Flasher Fiction: Worm

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on September 30, 2013 by synabetic

Buckle up, kids, it’s story time. Enjoy!
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Worm
by Steven G. Saunders

Hey.

Hey, I know you’re listening.

You can’t help it. You have nothing to do but hear what I have to say.

Make yourself comfortable, because you are going to be here for a long, long time.

First things first… You probably wonder why you’re here. With me. Unable to get away. Hey, I get it. You’re scared. I’d be scared, too, if I were in your position. I get scared just imagining myself in your spot. And that’s tough for me, because imagination doesn’t come easily to my kind.

A lot of things are tough for me; things you can easily do without any difficulty. Yet, here you are. Listening to what I have to say. What I have to think. It’s more about what I think that what I say, if you know what I mean. And how I feel? That’s very easy for me to convey:

I am hungry.

Do you know what my kind calls you? Worms. It’s pretty funny, isn’t it? I don’t mean that thing you do with your meat parts that evinces mirth. I mean funny as in queer, weird, strange, unusual. Eldritch.

Now, there’s a word in your language I very much enjoy: Eldritch. I wonder if you would describe me as such.

It’s funny we call you worms because it is beyond the scope of the words you creatures would use to describe yourselves. Worms.

There was an acquaintance of mine from long, long ago who had a great term for encountering your kind. They called it “worm sign”, which if you knew what I know about life, the universes, and everything else that all souls, spirits, and brain functions process, you would laugh, too.

See, this is laughing. I’ll wager a great sum of wealth you had no idea I am laughing right now.

I believe what you are doing is… crying? Yes? Weeping? Sobbing?

And the begging begins. I have always wanted to be able to elicit a sound emission from myself that resembles in some way one of your sighs. But if you can imagine me sighing, that is what I’m doing… well, within the emotional context of a creature such as you.

You must accept your fate. Begging only ruins the time you have left. My sincere, kind advice is to just listen to what I have to say, and silently hope that I communicate with you for a long while.

I will admit I get very lonely. Being something like me is a lot where you either accept your role in the multiverse, or you let yourself waste away and perish. I do not wish to perish. Just as you, I wish to exist with the sheer, determined will that recognizes my unhindered and unburdened existence for as long as all the possibilities will allow.

Oh, dear, I have upset you.

I can understand how this is upsetting. I cannot relate, so you will have to find it within yourself to forgive me somehow. Though I doubt you will ever forgive me. You will not be able to. You will be incapable of doing anything but become a part of me, for just a little while, and then you shall be expelled… but you won’t be able to know about it. You will already be gone.

As I have said, I am quite lonely. My kind do not relate well with each other. We live, by your reckoning, anyway, for an incredibly long time. Not years; not decades; not centuries. But epochs. We exist for periods of times that span the length of several of your civilizations, and we’ve even figured out how to leave whole worlds in wholly different universes for ones beginning anew elsewhere. You will look at what you call worms on your world, and you will sometimes dig into the earth and look at them; feeling godlike, perhaps. Then you will rid yourselves of them. Perhaps in your mobile larval state you will eat them. Any way any of it is cut, you are still bound to that world. Or perhaps you are bound to travelling to several worlds. We still see you as you see those worms.

You are but worms to us.

You can be destructive worms, too. You squabble amongst each other as frequently as I would have passing thoughts on the millions of colors I am able to feel. You call them wars, combats, fights, struggles, revolutions, brawls. You come up with all kinds of reasons to justify violent, aggressive engagement. Did I aggressively engage you? No.

I do believe you engaged me while I was napping. I tried to escape as I was not hungry, but, alas, you persisted. I was forced to engage, terminate, and consume your companions; and now I need live sustenance. This is why I saved you for last.

Think of this like it’s the only survival you have left. Enjoy it while you can.

One time, many eons ago when I was young, I existed in a different world, a different place. Being a young being of my sort as I was, there were many sensations which were new and wonderful to me. One such sensation was music. I had never heard it before, having lived where I had lived. Then came a moment when I encountered someone much like you, someone determined to make a point of some sort by ending my existence. It is unknown to me if that creature like you had any reason other than to demonstrate some sort of prowess for others of its kind, but it… it sang– yes, I have learned what singing is since– as it attempted to lodge implements crafted from ores and patience into me. Most of your kind across the multiverse who I have encountered or have heard of believe in something called “luck”, and  “luck” was not with the Singing Bother at that particular moment in time. It slipped because it was weighted by more ore and patience, and lost its balance, fell down, and not seeing its worth– for I was young and impatient– I quickly dispatched it and consumed it as quickly as possibly. At the time, I could not have told you the difference between your kind’s “screaming” and “singing”.

They were all strange sounds to me back then.

Eventually, as I grew larger and wiser, feasting mostly on creatures you consider to be lower lifeforms– much as I consider you to be; no offence meant– I encountered more beings akin to you. All of them had emotional investments pertaining to my demise and to all the worthless scraps and junk that had accumulated around me over the years. As I grew even wiser as the centuries passed, I also became clever. By your standards, I am quite clever.

I succeeded in tricking you, didn’t I? I am quite the clever soul now. Not to make you feel bad, but it was all too easy.

It always amazes me how your kind is so simple to trick into finding me, falling into the traps I have set, and becoming my nutritious sustenance all because you cannot resist looking for objects you have attached “worth” to. And because I bring many of these objects with me from realm to realm with me these days, it is even easier to invite you into my domain, with all sorts of creatures who consider themselves to be “intelligent” becoming lovely short-term companions, and, in short time, food.

Ah, you are trying to reason with me. I can appreciate that. If you must know, there are those who hate your kind who live near me and they are the ones who inform others of your kind who wish to accumulate wealth in their betrayal of their species by creating stories which, in turn, lure you here for your ultimate fate.

Thank you, nonetheless. I do not fault you for enquiring. I believe what you are feeling right now is the part of fear where you can begin to rationally think your way through to a possible solution.

The only solution you are going to reach here is as a waste product.

How did I do? I have been working for many decades on crafting jokes. I feel it lessens the impact of your demise.

I can tell you more if it makes you feel more comfortable. Oh, I know. Here. How does that feel? Numbing quickly? Feel a little giddy. Yeah, these barbs are something I worked on for three hundred of your years. I am not a cruel person, you see. I am merely hungry.

We are all slaves to our biology. I suppose I should thank my lucky feelers that I am not enticed by shiny objects. Too bad, too, as shiny things are much more shiny for me, as I have more optical receptors and external optical processing orbs.

Are you ready? Of course you are. You have no choice. I have delighted in getting to know you as we have talked. While you begged, sobbed, pleased, bargained, and tried to think your way out of this, I have already entered your physically being and have begun feasting on who and what you are, exactly. I am already fond of you. You are– soon to be “were”– a kind soul, just looking to help your home village from a calamity. You were a hero. Your larvae looked up to you. You had few peers. You must be terribly shocked that a person such has me has ended you for supper-time purposes. But, as your life ends, don’t fret over any of the grovelling. I won’t tell anyone. I won’t even mention that you offered up all of the creatures you intended to save.

I should apologize to you. I said this would be a long, long time. And it has been a long, long time… it just doesn’t seem like that to you anymore. Time as you currently know it has absolutely no meaning.

