventually (in the last section, no less), autobiographical. Most autobiographies are set in the present day or recent history and they’re all so contemporary and mundane. But, the way I see it, reality is a choice. Why are there not more metaphorical autobiographies?

I don’t know whether this kind of creative self indulgence is healthy, but by all the Gods of Chaos and of Laughter I am going to do it anyway.

So here I present Dream Ascendancy, revised and developed (and in many ways completely altered) from the teaser I posted before.

Happy Valentine’s Day. I’m sorry it’s late.

Kedge


The Aside

The psychically inclined can see it. And lunatics, though most regard the former as the latter so perhaps the qualification is unnecessary. And cats, of course. Without cats, humanity would never have even left its solar system. For a long time, none truly believed it existed. It took a chance breakthrough in research in a completely unrelated field during the early decades of the twenty-first century for the existence of the Aside to be confirmed, and to open up the way for mankind’s exploration of the galaxy.

In the simplest possible terms the Aside is a dimension not entirely removed from our own, which the aforementioned individuals can see overlapped with what men perceive as reality. It is a realm of dreams and of auras and of impossibility, where physics has taken a sabbatical from caring, and it is that last part that makes faster-than-light travel possible at all.

It took almost a century, though, from the discovery of the Aside to the human race stepping out into the galaxy, and a further century before the Solar Ascendancy was developed, though that is a topic for later. Early attempts at using the Aside to travel at extreme speeds whilst still on Earth were catastrophically disastrous, at best having no effect whatsoever, progressing through working but turning the participants spectacularly insane all the way up to seemingly erasing the unfortunate individual from existence entirely. Mankind, however, is nothing if not tenacious and presented with a legitimate way of leaving the solar system, if they could just get it to work, there was no way they would just give up.

The eureka moment, when it came, was two pronged and driven again by unconnected research. Early Aside drives (or A-Engines) were by necessity huge, powered as they were by fission reactions (which of course had its own set of complications). It took two physicists with too much time on their hands experimenting with bioluminescent jellyfish to discover that the creatures’ poisonous nematocysts could be extracted and used to power an A-Engine, believed to be due to a substance within the stinging cells that was, at the time, completely unidentifiable. This virtually eliminated the mechanical risk from Aside travel, but it was genetic engineering that enabled true use of the Aside to stride the stars. It was already known, published in the original paper, in fact, that felines could for some reason see the Aside. The problem was the domestic cat was hardly a good candidate to be a navigator. While some humans can see the Aside, the vast majority of “psychics” are frauds and possess no such sight, and the degree of lunacy required for Aside-sight renders most humans completely unable to function – those with genuine ability and the majority of their faculties were too afraid of rabid science to submit themselves to testing (with, as the future would demonstrate, good reason). It seemed that there was only one option – an option made feasible only by the gradually loosening restrictions on science due to energy shortages and overpopulation on Earth.

Gatoids

That option was to enhance the intelligence and form of the cat. Whatever it was that made it possible for the animals to see the Aside was impossible to find, so rather than taking the sight from them as was originally intended humanity decided to supplement the cat’s evolution. The resultant life form, after many years of experimentation, was called the Gatoid, a bipedal feline with human intelligence, catlike grace, opposable thumbs and, most importantly, the ability to see the Aside in “real” space. Sadly (or perhaps not, as such an issue could easily have been rectified by the scientists working on the project, and yet it was not) Gatoids have the same lifespan as the domestic cat, maturing at a much faster rate than a human and possessing a much higher metabolism. Naturally the creators of this species infused the Gatoids with a natural subservience to humans, and with a race of navigators bred for purpose a prototype A-Engine powered spacecraft was developed, bypassing the attempts to realise Aside travel on Earth and reaching for the stars.

Aside Ships

The prototype vessel exceeded expectations fantastically, looping the moon and returning to Earth in the space of minutes. It was theorised that the journey time could even be reduced as the pilots learned the real skill associated with Aside travel, and the methods of propulsion developed. For human passengers, travel in the Aside passed only like a slightly rockier version of space travel but for the Gatoid navigators it was a struggle not dissimilar to helming through a turbulent sea on a sailing vessel. The first ships after the prototype were scientific missions to Mars and the moons of Jupiter, then to the more outlying planets, and then finally beyond the solar system to Alpha Centauri, Rigil Kentaurus and Barnard’s Star. With the success of those missions, mankind built colony ships and solved the overpopulation problems on Earth by settling the rest of the solar system and even the nearby planetary systems. Travel through the Aside and living in a zero-gravity environment grew more commonplace by the decade, until mankind had a fledgling network of planets and stars to call its own. Also of note is the importance of a crew being sane was soon realised, as crews with mentally unstable members reported extremely bizarre experiences in the Aside, or in some cases vanished entirely.

