Shorts

[Damien Nocturne]

Try and post some of my short crap here.

Not much to say.


God was angry. God was furious. God struck out with a blade made of liquid fire and crushed the sun in his palm until the sky boiled and broke and night spilled across the heavens like ink, like blood. God roared his fury, roared and sobbed and shook so much like a Man, but every sob wracked the very earth around him and the heavens crackled with his fury, echoed with his sorrow.

Who has done this, he asks, voice so low and so powerful, as thunder rolling across the plains. God is curious. God must know. Men cannot live twice; Men, once dead, remain forever sleeping. But God was no Man, and God would have his vengeance.

Look to the sky and seek the ruined throne, a cryptic response – but God is not fooled by mere riddles, by mere words. God merely nods and storms toward his Palace, alone but stronger than any army, stronger than his own army, a halo of silver fire burning above his head and the sun as his shield and his sword of angel’s teeth in hand.

Men, once dead, remain forever sleeping. But God walks again. Men, once pledged, forever remain vassals to their Lord. But God bows to no King, however mighty. God is without equal, and his rage without peer – the stone beneath his feet boils away to magma, magma boils away to nothing.

God rides on a chariot of smoke and flame.

Castle walls, so vast and so mighty they repelled all attacks (as a diamond might repel water) for over an Age without fail, yawned open before God’s argent glory. A thousand knights - no, a hundred times that; a swarm of ancient soldiers clad in gleaming armor poured out of the gap, screaming for battle. For Maehin, they yelled. All glory to Maehin. All glory to the God King.

God paused, God was stupefied. A trembling hand (so like a Man’s) reached out, almost as if longing – for these men, for their cries. Wanting to again known them, all of them, so intimately as to be their savior (their messiah) once more. The first approached and broke his sword across God’s neck without hesitation.

God smote them all with a breath.

God, so like a Man, wept at such senseless death, but his eyes were God’s eyes and they shed no tears, did not water, only saw the ultimate goal and parted the folds of Time and Flesh and Destiny that would so much as try to resist his coming. God could not be denied.

And with the Sun as his shield, his sword of angel’s teeth in hand, a halo of silver fire burning over his head, Maehin strode towards an ending.


Fleshing out characters from your novel's labyrinthine history sure is fun.  

[Damien Nocturne]

He scowled petulantly - scar rippling across his face, eyes rimmed with cloudy red and set in heavy creases. The ember smoldered red-orange, hazy coils of smoke whispering up through the stale air – nothing, nothing was changing at all. Sharp, realization; ephemeral, tingling awareness, like sunlight on skin but… harsher – it was, a knot of butterflies in his stomach.

Sick. He was, he was sick – that was the word. Sick and tired of constant, punishing failure, weary of being on the cusp of achievement only to tumble (stumble, fall) back down.

The pile of meat and wires fell with a quivering ‘thuck’ as greasy blood bubbled out between strands of muscle and tin alloy (carbon nanotubes, bah, an old science but a new science since everyone who’d cared before was probably long dead). Why?

Blue-white streaks of electricity arced through the air, sizzled and popped with that ozone smell.

Why wouldn’t it ever work? Anything, everything, could be engineered; could be explained by science; could be produced in a laboratory during controlled conditions with carefully measured materials and a bit of determination.

What was God? Nothing but a fever dream, the imagining of primitive men lost in the darkness and searching for a shepherd that would never come. God was a convenience.

What was the Soul? Nothing but the culmination of a lifetime of experiences, a gossamer web of probability that dictates how the 150,000,000,000,000 synapses in your brain fall (in order) like the longest string of dominoes in existence every time you make a “choice.” The Soul was a contrivance.

What was Life? By definition it is the act of every cell in a body working in concert, a symphony of energy and cyclical production that allows an organism to move and act under its own power. By definition, that was how it worked. Logically, the act of creating “Life” would be as simple as arranging tissues and minerals in proper shape and starting the heart – all materials as fresh as possible, of course.

Two hunks of coal – eyes – coal, smoldered up at… nothing? Done. What have you done what have you done what have you

Life? Life is… an impossibility.


go science