Now. Ready?

As I have said…

I am not a cruel person.

Goodbye.

worm_reaper


Great Worm image property of Reaper Miniatures, used without permission. No infringement on trademark or IP is intended. Honestly, the image is just a placeholder until original art is done, to which I’ll remind folks to read the story again and look at the pretty picture.

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Flasher Fiction: Bind

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on September 28, 2013 by synabetic

Yay! Story, right? Hope you dig it. My partner is giving me pictures and images she has taken or drawn and I’m writing up flash fiction pieces for them. It’s fun! Especially since I write them so fast. This might have some edits in its future. Enjoy.
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Bind
by Steven G. Saunders

Gas is a commodity too many people take for granted. I mean, there you are one minute driving around, singing along to the latest Faderhead album, knowing full well that there are no cops along the dark road you’re speeding along and then… bam, that fucking gauge dips down to tell you “aw, fuck it, yo”.

I kept meaning to pay attention to my gas gauge, but I was having too much fun. The party was quite stimulating, and a few girls even talked to me, telling me that they loved my voice and hair. But I wanted to get out of there and drive by myself, scream at the top of my lungs out of a cold window with the wind whipping by, and punch my shitty car into over 100 MPH.

It was fucking awesome until I realized my car’s gas gauge had been broken. Well, shit, right? Out of gas in the middle of nowhere, with the nearest place to fill up probably five or more miles away. That’s a hell of a walk.

I go to call a buddy of mine. James will understand. He’ll come out, pick me up, and I’ll fill my gas can up, come back, and get my car going again. I know I had better finish this tequila off in case a cop happens by… while I’m sure I reek of booze, it’s better to reek than show, you know?

Man, cops suck. They always think they’re in control when all they are is a bunch of little boys and girls who got picked on a lot as kids. That shit pisses me off. I sure wish they’d just do their goddamned jobs and leave harmless pricks like me alone. But that’s why they fuck with me, yeah? Because it’s easy.

I finish my tequila and realize I have beer in my truck. Fine. It’s in the truck. I go to call James and I have no signal. What is this, the beginning of some kind of fucking shitty horror movie?

What do I do?

I get back into my car and try starting it again. No dice. Of course “no dice”! I’m out of gas. I bury my head into my steering wheel and my horn goes off for a second. It makes me laugh.

I better get walking.

Before I go, I grab my backpack in the back seat and fill it with my beer. Only a six-pack? I was a fucking Boy Scout– I should have been more prepared.

The road ahead of me is dark. Very dark. It’s just like every other dark country road in the Pacific Northwest. Just miles and miles of road, pasture, wooded enclaves, and fencing. As if on cue, it starts to rain. Drizzling at first, but as I walk and drink further, it starts coming down harder.

A fog has started rolling in as I walk along the road, hoping against hope that someone comes along and finds me. Other people might be scared by this sort of thing, but I simply am impatient. I just want to get home, sleep, shower, and call up that Chelsea I met earlier.
Her hair was spectacular. Her mannerisms cute and endearing. She was pretty good looking and I’m thinking she’ll make a fine addition to my collection.

The rain starts to come down harder. Then even harder. Holy fuck, how can rain come down this hard? And the fog starts getting so thick I can’t see more than fifty feet in front of my face. I don’t even notice until it’s too late and I take a header off the road, having stumbled into a ditch.

Dammit. My face. I think I cut it on a stick.

I get up, and I see a shape in the foggy distance. I start toward it and within a few short minutes I see what appears to be an abandoned shack of some sort. Fine. I’ll take it. It’s got that look of gray wood… the kind that has seen too much weather. In the dark, rainy, foggy moonlight I see the green moss. I smile at the whole… nature of it all.

flasher_fiction_bind

But it’s shelter, so I’m not complaining.

I wait there for a few minutes, drinking a beer. Then I hear a sound. Branches breaking. This shack must be on the edge of one of those wooded enclaves. Then I hear a voice… someone calling out to ask if someone’s there.

I respond. The voice sounds familiar. It’s hard to make out over the rain.

I emerge from the dilapidated shack and see a familiar face. It’s Chelsea… of all people, it’s the woman I was interested in at the party. She looks at me and smiles, telling me she figured it was me, having seen my car along the side of the road.

She tells me that she knows it’s my car, because she took special interest in me leaving, wondering if I would call her. I can feel my heart skip a beat. This girl was interesting! More so than earlier when I found out she liked things like Blade Runner and Skinny Puppy. Now she was saving my ass and sounding sexy while she was doing it.

Chelsea asks me if she can give me a ride to a gas station. I say yes, without hesitation. I start talking to her, offering her a beer, which she politely refuses. I wonder if she thinks VIVIsectVI is the quintessential Puppy album, or if she’s one of those Too Dark Park people.

Her response gives me pause. She laughs and asks me what I’m talking about. Weird. She mentioned earlier at the party that she was a hardcore Puppyhead– even had a tattoo and everything. I cock my head and talk to her some more.

Chelsea responds to everything okay as she leads me away from the shack. I’m no survivalist, but I get the feeling she’s leading me away from the road. Why? Why would she do that? Because I have no reason to believe otherwise, I ask her. I ask her if we are walking away from the road.

She knows a shortcut, she tells me. That’s odd. I’m not that far from the shack. But I have to trust her because I’m in a bit of a bind.

That’s when she turns towards me suddenly and says “Yes. Bind”.

What… what the fuck?

I ask her what she means by that, and her pretty face smiles. It’s not a cute smile. It’s the kind of smile I have seen actors try to replicate when they’re being evil. Something inhuman… something… anti-human.

I start to run. Because, hey, why not? This shit is freaking me out, man. I am probably just drunk and wigging, but you can never be too sure. I run into the fog and rain… I run and run and run…

Until I fall down. That’s when I use the shack to help myself back up. Oh, god, the shack. I’m back where I started? I don’t even know what to think. My drunk brain is trying very hard to be really afraid.

Chelsea stands by me. She places the rusty manacle on my right wrist and I can actually hear her grin. The moonlight glints off of her teeth and finally I feel the primal fear my brain has been trying to tell my body to get into. My mouth runs words that don’t matter. My eyes dart to the hanging bones I never noticed before.

I never noticed before because this is a different shack.

I wish I had never run out of gas. I wish I had planned ahead. I wish I didn’t have to end it all by being just another cautionary tale no one would ever know about.

This is a good a time as any to be out of beer.

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Image courtesy of  Nicole Turner

The Rage of Ognark, Parts I-III

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on September 28, 2013 by synabetic

Awhile back, I started trying my hand at bizarro fiction. I don’t know how I did after I wrote the first three parts to a story, truth be told. But here they are. And I might even start writing more on Ognark as time goes by. We’ll see, I ‘spose. It’s not for everyone; maybe not even for bizarro fiction types. Maybe you’ll like it. You probably won’t… but it’s fun to do, I must admit. Ha ha ha, rape gnomes? Jesus Christ.