The Solar Ascendancy

The first steps the still-divided race of homo sapiens took towards the future galactic superpower that the Solar Ascendancy would become were with the colonisation of a Goldilocks planet, enabling humans for the first time to walk on the surface of an alien world without any special apparatus. The foundations were well and truly laid several such planets later, however, with the discovery that humanity was definitely not alone in the universe. It should, perhaps, have been obvious – the Aside was a realm that reflected, amid high concentrations of people at least, dreams and emotions. For it to be used to traverse space, there had to be something else out there pouring it into the void. First contact between humanity and the empire that was later revealed to be the Simean Republic was bloody, an unprovoked assault from multiple starships on a lone survey vessel with the new creatures in the role of aggressor. Planetside humans saw the whole terrible event transmitted via the ship itself, and this external threat finally made the still occasionally warring humans decide to deal with their own differences diplomatically, and reserve force for these aliens. Warships were created and armed with nuclear weaponry, and with trepidation and vengefulness mankind sought out its foes.

The fleet was found hiding behind a gas giant in a nearby system, and it was a sole human warship that discovered them. Despite instructions to wait for backup, as the aliens’ energy weaponry had proved brutally effective against the survey ship’s hull, the Captain of the warship was driven by righteous anger and pressed forward without waiting, opening fire on the hiding fleet. All eight vessels were blown apart by only three missiles, and as the Captain laughed the Solar Ascendancy was truly born.

Man realised he had power in the stars, that he was a force to be reckoned with and not toyed with, and this power solidified the disparate colonies and systems into a star empire calling itself the Solar Ascendancy. Founded on the age-old principles of finders keepers and might makes right, the Solar Ascendancy stood tall in the galaxy and pushed out at a hitherto unseen pace, laying claim to dozens of worlds, and other races took notice.

The Simean Republic

In time the Solar Ascendancy encountered other ships from the same civilisation that had perpetrated the unprovoked attack, and this time far more caution was exercised on both sides. It was in this meeting that it was discovered that the Aside also functioned as a means of communication, and despite true language presenting an insurmountable barrier via the Aside it was possible to engage in dialogue with these aliens, with the Gatoids acting as translators. The Solar Ascendancy learned that the other space travellers came from a power known as the Simean Republic, a union of multiple races coming together to explore the stars in search of knowledge. The founders of the republic were the Simeans themselves, cerulean ape-like creatures standing eight feet tall, but other races such as the quadruped Than and the insectoid Rinn were also major players within the Republic. The incident of first contact between the Republic and the Ascendancy was an unfortunate mistake, it was revealed, and was not the work of the Republic itself but instead a band of separatists who had claimed independence. The Ascendancy accepted this explanation as it came with the co-ordinates of the defectors, and they then proceeded to nuke the planet from orbit.

This gross display of force shocked the Republic on many levels. The nuclear weaponry of the Ascendancy was unlike anything they had ever seen before, such overwhelming power made their previously more-than-effective laser weaponry pale in comparison. This, coupled with the callous disregard for life characterising the attack, instantly made the Republic wary of the Ascendancy and while the two empires have never waged outright war against one another and now, centuries later, even trade flows between them, some theorists suspect that the Republic has been working on some sort of contingency plan if the Ascendancy ever sets its greedy eyes on their space.

The Solar Ascendancy Ascendant

As the decades and centuries passed the Solar Ascendancy gained further power, settling more worlds and eliminating other hostile aliens in their exploration of the galaxy. The Gatoid navigators and translators were further refined to be ideal shock troops in war, thus negating the need to send precious human life into dangerous situations when their creations could do the job for them. Any enemy encountered would fall whether by ship-born nuclear missiles or by the refined personal launchers of the Gatoid storm troopers (in the case of wishing to leave a world habitable, or reducing collateral damage). At least half a dozen alien races were completely annihilated by the Ascendancy, and others were subjugated under their rule. In time this militaristic outlook saw the positions of Ascendancy President and War Minister merged into one, a position titled “Caesar”, after a holder of a similar role in an ancient civilisation on Earth. Despite the wars, many new races were contacted peacefully and a network of galactic powers established. Surprisingly, some worlds or outposts defected from the Ascendancy, either to strike out on their own or in some cases to join the Simean Republic, and suffered no repercussions from the greater empire as a result. All that mattered to the Ascendancy was that they kept their monopoly on nuclear weaponry, a state of affairs they guarded jealously, and as such made sure any seceding worlds did not have the capability to replicate nuclear weapons either for themselves or (much worse, in the eyes of the Ascendancy) the Republic.