***

THE RAGE OF OGNARK: Part I
The Fruits of One’s Labors
By S. G. Saunders

[This excerpt of something probably most horrible was found by Imperial archaeologists studying the now-dead world LZ-486c. Numerous translations have yielded only this result. More research is currently underway. As for the terrible fate that befell LZ-486c… that information is unknown at this time. – Perseus Fractalthorpe Benzene IV, associate professor University of Doron, Nova Texum]
_
Ognark viewed the scene before him.

Carnage.

Absolute carnage.

Ognark thought of what he’d had to do to survive, he thought of his family and friends– he thought of home. But not his home, nor his friends, nor his family could help him. No, all they would be is a carnage ridden mess if they’d been there. Ognark Thistlespoon let loose a low whistle. He was actually rather impressed with himself.

Ognark was impressed that he then remembered that any friends and family he once had were dead, many by his own hand.

Normally, it was unfortunate tavern patrons across the land of Evarmoore who would fall to Ognark’s mighty blade, wielded by his mighty arms which ended in mighty fists. Normally, there would be a maiden or two left over– bar wenches, perhaps– who would yell things like “ra-pree-shus swine!” at him, expecting a child of Yonder Waystes to understand any of that nonsense. But this time… this time was different.

What was different, exactly?

Ognark thought for a moment. Well, for one thing, the gentlemen at his feet had been killed with one of those stick things that held up a kiosk awning thing. Ognark had not expected some random person in the Market Plaza to be so daft– or was it deft?– at removing his mighty blade from his mighty fists. That fellow probably didn’t expect the blade to instantly kill a near-by mule, but Ognark was digressing a bit. He was then distracted by the cobblestones and how all the blood–so much blood– flowed between them.

So much beautiful blood.

The mighty bipedal mass of meat thought again. How many people had he killed? He tried counting a few times. One, two, three… fifteen, sixteen… twenty, twenty-one?– it had to be scores. Ognark had trouble counting past the twenties, anyway. He didn’t know what a score was, really, or how many victims that could represent; but Ognark was quite sure scores of foes littered the plaza.

At this moment, the morose silence was abruptly shattered.

“Hoy! What is the Seven Hells has happened here? By Flurgstein’s enormous balls, this is madness!! You! You there! What has transpired here?”

Ognark saw a man dressed in what he believed to be the city’s garish colors yelling to him. The man had black hair, dark eyes and lots of facial hair, which was also black. Ognark decided to quit noticing him, because unless he was slaying him or loving him, he cared not for such trivial details.

Or entrails. Entrails are tasty if fried up right.

Ognark felt hungry all of a sudden.

“Trans… pired?” Ognark let the words flow slowly from his mighty jaws, “I don’t think weather has much to do with this, friend.”

The man screwed his face into an expression of sincere confusion. “WHAT? Who are you, sir? From whence do you hail? And what manner of creature was responsible for this slaughter?”

Ognark took in a deep breath. He then spied another dead body, this one covered in pieces of various fruits. Ah, that’s right, he mulled (or is it muled?). He had killed that particular fellow with the contents of a fruit cart.

His voice now a proud growl, Ognark spoke. “I would be that port-icular manner of creature, sirrah. ‘Tis me who purpose-trated this righteous fury.”

The man looked ill. He seemed to be trying to catch his breath.

Men who looked like this, Ognark thought, should be put to death for the good of the women who will avoid them anyway.

Ognark continued. “I pray fear you are next, for mighty Ognark Thistlespoon of Yonder Waystes will suffer no fools… uh, fool.”

The man whimpered. “But… but why?”

“Because ‘fool’ is all I can think of—Oh, uh, prices,” Ognark huffed, moving his long, jet black hair from his mighty face with a mighty hand, “Now be a nice man and fetch me my axe. It’s over there… in that rather portly fellow’s chest.”

The man dressed in the city’s garish colors promptly fainted.

“Useless,” Ognark muttered. People dressed as guards, or watchmen, or guards usually tended to be useless. Bribeable, sure, which made them slightly more useful when he needed to get in to places unnoticed, or hide in whorehouses, or to pay them to look the other way…

Ognark placed some coins in the trousers of the city guard (if that’s what he was). It was time to get going, and Ognark grabbed a nearby cart and started filling it with corpses. Finally, after a few minutes, locals began to show their faces, feeling safer in the fact that they could see what’s going on without losing said faces.

The barbarian looked around, made eye-contact with a few of those horrified faces and he smiled. He couldn’t really recall why he murdered all of those people. Was it a price issue? Did one of them aggress him? Hmmm… think to think about.

One thing was for sure. It was best to just slit the guard’s throat. The gold was left in his trousers… for the man’s family, if he had one. That was the right thing to do. Now Ognark had to leave this city, whatever it was called… he counted his blessings that everything occurred just outside the walls in the open market. He hated it when things got complicated and lead to putting yet another settlement on the list of places to avoid for awhile.

His mighty face let loose a mighty grin…

Once a mercenary captain he worked with, and eventually decapitated, told him that “it’s always best to look on the bright side of things”. Of course, the captain had said it when his head was still attached. His head didn’t say much after it was cut off, but once it was placed into a small burlap sack, local children seemed to enjoy playing games with it.

Our hero, heeding this dead decapitated mercenary captain’s words, continued to grin as he ventured back into the Wilderness. The cart creaked and the captured mules made unhappy noises. But Ognark didn’t care.

He now had meals and trade goods for his long and hunger-inducing journey.

***

THE RAGE OF OGNARK: Part II
Narkpunk
By S.G. Saunders

[The excerpt continues following a chunk that appears to be missing. Information as to what cataclysm befell LZ-486c is still under investigation– Perseus Fractalthorpe Benzene IV, associate professor University of Doron, Nova Texum]
_
–to which Mighty Ognark Thistlespoon of Yonder Waystes said, “I have no squirrel testicle sacks to trade, good madam. This here Ognark can go on no further unless he caresses one boob, at least.”

The Head Mistress of the Vorhees Haus of Pleasures simply sighed. She had dealt with this type before. Large, brutish barbarian types, who had nothing more to offer than a very large member. Most wielded said member like an unwieldy club.

“Fine. I’ll tell you what: You get me the venom-sacs from a poison goat, and I will accept that in Lay-Trade. Understand?”

Ognark understood.

It meant that he, of some tribe of he’s from Yonder Hills and Plains, would have his Lay-Quota filled for hours. Perhaps days. Okay, two days—but that’s not bad, really.

“May I feel boob for goodish luck?”

“Sure.”

Minutes later, after a goodish boob-rubbing, Ognark rejoined his life into Yonder Waystes and began trudging. And trudge he did… north… where the poison goat pickings were best.

Ognark HAD to remember not to eat the poison goats. Last time he had poison goats he fucked up and ate the beasts before he could turn them in for Better Food. This time it’s even more important. This time Ognark needed more boobies. This time Ognark needed a young woman—one who is willing—to spread her legs around his face and—

How long had Ognark been walking?, Ognark wondered. His thoughts had wandered, and thinking of women always made him think long and very hard. These things are tough, you see, as Ognark is a very visual thinker and he must make sure every detail is perfect.

Ognark is nothing if not a perfectionist.

Ognark was wondering what perfection tasted like when something had caught his attention. This was no mean feat, as hunting poison goats and blocking out things like deep thoughts was supposed to be hard or time consuming or something. But anyways, something was making noises further to the north. Banging noises. Evening was approaching, and Ognark, while not wanting to waste all these hours wasted in the Waystes, was curious to know about the banging noises and where they were coming from.

What was Ognark thinking about?

It doesn’t matter. He’d figure that shit out as soon as he got to where he think he was going or needed to be… if he needed to be someplace.

Eventually, Ognark saw something. It was a large carriage thing that looked like it was attached to a huge squishy egg. That huge squishy egg looked like it might have been full of air—or farts!—it certainly smelled like farts, Ognark mentally noted.

By this Thing was some man dressed all funny-like in leathers and wearing stupid things over his eyes tinkering around on it. The man reminded Ognark of the Rape Gnomes of Zurnch, so now Ognark was a little wary.

Rape Gnomes are badass and they rape you.

You probably know this already.

Before Ognark could fully decide how he was going to kill the funny-like man, the funny-like man spotted the hulking brute who is the hero of our story.

“Hoy, yew there! Come on over, then, I’s won’t hurt ye—I means no ‘arm.”

What the fuck was this ponce saying? Well, Ognark approached, regardless.

“Who are you? And have you seen any poison goats? Answer me, for Ognark’s need is great.”

The man smiled, “I see. Uh, no poison goats here, mate. My name is Doctor Steelstormface Esquire,” he started walking towards Ognark, “and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He extended his right hand when he got to our hero.

It took Ognark a moment or three before he realized that this… Face Doctor? Wasn’t offering himself up to Ognark as a meal.

Disappointing.

Ognark took the Face Doctor’s hand.

“So,” Ognark slowly started, “You are a doctor of faces… and you… sing in a choir?”

“Wot? No, no, no, mate. I’m an airship cap’n. I ride the skies in search of ahvencha.”

“What?”

“Avencha… er, adventure.”

The funny looking man smiled.

“Are you a Rape Gnome, sir?”

The funny looking man coughed, “Uhm, wot? No, I believe I am not a gnome, my friend.”

“A Rape… Gnome. And friend? Rape Gnomes like to say that sort of thing. That they are your friend. Or wife. Or overly promiscuous friend of an old war buddy. Rape Gnomes are very decep—decep—very tricky.”

“Look, mate, I am not one of these ‘Rape Gnomes’ you keep jawing on about– alright? You haven’t suffered from too much sun? A head wound I can’t see, perhaps?”

Ognark exhaled satisfactorily. There was no raping from terrible Rape Gnomes tonight, then.

“What are those weirdish things on your face, Singing Face Doctor?”

The man just sighed, “Singing Face… Right, so these are called goggles.”

“…I…see… and what do they do?”

“They allow me to see things without getting dust or bugs in my eyes whilst I pilot the Big Bird, ye ken?”

“Who’s Ken? Are you Ken?”

“No, I mean, do you understand… what is you name, by the by?”

Ognark beamed. “Please excuse my manners, Doctor. I am Ognark Thistlespoon, Mighty Marauder of the Yonder Waystes,” Ognark was pleased he had learned to introduce himself so well. Of course, Ognark still wondered if this Doctor Steelstormface was actually a Rape Gnome and just what the hell “esquiring” something could mean.

Was to esquire something to… bugger it like a Rape Gnome would? Those beasts were tricky. Oh, sure, at first they would be all fine and nice with compliments, and apologize for their kind—you know, the ones who end up raping people—but then they would lure you into a false sense of security. Usually with candy. Ognark loved candy.

Candy will never taste as sweet as it once did to poor Ognark.

“’Scuse me, guv, you somewhere else?”

Ognark had been staring at the Doctor. For how long? Ognark did not know. All he knew was that he should have deep suspicions concerning this man. While the Doctor was probably not a Rape Gnome, he could be in their employ. Those Gnomes: Tricky.

The whole “tricky” thing cannot be stressed enough.

“So,” Steelstormface said, “Would you like a ride in me airship?”

Ognark thought for a minute. Hmmm… To ride in this… airship… It would be fun. A lark. A hoot. A… an airship.

“I am scared of heights.”

“I see,” said the Doctor, “Well it’s quite safe, boyo.”

“Safer than a Vergontorpatersaur? Because one of those threw me. Hurt me bad. Been afraid of heights ever since.”

Doctor Steelstormface Esquire blinked. He took in a deep breath, “Look, Ognark, this is not a living animal. I can control it. It is perfectly airworthy, airsafe, and you will be rather comfy as we glide along the air at fast, but safe, speeds. Ye ken?”

Ognark furrowed his brow, “It’s not living?”

“No.”

The large barbarian of Yonder Waystes heartily laughed as he started toward the craft, patting Steelstormface on the shoulder.

The Doctor sighed relief, “There ye go, lad, that’s not so bad, eh?”

“No. Ognark is safe from being raped by a large flying animal.”

Our hero boarded the strange craft, noting that the fart-smell was coming from Steelstormface and not the airship…

***

THE RAGE OF OGNARK: Part III
Dirge of the Dirigibles
By S.G. Saunders

[Now, this excerpt pulled from the painfully incomplete texts, now called the RCO-01, seems to link closely—linearly speaking—to that last excerpt in what is now called the RCO-01 Sequence. Hopefully I can… massage a better designation out of an eager student soon. Perhaps Fabio Thurderstromklien…–Perseus Fractalthorpe Benzene IV, associate professor University of Doron, Nova Texum]
_

 

“WOT ARE YOU DOING, YE DAFT CUNT!?”

Ognark could barely hear Doctor Steelstormface Esquire, the strangely dressed man with the goggles whose airship Ognark was now in. And aside from that being unnecessarily too long of a sentence, saying “in” is a little awkward, since it was more like “being in a basket suspended from a large, oblong thing full of fart-gas or something incredibly flammable, or so Steelstormface had said”.

Then Ognark of Yonder Waystes wondered… in the last town he was in, why was there a market square outside of the city walls? And was it a town or a city? Just what is the difference between the two? A city is bigger than a town, right? A which point does one use terms like “hamlet”, “thorp”, “village” and “murder home”? These sorts of questions tended to creep up on Ognark like a stealthy Malalian Yak; and milk him of his thoughts that creepy mind-yak sure did…

“OGNARK! YE BASTARD! HELP ME UP OR—AHHHHH!!! I’M GUNNA DIE, MAN!!! HEEELLLP MEEEEE!!!”

Our large barbarian hero placed his hand by his square chin, as if we are watching him right now, with Ognark deep in self-reflecting thought.

Was killing everyone in that market square wrong? Perhaps if he mentally placed a tavern around the market square… yes, perhaps then it would make more sense. Perhaps.

“Doctor Esquire, I require time to think. You are making the wind silent with your screams.”

Ognark Thistlespoon fashioned himself to be a bit of a philosopher savage.

Doctor Steelstormface Esquire hollered unintelligibly some more. Ognark tried his best to tune him out. The strange little be-goggled motherfucker just didn’t shut up, you know? He yabbled on and on. He talked about airships. He talked about vintage leather clothing. Hell, vintage clothing? What does “vintage” even mean? Steelstormface also talked about everything in “punk” terms. His weird horse thing that he also talks a lot about runs on steam, so that horse is of “coalpunk” and “enginepunk” technology. The airship is a dirig…dirigible? The dirigible is “Luftpunk”. This all confused Ognark greatly, as “punk” means a dry wood used to start fires. “Punk” could also mean that you are in great danger if someone calls you that whilst in a dungeon. This be-goggled man annoyed Ognark greatly. Ognark’s renowned patience was running thin.