Phanten

The Phanten are a race notable mainly for the impact they make despite no claim to the stars. Seven foot tall, four armed and bearing a striking resemblance to the woolly mammoth of prehistoric Earth, with a trunk, four tusks and shaggy fur in brown, black, white or sometimes deep red. These aliens hail from a world of frigid plains called Serengeta, and are experts at fine manipulation and technology. However, they have colonised no other planets and have no empire – they strike out into the galaxy, selling their wares and services to see the stars, and then usually they return home. They are a long-lived species, easily doubling the lifespan of the average human, and content with their place in the galaxy. They have a tremendous flair for languages, and after only a short time using the Aside to communicate they can pick up virtually any language – most Phanten speak at least five languages, usually including Ascendancy English and Simean, before they even leave Serengeta. Phanten are an uncommon sight, but their contributions are notable, especially to the Solar Ascendancy as Serengeta possesses a formidable orbital defence network rendering it virtually impregnable to Ascendancy weaponry. The Phanten have never been to war as a species, but some individuals do join mercenary crews and find that, like seemingly everything else, the Phanten are extremely capable at combat when they turn their hands (all four of them) to it.

Cnidarians

For countless centuries mankind thought it was alone in the universe, but in actuality aliens had been living among them for a very, very long time. The Cnidarians tightly control a region of space near the galactic core, comprising a dozen or so stars, with the largest star and the hub of the region named Medusa by the Solar Ascendancy. Cnidarians are in fact the jellyfish of Earth, and range in size from their tiniest on Earth all the way up to asteroid sized behemoths capable of crushing a starship within their tentacles. They seeded their terrestrial cousins on Earth and across other worlds to gather information, adapting their form to the environment. While Void Cnidarians, as they are properly called, can exist in the vacuum of space or in atmosphere and their stinging cells are more than capable of damaging inorganic matter, the jellies of Earth could only live in water – this was an oversight on their part, as they reasoned that, due to the fact the Earth is mostly covered in water, any intelligence would arise there, not on land. When the Cnidarians found humanity had used their children as little more than fuel for their A-Engines, they were perhaps understandably enraged.

Ascendancy ships exploring the Medusa region were ripped asimder by the giants, smaller Cnidarians pouring in through the breaches in a ships hull, paralysing and slowly devouring the crew. The video transmissions were horrifying, and immediately expeditions were sent to the region to eradicate these aliens from their home. The expeditions failed. The Cnidarians, lacking engines or magnetic properties, were easily able to avoid any missiles fired at them and they systematically took the fleet apart, but when the stragglers retreated the Cnidarians did not pursue. They seemed content in the Medusa region, and their rage did not inspire them to take the war to the Ascendancy. Nowadays any and all Ascendancy ships give the region a very wide berth, lest they incur the wrath of these creatures.

Indeed, it is for the best that these aliens are left alone because were it not for them the Aside would not exist at all, and space travel would instantly be shut down, crippling all the empires in the galaxy. Void Cnidarians are the source of the Aside, and it was their seeding of other worlds that spread it as a real presence across the galaxy. In addition, just because the Cnidarians did not negotiate with the trespassing, murderous humans, it does not mean they are incapable of it. As the source of the Aside itself, Cnidarians are capable of communication, quite sophisticated communication in fact, it’s just that they very rarely consider any other race worth talking to. The Ascendancy, and indeed the other powers, views the Cnidarians as more a force of nature than another empire, and has chosen to simply ignore them.

Other Races

Of course, these are by no means the only races in the galaxy. There are the aforementioned Than and Rinn, part of the Simean Republic, but also the mercantile Orthodons, the small and lithe Jerokii and the Uroskans from the desert moons of Albrinlia. Countless others claim planets, systems and occasionally many systems as their own throughout the galaxy, gaining power and sometimes surviving independently without being subsumed into the Simean Republic or annihilated by the Solar Ascendancy.

Life in the Ascendancy

The most distressing thing for the human race in this age is the fact that, for all their efforts, they remain Aside-blind. They are totally dependant on their genetically engineered creations both to see the Aside (and as such travel through space) and to communicate via the Aside with alien species, whereas every other race so far encountered has been able to see the Aside themselves. There have been many attempts to gift humans with the sight, but all have failed spectacularly. Dark experiments with the minds of the insane usually resulted in death for the subject, and attempts to graft the feline Aside-sight gene into human bodies rendered the receiver catastrophically mad. There were those, maybe a couple per world, with genuine sight but they never came forward, hearing of the experiments Ascendancy scientists were conducting and fearful for their lives or their sanity – or both. As the Ascendancy had the Gatoids for all their Aside related needs, these individuals were far more intent on self-preservation than the future of mankind.