“PLEASE HELP ME UP!”

Ognark helped Steelstormface up back into the basket thing. They were high in the sky… many lengths of tall men, to be sure.

“We are up high, Doctor,” said Ognark.

“Yes, lad,” he replied, frantically patting himself for some reason, “Why did you let me hang there for so long?”

Ognark looked around, “Is this… airship hard to put back on the ground?”

“Of course it is, you big lug. And don’t even think of asking me if you can learn how to fly Mistress Abney Palmer again… that’s how I almost fell out!”

“Mistress Abney Palmer?”

Doctor Steelstormface Esquire looked like he was going to have a stroke. He rolled his eyes– and Ognark despised people who rolled their eyes.

“Ognark, you daft fuck, that’s the name of my airship. I’ve already told ye that, what, six times now?”

Five times. Ognark was counting. Steelstormface continued to fume. Ognark had tuned him out for a few moments. He thought of pleasant things… like butterflies and how they must make screaming noises you cannot hear when you pull their wings off; like desert foxes, who look at you so, so innocently as you politely explain to them that they are being turned into fur coats.

And then Ognark noticed the meat flaps, on the face of a man with strange facial hair, moving up and down. Up and down. Warm air being pushed through a meat hole.

This punkman may be worse than any Rape Gnome, or even a dreaded Dire Gazebozelle, or rightly feared Soul Gargler.

“…well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

Ognark simply shrugged.

“I’ll figure it out.”

“You’ll figure what out you fucking oversized moron bastard—HEY!”

Ognark grabbed Steelstormface’s goggles. The little punkman was weak and small, and so it was easy to tear off the goggles and wrap them around his punkneck. But first, Ognark decided he would tear off Steelstormface’s funny moustache and teeny, dwarf-woman beard.

Doctor Steelstormface Esquire screamed. It was music to Ognark’s ears. Music that didn’t suck. Blood began oozing out of the annoying man’s face. His eyes bulged as Ognark wrapped and squeezed. The glass in the goggles broke and was promptly pushed into Steelstormface’s throat. He looked to Ognark, his terrified eyes full of the knowledge that he was most certainly doomed.

Doompunked, thought Ognark.

Steelstormface tried to pry Ognark’s mighty, meaty fist-hammer from him, but to no avail. If he wasn’t being choked, he could have easily convinced Ognark that he was a petty excuse of flesh and weak and sad about something, like a woman leaving him for another man with fancier clothes. But this is probably why Ognark went for his throat first. That is where the “talky spirits” lived. Ognark must kill them all.

Wasn’t he supposed to be looking for poison goats? Ugh, our mighty pile of muscles thought, I am severely lurking in focus and organizational skills.

Lacking. Whatever, you damned mind-thing.

Within seconds, Doctor Steelstormface’s talky spirits had been shushed on a permanent basis. Ognark could still feel his Rage growing.

“Come now, you esquirey, stringy, limp piece of fuck-shit! Let’s see how YOU land.”

And so Ognark threw his former comradepunk out of the basket place thing. If the poor, unfortunate and funnily-dressed man had survived the meaty barbarian’s assault with his mighty meat-hammer fists and god-killing grip, then he would most likely die on impact a few moments later.

Ognark looked around to find what Steelstormface had called a “spyglass”. Ah, there it was. Ognark put to his right eye and quickly tried to see where the Doctor was… and was amazed that he was easily spotted due to all the frenzied writhing he was doing in midair. Ognark lost sight of him as he fell into some trees.

Wait. Trees? Shit, this meant they had gone farther than Steelstormface had said! There were no poison goats to be had in the woods. Ah, perhaps this was why Steelstormface insisted on doing most of the journey above the low-hanging clouds, citing excuses like “safety” and “navigation”. He also has spoke of needing to be higher up for his astro… laid? Lame? Laybe? Something like that. Something about his astrolaything working better when he could see the stars at night.

Now, how the tears of countless dead babies could help you find anything, anything at all in the world, baffled Ognark, but Steelstormface seemed to know what he was talking about.

Unless he didn’t. That is entirely possible. Anything is possible, including, but not limited to, quickly aged cheese that is safe to eat.

Ah, Ognark hungered so. He had forgotten to save the Doctor’s body for some vittle-snacks. All that was left to eat on the Mistress Abney Palmer were crackers and dried vegetables. And rice. Was it rice? Whatever it was, Ognark promised himself that he would immediately disembowel any travelling companions in the future who claimed to be a part of some cult that worships a god called “Vegetarian”.

Ognark needed to land the airship. He looked up at the gas-filled bladder thing suspended above him. He seemed to recall Steelstormface pulling on some ropes. He did so, and the airship lowered a bit. Ognark shrugged and tore off the javelin launcher that was attached to the side of the area he was in.

He pulled on the ropes again. And again. Ognark looked over the safe. Lots of tress. He was still pretty high up, but the gas should release faster—but not too fast, as that would mean falling to his death.

Ognark launched a javelin into the airship’s float bladder.

He hadn’t been told that the javelins were explosive. The gas inside of the bladder was explosive, too.

The Mistress Abney Palmer engulfed almost entirely in flames, she plunged to the forest below. Ognark just smiled. He wasn’t on fire yet. He may survive the rapidly impending doom that was spelled “Airship Disaster”.

There’s always a bright side, you see.

Flasher Fiction: Bruise

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on September 27, 2013 by synabetic

And here’s another. Might as well get them all up here for people to see… not a bad haul for one day. Right? Anyhow, I hope you enjoy this one.

Bruise
by Steven G. Saunders

Can’t figure out where this bruise came from.

It’s on my arm and looks like something has gripped it tight. It’s not from an injection or bug bite. I know what those look like. No, this is a strange bruise… no idea where it came from.

Yesterday was like any other and today seems like more of the same, although it’s only morning and it’s tough to say how my day will pan out.

Probably like every other day.

The bruise hurts. But it doesn’t hurt like a normal, sort of dark bruise does. I can feeling it going deep. And every time I look at it I feel sick to my stomach. What kind of bruise does that? I don’t know. This bruise, I guess.

I don’t think I’ve put this much thought into one largish bruise since I was little.

Back when I was a kid, I would get into all kinds of trouble messing around. If there was a fence needing someone to pee on it, I was your guy. If there was a roof to jump off of with only a terribly knotted sheet to save you, I was the kid you gave some M&Ms to and off I went. I jumped off of bridges into streams, crashed my bike into parked cars; I even accidently set a neighbor’s shed on fire because I accidently built a bomb out of spraypaint, cans, and matches. Oh, and sheer little-kid determination. I was the freaky terror of the cul-de-sac. I was the kid who chanted nonsense as I tied your kids up with jump ropes to telephone poles and later explained it as a “simple Satanic ritual”.

Yeah, that kid.