Most humans in the three-score or so worlds of the Solar Ascendancy rarely leave the planet of their birth, and lead lives not dissimilar from modern day Earth. They work, they love, they appreciate entertainment media. Only those who live on worlds on prominent trading routes ever see any alien species, and such worlds inevitably have a higher concentration of Gatoids, too, both to facilitate communication and for security. Despite this, travel between worlds is encouraged for the humans of the Ascendancy – if nothing else, it generates income. However, thanks to the importance of being sane to travelling the Aside, the Ascendancy has deemed it important to make a person’s state of mind abundantly clear. Any suspected of any degree of mental instability are forcibly branded with glowing tribal tattoos on visible skin, the degree of covering representing the degree of instability. There is a huge stigma associated with carrying these marks, as it marks an individual as unstable, and many humans in the Ascendancy do not wish to hang around to find out just how unstable a given Painted (as they are deridingly called) is.

Following the incidents with the Cnidarians in the Medusa region, some scientists experimented with jellyfish in order to see if Aside travel was possible without killing the creatures and extracting their nematocysts. They learned that yes, it was indeed possible, but the resulting speed and response was not very efficient and while the scientists maintained that previous speeds and responsiveness would be attainable through practise, Caesar ruled it was an unnecessary setback when the fleets could simply avoid the Medusa region. Some privately owned starships do run off live jellies, but these are rarely used in complex manoeuvres or requiring of high speeds. The A-Engines of alien races are also powered by other means, but again compared to the extracted nematocyst method it is sluggish and unresponsive; the Ascendancy’s unique engines coupled with their nuclear weaponry ensured their domination.

The O’Sin Autocracy

With the arrival of the O’Sin Autocracy in the late twenty-seventh century, however, dominance was challenged. This race came from the opposite side of the galaxy, far beyond easy reach of Ascendancy ships, on moon-sized, curious-looking worldcraft with a large central shell and four gargantuan fins propelling the constructs through the void. Darting around these strange ships were smaller vessels, built for war, and either their A-Engines were powered by something just as efficient as the Ascendancy’s nematocysts or the O’Sin were simply that adept at navigating the Aside. Their weapons manipulate gravity itself and cause colossal damage to ships and planets alike, and to make matters worse the Autocracy was actively on the warpath. The O’Sin themselves are a black skinned, humanoid race with jagged teeth and scaly, thorny skin as if their entire bodies are designed to cause pain, as they are able to enact their gravity warping abilities through their physical form, having no need for physical weaponry. They have no given names, only titles, and seemingly exist only to annihilate all other races in their path.

The Supremacy War

The Ascendancy suffered its first ever planetary loss, the unfortunately-named Defence on the outskirts of Ascendancy space, to the Autocracy. Immediately a state of emergency was declared and a massive portion of the armada was rerouted to the oncoming Autocracy worldcraft to engage them in ship-to-ship combat, but while the Ascendancy’s missiles proved as effective as ever the Autocracy’s gravity altering weaponry was far more so, and their pilots were more skilled, too, resulting in a colossal loss for the Ascendancy. The Supremacy War had begun, and it continues to rage now, in the early years of the twenty-eighth century. Now the other races of the galaxy view the Ascendancy not as a presumptuous, impetuous conqueror but as a necessary evil, as their war fleets are the only thing stopping O’Sin worldcraft destroying the Simean Republic and everyone else.

The Oneirovirus

It did not take long at all for the Ascendancy to realise that with their current weaponry they stood little chance of driving back the O’Sin, let alone defeating them.

I remember it so clearly. It was dark, in my cell, apart from the pale green glow of my facial branding. I had been therea year and a day. It had given me time to think, when they locked me away with only my head for company for “disturbing Liberty’s peace.” I did wonder why they named their planets things like that, if they were going to do things like this.

They came to me. The door opened, and it was bright, and there was a man. A man in a long black coat flanked by two black Gatoids. No, the coat wasn’t black, it was red, but one of the Gatoids was black and the other was tabby. It all just looked black, silhouetted.

“Are you Kedigan Gentleman?” the man had asked. I knew that was my name, so I nodded.

“They say you’ve been writing on the walls.”

This was true. I had. I had asked for chalk for that purpose, and they had, with uncharacteristic helpfulness, acquiesced.

“They say you’ve been writing about the Aside.”

I was so scared, at that point. I didn’t know what he was going to do. All I could do was nod.

“May I see?”

I showed him the walls. And, as I did, I became animated again. I remembered excitement. I had had an idea, and that was what they wanted. Not me.

Equations that made no sense. Drawings of jellyfish. Random words and lines connecting them.

The man’s eyes kept flicking to the branded side of my face, but he shook my hand, and he told me was I free. Free, in that I worked for him now. His name was Richard Phillips Bliare, and he was head of Special Weapons Research at Ascendancy War Command on Mars. He took me with him, and I never saw the cell again.