One day, I was grabbed by one of the neighbor dads. Floyd’s dad. I remember him clearly. He was an odd sort of father for the timer, with visible tattoos and longish curly hair. He also had one of those horrible bushy moustaches. I don’t know what he did for a living, but he liked to walk around his home in old jeans, shirtless, and in his bare feet. On the day he grabbed me, I had explained to Floyd that the glue I was using on his dog was perfectly safe, and Shemp should be okay… but maybe it would protect him from cosmic rays. When Floyd’s father showed up from inside the house, garbed in his usual at-home “attire”, Floyd cheerfully explained to him what we were doing.

Look, I didn’t want to hurt the dog, okay? I had other ideas. Hurting animals for no good reason is fucking unforgivable.

flasher_fiction_bruise

My arm was grabbed, and a bruise was left. Now, I had all sorts of background in excitement and daredevilry by that young age, but this new form of excitement was different. I was never afraid of my parents, and I knew they loved me. Floyd’s dad openly referred to me as a “freak” and never hid his contempt. He grabbed me and yelled at me and soon after I could hear my mother calling for my father on that nice summer day in the American South. My father stormed over and gave Floyd’s dad a talking to. My father, while accepting, had little patience for what he was calling a “goddamned piece of shit hippie burnout”. And he led me away…

Soon after, Floyd and his family moved away.

While I silently watched out of my front window as they loaded the moving truck, I occasionally looked down at the bruise Floyd’s dad had left on my arm. It was darker than other bruises, and it was obvious he had grabbed me too hard. My arm ached, and my mom sprayed Bactine on it because she thought it would help me “make it feel better”. I knew Bactine should burn, especially in the eyes (as Tom found out), but I let her think she was helping. I took some Aspirin to make her happy, too. The pain didn’t bother. Floyd moving away didn’t bother me, either.

Not much bothered me, actually.

The bruise did trouble me a little, though. I kept looking at it. It was slow to heal. A couple of nights later, I woke up at around 3AM and looked at it some more with my camping flashlight while under the covers. This wasn’t too unusual as I tended to wake up late at night in the hopes of catching ghosts going about their daily business, pray for demons, look under the bed for monsters I could keep as pets, or just mentally shout out for space aliens to hear my thoughts.

I really enjoyed being a little kid.

The bruise eventually healed and I went on with my life, growing up, becoming more confident in the world around me and how to best interact with it. But I could never stop thinking about it.

The bruise. It was a lot like this one which has appeared on my arm. Same place, even.

It’s cold to the touch. Like a chilled ice cube tray. Bruises aren’t supposed to be cold, I know that. Bruises are supposed to hurt, feel like the spirit under the skin is encased in styrofoam. Feel like broken vessels in the greater vessel of the Whole. You know?

This bruise is different. I think it’s trying to tell me something.

It’s odd to think that Floyd’s dad could stay with me for over thirty years. If there is any being who has haunted me, it is him. He might be the only thing I have ever been scared of. When I was little, I imaged him as the spectre of death. When Floyd moved, I felt nothing. But as I got older, I began to appreciate his father had moved away and it was unlikely we would ever meet again.

I could never shake it. So, one day, I hired someone to track him down based on the information I remembered. It turns out that Floyd and his entire family died in a terrible accident two states away and my fears of his father were just plain stupid.

My friend was dead, sure, but his dad was dead and that’s all that mattered to me.

I then led my life fear free… until now. With this bruise.

Where did it come from? Why is it here?

My fear free life is marvelous. Nothing holds me back. I do what I want. I need to be cautious, of course, but I can pretty much do as I please because I am very likable and eager to please people.

Everyone likes a people pleaser.

The bruise feels colder now. As if it has gone deeper. I don’t understand it, so I will take into account what I am doing right now.

I am not at home, like I was thinking. It isn’t morning. The day hasn’t changed. I am very cold. Something has gone wrong. But what? All I can feel is that bruise.

Floyd’s dad begins to haunt me again; right here, right now. Everything was exact. There was no room for error because I left no room for error.

Dammit. Some people just get lucky, I suppose. Even alcoholic home healthcare workers all alone on a Saturday night watching Friends reruns.

The bruise. It’s trying to tell me something. I have a hard time hearing what it has to say over the ringing. All I can hear is Floyd’s dad yelling at me. Screaming. Shrieking. I don’t… I don’t even know anymore.

Did I ever leave that instance in time?

Am I still there?

The bruise is done speaking.

It is time for the bruise to take me.

Flasher Fiction: The Writing

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on September 27, 2013 by synabetic

Since I’m writing some story things, here’s another one. It hasn’t went through the vetting process the previous one did, but I will say James will be reading this one first, so I might change something between now and when he provides feedback. If he provides feedback. Or maybe you could; if you’re not James, I mean.

The Writing
by Steven G. Saunders

I enjoy writing. Well, not all of the time… I have to make time to enjoy other hobbies, like mounting insects I have captured in nets and in other various ways; reading through old comic books that others, before me reading them, have thought unpopular; studying up on the intricacies of Albanian history; and numerous other things I do to occupy my time before I do a jazzy shuffle off of this mortal coil.

But there’s always the writing. It calls to me. But not in the way other writers say it does. Many of them try to be cool and hip and edgy about it, as if they actually read The Shining first before seeing the movie when they were younger. Some writers make it all look like some sort of compulsive addiction that they must appease, like some sort of hungry demon who feeds on words falling from the fingertips of high-purposed booze-hounds. Some writers do it for the money and pretend that all the ad-copy work eats at their souls, when in fact they are powerless control freaks who will never understand their own misery is, in fact, themselves. Other writer-sorts just shit things out like they have a kind of intestinal infection of the mind, crapping out pieces like this one, hoping later on that they correctly channeled Bukowski as some kind of hilarious blood-drunk gremlin, with good ol’ Chuck pissing about and pissing in everyone’s faces.

I was going to make some more shit references, but I seem to enjoy that sort of thing too much, and I don’t want to come across as a scatophile.

Writers have all kinds of explanations and excuses for their passions. It’s just a thing people do, you know? But what they will never tell you is about what lurks within. In order to be a writer, you almost always have to be a narcissistic egomaniac who loves your work above all others. You will befriend other writers, and if you determine they pose no threat to you, you will stay actual friends with them. Usually, though, we end up in situations like this one, where jealousy and envy on both sides escalates into a silent emotional war of wills. No one ever admits to it, or talks to it, because while writers are chatty wordsmiths, they hate telling you how they actually feel.

Unless it profits them in some way, of course.

Writers fashion themselves to be storytellers, much like how you fashion yourself to be some altruistic archetype for your profession, whether it’s police officer, school teacher, brain surgeon, or drugstore cashier. Justification is what it’s all about.

Human beings seek justice in their own justification.

One time I was wandering about, looking for bugs. And I found one, this little, brown Hesperia Juba. I caught it in my rugged sweep net; rather unexpectedly, in fact. I instantly thought of another writer I know, one who never ever supports my work… but always expects me to support theirs. There are many of these people, because that’s how people tick, but this person especially irritated me, so I gently removed the butterfly from my net and stared at it.

the_writing_butterfly

I imagined the writer I was thinking about as duct taped to a wooden chair; you know, like those ones used in old schools, or found along the side of the road; and I imagined them with their mouth taped shut. As I took my phillips head screwdriver, I quietly muttered that I should have selected a standard screwdriver and punched holes into the duct tape on the writer’s mouth.