Kedigan had discovered a way to weaponise the Aside, and this was what the AWC wanted. A way of striking back at the O’Sin, more effective and more precise than nukes. Specialised weapons scientists took Kedigan’s notes and created the A-Cannons with them, ship and personal weaponry that ripped dreams with every shot and rendered a living target any state from gibbering madness to catatonic to instant death, and an inorganic target would be rendered useless one way or another, whether it be by vaporising it instantly or turning a hull the consistency of water. The guns required no ammunition, only intent, but the A-Cannons were even more nematocyst intensive than the A-Engines, and jelly farming in the Ascendancy was stepped up to meet demand – but even now, most ships and personnel in the Ascendancy are still armed with the out-of-date weaponry, because for all the field successes of the ACannons the supply was just not there, especially with what was about to strike the galaxy.

Ascendancy War Command, after taking Kedigan’s notes, left the Painted be to see if he came up with anything else useful. And, to a given degree of “useful,” he did. They called it the Oneirovirus.

He does not know how it was created, only that he birthed it one morning after working on further weaponising the Aside all night. It spread rapidly through AWC Headquarters, and a quarter of all personnel, human and Gatoid, were infected before it was quarantined – and some had left the planet before that happened. A plague unlike any other, the oneirovirus at best caused insanity. At worst it turned the infected into a warped vision of their own nightmares, twisting body and soul and physics into something dark, destructive and horrifying. Upon infection, one individual erupted in a cascade of spiders. Another’s skin turned blocky and hard, cloying and enveloping – the poor wretch was claustrophobic. The virus is impossible to categorise and, it seems, impossible to stop as when it deigns to it can travel via a person’s very dreams. Even alien races were affected, in the same way. And worst of all, as far as anyone can tell, the oneirovirus does not affect the O’Sin.

Releasing this was the final straw for Kedigan. He had already fostered doubts regarding designing weaponry, but with the spread of the oneirovirus his creations appalled him. At that moment he vowed to never use A-weaponry or any other kind of weapon, and he realised he had only one option: to escape Mars and somehow create a cure.

I don’t know how I got off the red planet, but it was the first step on the road to the best thing I will ever do. I think I stowed away on a cargo ship somehow, but it’s all blank. I remember stepping out into a cargo hangar on a waystation between Sol and Barnard’s Star, so that makes logical sense. Already the virus was there, and it sickened me, what I had done. But now I was a fugitive. I couldn’t let Command capture me again. I had to get a non-Ascendancy ship out of there.

So he did. The Republic was far less strict about non-sane passengers aboard their ships, as with careful piloting the risk was negligible, it was simply that the Ascendancy was not given to careful piloting, preferring speed over safety most of the time. The Republic liner took Kedigan to Serengeta, where he met a Phanten named Finnian who was building a live jelly powered starship, designed for not more than a dozen crew and passengers. Finnian was nearing the age that most Phanten leave Serengeta to see the stars, and after Kedigan told him about his quest to find a cure for the spreading oneirovirus (he did not tell the alien that it was his brainchild) Finnian decided to go with the Painted, giving the human use of his ship to evade the patrols of the Ascendancy. Kedigan named the craft the Princess, after a story his father had told him as a child about the nature of love and responsibility. In response to Kedigan’s disdain for weaponry, Finnian helped him build an “A-Spanner” from Kedigan’s own designs, a device capable of using the Aside to disable A-Engines or disarm an opponent at range, as while the Phanten himself would still carry weaponry he certainly did not want to be travelling with a sole crewmate who refused to use guns in case they ran into trouble – and Finnian suspected they would.

The first place they went, at Kedigan’s insistence, was the Medusa region. He knew that there was something very, very important and connected there, but he didn’t know what.

It was more terrifying than being locked in the cell, looking at all those jellies out there in the void on the viewscreen. They were everywhere, just watching, not making a move on us, as we glided slowly through them. It was like they were wondering what we were going to do next. The stories you hear of that place… all the death and unchecked destruction, but it’s wonderful, really. They’re beautiful.

The duo left the Medusa region not with answers to the oneirovirus, but with new abilities and a new crewmember. They were joined by a human-sized Cnidarian who knew their purpose, and insisted on accompanying them. The Cnidarian professed it had no need for a name, but Kedigan gave it the moniker “Brid” for simplicity’s sake. Brid possessed a completely alien outlook in some ways, but was startlingly similar to humanity in others – the fact that the Princess was powered by live jellies rather than extracted nematocysts pleased him greatly, though he didn’t have any other means of showing his pleasure than to outright state it. Over time, Kedigan grew to recognise movement in Brid’s bell and tentacles in the same way as a human would move their face to express emotion. Strangest of all, in the presence of Brid Kedigan’s own Aside-sight unlocked. Before he possessed some, enough to notice and create the A-Cannons and the oneirovirus evidently, but not enough to navigate or communicate by reliably, it was too murky. Now, he could see clearly. Clearly enough to pilot by and speak with, so long as Brid was relatively nearby. Clearly enough to pilot by with living jellies as efficiently and swiftly as an extracted nematocyst A-Engine. This gave rise to a theory – perhaps humans and Cnidarians were meant to work together? Perhaps, as with so many other things, humanity has gone about Aside travel all wrong and has tried to force things that were not meant to be, ignoring a simpler, more humane option?