I was… uncareful and stabbed him a little, but that’s okay as this was just a silly fantasy. I then took the butterfly and crammed it into his mouth, shouting terrible obscenities at him. As I ordered the writer to chew the butterfly, I covered him in kerosene and set his naked body on fire. I filmed it all, taking special note of his burning genitals. The writer’s screaming could be heard through the holes in the tape, and I could see little butterfly wings being spit out and catching on fire.

It was beautiful.

As I sighed at this gorgeous dream, I placed the Hesperia Juba into my mouth and chewed. It felt good. It felt… complete.

But not quite. I was talking about writers and I’m a writer, so I will continue with my thoughts on writers.

Writers will always be hiding something. They always have hidden something. It’s why they write. Hiding things and keeping things from others is how they learn how to lie, and all writers are proficient, hardened liars. Even if they have nothing to hide, they will envy those who have things hidden and make up hidden things to hide from others.

Part of being a writer is wondering if you’re crazy, too.

Of course, it’s everyone else who is crazy. Especially other writers. Whatever brain chemistry it is that makes people feel special and unique, writers produce twice as much of. Whatever hormones cause greed, envy, jealousy, and wrath, writers have three times as much of. Writers also know what’s best for them because they always know best. They are better than you.

I am better than you.

I am a writer, after all.

If there ever was a creature who was undiluted in their toxicity, it is a writer. And when writers mix, the result can be a nasty cocktail of pure bullshit and hurt. Most writers are weak, though, which explains their typical demeanor.

I’m different, though. I’m special. I was an athlete in school. I played college ball. I can run, jump, talk fast, restrain, and stay calm. All at once. I am rather proud of these features. I deserve to have pride in myself. Most writers are overweight, depressed, and quite literally mad. Whether they have developed some sort of psychological malady or they are angry about something, writers are fully predictable in their want for unpredictability.

Writers never see me coming.

They’re easy enough to track down, to follow, to talk up. You feed their egos. Nothing feeds their egos better than complimenting them on their work. They also like to drink. The ones who don’t drink love to tell you all about not drinking. All writers talk. All writers will disagree with what I’m saying because I am touching their hidden place. But they will know what I mean.

Writers are easy prey.

Most writers will tell you they know a lot, but, like that kids from the Encyclopedia Brown stories, they couldn’t defend themselves if their lives depended on it– as it often does. Now, Sherlock Holmes could defend himself. Did you know he was created to be a master of a particular fictional martial art called Baritsu, which is actually a real martial art called Bartitsu?

See? Writers are smart.

One time, a man disagreed with me about my Sherlock Holmes facts. He won’t be disagreeing with me anymore.

Writers encapsulate hubris, and if you can use that hubris you have the most finely crafted sweep net in the history of sweep nets. Writers love to talk, which is what I’m doing right now, and…

And you found him. I see.

Did you find the wings?

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My fellow writer and dear friend, Josh Wagner, suggested something that I originally felt when writing this piece, anyway. Originally, this story ended with “I feel it’s in my best interest to tell you nothing else until my lawyer arrives, detective.” Now, some folks may like that– which is why I have added this note. Others might feel differently. Actually, let me know what you think, because one day I will be putting together a collection of these stories, and I’ll love to know what the “final form” should be.

Flasher Fiction: Today

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on September 27, 2013 by synabetic

Sometimes I write things on a whim, edit them a little, bounce them off of a couple of people, edit them a little more, and then just release those writings into the wilds. I want to do more with essays and flash fiction, so here we go. Feedback is always welcome, and while I hope you like it, if you don’t like it, well, free free to speak up. I don’t judge. Anyhow, big thanks to Nicole and Seith for their feedback on this one.

Today
by Steven G. Saunders

Today I came to a realization.

I mean, that’s the way it always goes, right? You wake up, urinate, think about food, maybe, or maybe you take a shower. I usually take a shower. It helps wake me up. Sometimes I even start my coffee maker before I get into the shower.

When I’m in the shower, letting the warm awakening wash over me, I think. My thoughts flood my brain like some sort of relaxing storm. Sometimes these storms focus on one thing that’s been bugging me.

That particular sometime is today.

Because today I came to a realization.

Later, and it’s always later, I drink my coffee whilst checking emails and glibly wondering if I’m anything like my parents who used to always start their days reading a newspaper. Then, and it’s always then, it hits me and I must go back to the bathroom and endure a violent bowel movement. You’d think that I would do this before I shower, as, well, you know how it goes. Or might go. There’s no need for you to imagine me shitting.

But during these shittings I think. Again. Always with the thinking, I am. Heck, I’m thinking right now. While I think, sometimes I circle back to what’s bugging me. It’s some sort of loop that carries on from the shower. And sometimes within these sometimes, I can work it all together like a seamless Mobius strip with my thoughts running along it as if it were all perfect bio-circuitry

As I have said, today I have come to a realization.

By this point, I am making some breakfast. It’s usually toast with butter, but sometimes I decide I should cook up some bacon or eggs. It all depends on time. I prefer to have a job to physically go to, as it forces me into a schedule. A routine. I need routine, you see. Without it I am lost and my thoughts, while still perfect, begin to wander into territories that would make my normally bland life more complicated. Well, sometimes, anyway. I couldn’t be complicated all of the time. That would be a chore. A complex, yet mundane, chore. It would be like building this amazing robot thing and leaving it in some dull gray primer color.

Yes. I enjoy robot things. Who doesn’t?

While I go through my routines, I will let my mind wander. Which is what I was trying to stop in the first place, but I’ve had no need to go into a work place as of late, so my wandering mind just wanders as it pleases.

It tells me I have come to a realization.

Maybe I need another shower. I think more clearly in the shower. There I can — Wait — No, I should see if I need to shit first. Perhaps I need more food. Ugh. Dammit.

I will drink some water and see if anything changes.

A doctor once told me that there are these pills which would help keep my mind from wandering. Something to do with ADHD or something. Sadly, I could never tell any doctor everything, but I assume this one was close to some kind of mark by telling me about some pills. Or something.

Did you hear that? Huh.

What was I talking about? Oh, yes, so my mind wanders… I distract easily. You understand, right? Everyone gets distracted. But does everyone really get all concerned over whether they should shit or shower first? Have you ever shit in the shower? I have. I was really sick. And I suppose it was embarrassing. No one saw anything, though, and I never told anyone about it. Until now. And I don’t even know if I should be ashamed. People’s bodies do all kinds of things.

I always go back to my coffee. I pretend to do my work assignments at a normal pace, as if I completed them the way I normally do in an official manner, suspicion would be raised. Do you know what I mean? If people think I’m very smart and efficient, they will expect more of me, as if my job and what I do for money is even of any consequence. It all means nothing. I mean nothing.

You mean nothing.

But, hey, the bills being paid leaves me for more time to myself. For my mind to wonder.

For me to come to realizations.

Like the realization I had today.