Kedigan has little time to truly contemplate that, however, as avoiding the Ascendancy, the Autocracy and their battles and working on a cure for the virus before it overtakes the entire galaxy in meaningless horror and insanity and death is taking up virtually all of his time. The crew of the Princess have been joined since by a fourth individual, a human female named Hope suffering from a slow form of the oneirovirus causing her skin to rot while she still lives, whom they met on a mining colony on the edge of Ascendancy space. If Kedigan can keep her holding on to faith that he can find a cure, he knows he will eventually. Hope is a strong, capable woman who knows how to handle herself, physically and emotionally, so the only thing Kedigan feels he has to do to look after her is find the cure. A big step on the journey was admitting to his shipmates that he was responsible for the creation of the virus, and them not caring, because now he is completely dedicated to finding a cure. That is the most important thing.

The darkest thing, though Kedigan doesn’t yet know this, is the Ascendancy doesn’t want to capture him to bring him to justice. No, they want to set him back to work on refining the virus, truly weaponising it, controlling it, making it affect the O’Sin. If lives must be lost so that the Ascendancy can return to full dominance, then that is a small price to pay. The revelation would be devastating, though a not-inconsiderable part of him suspects this anyway, confirmation would be brutal. Even so, it would not sway his course. The only thing that matters is the cure. The cure is the only thing that matters. If only he knew where to look.


Thinking About Something I Would Never Do

The sword of thunderbolt iron is a razorblade, and my wrists the beating, vulnerable heart of the beast.

I often think that the only way I could truly defeat whatever this is, could truly kill it, is to kill myself, and take it with me.

I guess that’s a bit like the narrator and Tyler Durden in Fight Club. Except as I’ve said, life isn’t a movie or a novel and I’m not about to blow my own cheek out with a nine millimetre. Apparently that bit of the movie makes sense and he was able to defeat Tyler because he was “willing to kill himself.” That’s bullshit. He was willing to blow his own cheek out. I’d blow my own cheek out too if I thought it would work.

But I knew someone who killed themselves. I don’t know if they felt something like what I feel now, but I don’t think they did. I guess there are myriad reasons why someone would want to take their own life. I knew him, and I saw what happened when he went. I saw all the fallout, hell, I was a part of it. That was the first time I went to a doctor, but that’s neither here nor there. Or is it? I don’t know. I’ll address it later.

Yes, I saw all the fallout. People who didn’t know him, emotional wrecks. People who did? You can imagine how horrible it was.

So. If I did that, if I tried to bow out and take this bastard with me, I wouldn’t actually be solving anything at all. I’d be dead, ignominiously, and he wouldn’t have been suffocated along with it – no, he’d have gone out in a shining blaze of glory inflicting hurt on all those who care about me. Now, he doesn’t want me to kill myself, but if I did that’s how he’d probably see it. And I can see the point.

I should really stop calling it “he.”

I don’t want to cause pain to anyone. And I know, or I hope, that the pain I would certainly cause via that final solution far outweighs the pain I may bring on others by continuing to live.

I guess I am technically contemplating suicide, as attention seeking as that sounds. But I don’t need help, or attention. I’m not going to do it. I couldn’t. It would be a failure on my part. So while I am contemplating it, that’s exactly what I am doing.

Contemplate:

–verb (used with object)

1. 

to look at or view with continued attention; observe or study thoughtfully: to contemplate the stars.
That said, definitions 3 and 4 (these are from http://www.dictionary.com, a fantastic site if you aren’t 100% sure of the meaning of the words you use, and if you aren’t 100% sure then you should not be using them, there’s no shame in looking them up) do include intent in their terms, which kind of skews my semantic point, but fuck it.
There isn’t really a logical conclusion to this. I do wish there were. I guess the bottom line is this:
I’m not suicidal, and I’m just gonna have to live with this thing in my head for the foreseeable future.

What This Is All For

I feel so sick.

Is this really about stories? Is it really all about just me getting my work into the minds of others, seeing what they think, telling stories? Because I don’t think it is anymore. When I made it, that’s what I thought it was for. That and stuff to do with what I thought about the world. I was told by a woman I respect to blog, that’s why I started, but reading her own blog back it’s made me think about what all this is really for.

It’s not stories. I mean, that’s certainly part of it, of course it is, that’s clearly why “Fiction” is the biggest category on here, and one of my settings is pretty much just about stories and what they are and what they represent… but the blog as a whole? Notations and Nihilism? It’s not about stories.

Love, then? Is it about love? A large portion of it seems to say so. Angsty love letters to my girlfriend in a public place, waxing lyrical about the nature of the beast and what it can do to you and how it should be treated. Explorations of what love can really be, and my own learning of things, like how you can fuck and make love at the same time. I figured you could do it with the same person, but that bit right there is new on me. Except it’s not about love either. It can’t be all about that, when mixed with so much despair.

Is it about that, perhaps? Despair? No, not that either. Even with all the stuff about raped corpses and ever-present monsters and the hopelessness of standing against darkness, the blog’s not about despair.

Fantasy, and dreams? Dreams are tagged all over the place. As is cosmic horror, but I guess that ties into despair. Surreality and the lush scape of beauty that can be found in your… ah. There it is. But it’s still not dreams.

Does it even have to be about only one thing? I don’t think so, but when I think about it, when I look at the blog of the woman I respect and I see the things that she talks about, I see what, at least I believe, hers is all about, and suddenly what this is all for clicks into place in my head.

In my head. Ha. How fucking apt, and I’m not even trying.

I want people to read my stories. Naturally. That’s what stories are for. I want to talk about love, I want to talk about despair, I want to talk about pain and hate and rage and passion and what souls do in the face of insurmountable odds. I want to talk about hope, when hope seems gone. And I guess that, right there, hope is what this is all about. But, more specifically:

This website, everything you see here, it’s about living with whatever’s in my head. It’s not always something I can deal with as well as I should, but it is always there. It’s incandescent and beautiful and terrifying and it stings but its marvellous and it is my guardian. It’s a thing of rage and desire and violence and madness, and I have to live with it every damn day, and if I can talk about it here, even if I don’t seem like I am, I am acknowledging its presence. I am nodding my head to the giant, belligerent, acrimonious jellyfish in my head and it is nodding back at me, recognising that it, too, has to live with me and together we can be formidable, though we may quarrel.

It’s my ally and my enemy, my closest friend and my darkest nemesis. I’ve learned to live with it, and thanks to this I can tell you about it, and maybe others with jellyfish in their heads they don’t understand will find what I write and learn to acknowledge theirs, too.

And that, true believers, is what Notations and Nihilism is all about. Cnidaria medusozoa in a human head, wrapping and stinging and loving.

So enjoy this dream, as I do. Because I don’t resent this jellyfish. And I hope you won’t resent me.

Now I can’t remember why I was feeling sick.


Missing

There’s a part of me that’s far away, and distant, and I can hear its heart beating.

Is it me? Or is it someone else? Could it be both?

If I don’t think about it, it’s just a dull ache. I can get on with my life and do my job or enjoy time with my friends and it’s like nothing’s the matter. But then I think about it again… And I know you may think me callous to attempt to put it to the back of my mind, but when it’s in the front of my mind, it’s pain. Pain that she’s not here.

It burns in my chest and rolls in my stomach, and it makes me nauseous. Not mentally, I am glad of the feeling for what it represents. Not emotionally, for I love the cause. But physically, a backlash from the hurt of being apart, I feel like I need to be sick.

In the end, it seems a simple thing. I’ve been alone before. I spent some of my best times alone, I spent some of my best nights out or in without any designated company. But now I know her, now I’m without her… alone isn’t enough. Alone always used to be enough.

When I was a kid, sure I enjoyed playing with friends, but I was just as at home on my own. I had my own toys, and I had my imagination. That was enough to power any entertainment I wanted. Optimus Prime hanging out with Spawn was always a fun one.

Thinking about it, I never had a figure to represent the villains. It was always difficult to the point of impossibility to play with two properly pose-able toys at once, and for a struggle you really do need both participants partaking in the combat. So even my villainous action figures were transferred to anti-heroic status and pitted against the monsters from my mind. I guess that’s also from the same place as some of the things I’m writing now. Optimus Prime, Spider-man and Venom, up against something that at the time was just from my head, but looking back was really a mechanical Cthulhu.

That’s well off-topic. My point was I never needed to hang out with other people, especially with the advent of video games, but before them books would also be (and still are) enough. I could deal with being alone, because my own mind was a playground of marvels.

But now? I’m missing a piece. My imagination still works, better than ever I hope, but it’s not enough for me anymore. I need the other piece of me. I need to stop feeling sick. I need to reach out and touch her hand and hold her. And when that happens, I’m complete. I’m not sick anymore. I’m safe and nothing else about the world matters, not a thing. Maybe that’s selfish. But I don’t get to be complete often. I want to relish it while I can.

Kedge


What is 1?

[This manuscript was found hastily scribbled in the notebook of the late R.S. Walker, experimental mathematician]

The answer eludes me still! I have plumbed every dark text and obscene tome that seems relevant and some that I never imagined would be, yet it eludes me still!

Four. Four is the rise of mankind. I can understand that. That’s simple. Point of reference. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Three. Thirteen point seven billion years ago. The birth of the universe. Elementary. HA! Elementary! Obviously. The labour screams of the Cpraghnagl. I know Cpraghnagan. I know Cpraghnagan. That’s three. I can understand three.

Two. Hurts. My. Head. Burn. Chaos, confusion, what next? Before… before? Before what? I follow the trend, I follow the rabbit hole and I find. I find δçǧæ‽ü. Is that right? Could it ever be right? Before time began, there were things, and now there are not things. They are gone. If I could just break down the walls between realities.

One. WHAT IS ONE. What could be before before? Nothing! That’s what! Nothing!

Before that, sigma. Before that, Σ. Σ Σ Σ. But that doesn’t matter right now.

Gap in the series.

What is 1???

Nothing can see me. Nothing knows. Nothing could be.

No face. Nothing.

A rope, a rope, nothing.

Nothing a rope a rope

NOTHING IS WATCHING ME

Nothing came from before. There was nothing before δçǧæ‽ü, and δçǧæ‽ü came before Cpraghnagl, and Cpraghnagl came before us. Nothing before δçǧæ‽ü.

What is 1?

Rope. ROPE.


Poison

I’d paralyse every last one of you. Cut you. Asphyxiate you and inhale your final breath like water to a drowning man. And then me. We all deserve this, but what matters most is YOU GO FIRST. We can’t stand against what’s before us and in our despair we turn to things empty, and void, and fill them with time and pound coins until they’re mountains of money, but they may as well be mountains of shit. And we’ll suffocate in it. And you’ll all enjoy it, you perverse bastards, you’ll be gagging for more as the machine you built shovels the excrement into your waiting, eager, gaping mouth.

The whole damn planet’s a human centipede. The Kings of the West eat, gorge themselves of fruit and goodness, far more than their fair share, and then boxes and sells their manure to feed their middle and lower classes, who in turn, unknowingly, pass it on to the developing world.

We’re all gonna share in this. We built it.

So man up, accept responsibility for the extent we’ve fucked this world to.

Sometimes I do wonder if any of us makes a difference at all. And the rest of the time? I know we don’t.


That Was Then, This Is Now

It seemed ill-fitting that the night was not turbulent. A vicious storm of monstrous proportions, hammering rain and raking, chill winds that cut to the very bone would have lent an air of gravitas to the proceedings occurring within Red Hall Manor, but instead all was crisp and clear, and despite the midwinter there was not even snow on the ground. Inside the drawing room, nine figures sat around a table with nine flintlock pistols arranged as if the spokes of a wheel, each one stretching out promisingly to the seated folk illuminated dimly by the crackling fire.

Their fate was decided. That was the purpose of their meeting on that empty and unremarkable night – not to ascertain their course, but to enact it. The Organisation had been established some meetings previous, with the rituals of conscription conducted, and already the nine who would be referred to as the First Assembly had left missives for the first members of the fledgling resistance, explaining their reasoning.

With stiff nods, the nine each reached for the pistol nearest. Each had only one shot. It was not possible for these nine to undertake the bonding themselves, and that is why their lives had to be sealed forever. The risk that any of them could be forcibly bonded to the Old Deimons of the Gentry was far too great, in that a risk existed at all. Their work could not be compromised.

As one, nine raised their pistols. As one, nine guns were pressed against temples. As one, nine shots fired with maddening intensity, and blood coated the floor.

At that time, the building was known as Hereward House. It was after that heavy morning following, when the servants found the bodies, that it became known as Red Hall Manor.


That was then.

This is now.

“Don’t talk about vampires. Vampires aren’t real. Werewolves, ghosts, Frankensteins, all that gothic crap – stories for kids and teenage girls who desperately want to not fit in. When I talk about things that go bump in the night, odds are you aren’t even ready to know about what I mean. Not just some guy with bad teeth or a real bad hair day or wearing a sheet.

Fact is, you could be face to face with the danger and not know it. Hell, for all I know you could be the danger. Imagine an eight foot snake, fat as a tree trunk, translucent skin revealing pestilent intestines within. Its face is a mess of tentacles and fangs, and its body is ridged with barbs dripping a foul smelling, thick liquid. Along its length are hundreds of eyes lidded with blinking mouths, always watching and snapping.

Think you’d notice such a thing standing in front of you? I’m willing to bet you wouldn’t. Because that thing’s not just hanging around. It’s in the cashier at the cinema. Your work colleague. A parent. A friend. A lover. It takes over their mind and body from beyond the next dimension, mimicking them and hiding in plain sight, until its masters can visit chaos upon the world. And that snake thing I just described? It’s not even the worst one.

I know this because I’m the last and only line of defence. My friends, allies and I. We made a deal with unknowable creatures to protect our home from this extra-dimensional invasion, forced to sacrifice our humanity to protect that of others.

I just wish I could tell you we were winning.”