Everyone says that everyone must have a purpose. What purpose would that be beyond finding food and someone to couple with? Have children and raise them so they too can learn how to find food and couple with someone when they are older. Or perhaps when they are younger, but I find those kinds of thoughts disturbing. And unnecessary. Plus, when I do think about that sort of thing all I can think of are people who, for some reason, have an unstoppable desire to throw their wooden shoes into the giant wooden gears of life and then they always — ALWAYS — seem to regret their choices. Oh, but they don’t actually regret anything. They use regret as a cloak so they can find more little wooden shoes and giant wooden gears to fuck up. It’s insane, really.

I would love to say I love insanity, but, honestly, it’s all very tiresome.

Now, I don’t want you to think I’m driving myself crazy with this realization thing I’m talking about. I keep mentioning it so you feel an air of mystery blowing over, maybe even making your nipples hard.

Really? Did it? I was just talking about child molesters and now you’re saying that you’re thinking of someone blowing on your nipples? That is truly fucked up. Truly.

But what am I realizing here? What am I doing? You keep asking me that. You also keep asking me who I am, which is completely fair.

My realization is exactly who I am. This is why you are here. Do you understand, now?

Now, my mind wanders no more. Now, my mind is focused. I have to have a purpose other than eating, shitting, pissing, fucking, and finding methods to pay for all of that stuff, including the pipes in which all my piss, shit, and used condoms goes down.

But, really…

Really, I needed money for this. You see it? It’s nice, isn’t it? Yeah, it took awhile to find but the devil is always in the details. Always! It’s nuts to think that while you’re trying to get your mind focused your mind begins to wander, turning in on itself, opening a whole new Mobius strip of dimensions and possibilities.

My realization is a universe within universes.

I can see it now. I see you now. I see you asking me over, and over, and over. I see your lips moving, but all I hear are shaped jets of air trying to tell me something I will never, ever consider. It is this realization that has you here now. Watching. Waiting. Needing explanation.

Today I came to a realization.

I feel better now. Better than I have ever felt. It’s warm, this calm. Like the shower. It’s a shower I can always take, whether I am shitting or not. Whether I am reading the newspaper or eating or checking my email. It’s all over me. It’s all over my clothes. On my breath. In my soul.

I want you to think of this as I push this in. I only hurts for one monument of a moment in time. Which means nothing. Just like you mean nothing. Just as I mean nothing.

I looked so hard for it. This painful, but quick, nothing. I wanted it to be just right. For you. To perfectly fit you. Honed for you. My thoughts of you driven into it as I will drive it into you. Honed to perfection. To perfectly fit perfection.

You are perfect just the way you are. Now I have you for me, and only me, and I have made you so you will be perfect…

Forever.

The State of the Diabeetus and Other Wonderful Grim Realities

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , on September 18, 2013 by synabetic

Been a while, so I figured I should post something. On goes the writing soundtrack, which includes a nice mix of industrial music and movie and video game soundtracks. ‘Ere we go, ‘ere we go…

As it so often is, this post is inspired by a Facebook post I made and the resulting discussion. Also, I was an asshole to a buddy for no good reason– sorry, Ed. But he got me thinking and the blerging began, coalescing into this post here.

I have Type I Diabetes. I have been diabetic since I almost died from it at 19. Diabetes changed my life. Diabetes saved my life. Diabetes completely ruined my life. It continues to be a part of my life, and will no doubt be there when I finally go to where all expired human meat goes one day.

Why I am a diabetic is still a bit of a mystery, but doctors mostly all agree through the years that it’s because of a severe auto-immune response to having mono and the resulting response murdering the shit out of my pancreas. My own stubbornness almost killed me, and I ended up spending some time in a military hospital wondering what the hell happened to my life. More stories not even related to this follow, but the diabetes has always been there, no matter what I so, who I am, whatever the amount of booze I drink… and it’s fucking horrible because all things that make normal feel good makes me very sick as a result.

My immune system is a complete motherfucker, too. The very thing that made me have this shitty disease also attacks my joints, gives me allergies to everything, makes me constantly ill, and does not help my back injuries one goddamned bit. As a result I am angry, depressed, and sometimes wonder why I’m even alive. While I made the selfish decision to have children, it is them who keep me alive. I don’t want them to see a world without me while they’re still children, so I soldier on.

I have nearly died a couple of times because of diabetes. I have had the living shit beat out of me because I was in insulin shock and some dudes wanted to beat down a “faggot”. Sadly, those guys had no idea what an enraged diabetic who lacks a fear response can do, and my hands still bear the scars from the teeth of the person I crippled. And no, I have no regrets over that one. I’m here, aren’t I?

One time, I was rushed to the hospital nearly dead as the result of my girlfriend at time refusing to call an ambulance… she was upset about me not cleaning the kitchen or something. My blood had become an acid compound, like some sort of dick-Alien from a horror movie. I had to be brought back to life after hours of work on me. I made it, though. That to is a story in and of itself, but I want to move on right now…

Now, see, a lot of folks just don’t really know what it’s like to be a diabetic. It sucks, sure, but they simply don’t know and we can’t blame them. Furthermore, while all diabetics can feel like we’re in this together, we Type Ones laugh at this utter bullshit. It’s not that we think Type II diabetics deserve scorn– oh, we feel our diabetic friends’ pain. But we have it worse– and even better if you consider we have to artificially regulate ourselves and can live for some time with out all the weird fluctuations Twos get. So, this isn’t me saying “fuck you” to Type II diabetics– love to you folks, okay?– I’m just saying that being a Type I diabetic is it’s very own dark vortex of itchy assholes.

You meat bags love lists, so here, get to know Type I and other diabetic stuff:

As a diabetic…

+You have to take insulin; 2-3 different kinds EVERY DAY multiple TIMES A DAY.

+You have to measure EVERYTHING FOREVER.

+You will never feel “normal” again. Ever. Waking up ALWAYS feels like one of those non-diabetics’ puny hangovers.

+Pain is every day. Somehow. Somehow you go on.

+Everything you eat is monitored. EVERYTHING. Holy shit, most people would kill themselves over this. I know a guy– a great guy– that went on a paleo diet and complained about it. I felt for him until I thought “OH, I’M DIABETIC”.

+You will die a painful death if you’re diabetic. You have known this since you were young and invincible if you’re a type I.

+It will get worse. Death will be slow and painful. You are already dying. Huzzah.

+You will fall apart. While some people talk about relationships and weight issues, you think about going blind, your legs falling off, or simply having a seizure in front of your kids.

+Having fun is never fun anymore. There’s always something telling you “Be careful or you will fucking die”. That something is DIA-fucking-BETES.

+People think it’s your fault because diabetes is obviously caused by being American or something.

+Type I’s are almost all auto-immune related things… so we’ll develop ALL KINDS OF FUCKHORRIBLE PROBLEMS.

+Even if you take care of yourself, you will still live 20 years less than everyone else and will die a painful and slow death.

+Fuck it, I’m eating some motherfucking ice cream.

+All type I’s are really, really depressed.

+Being diabetic also means you probably have money problems or are poor. Working sucks as a diabetic, and no one gives a single fuck about your illness and think you use it as an excuse to get out of things.

Feel free to add more in the comments, but this is making me even more depressed than usual, so I’m gonna stop with that list right there.

[[Before we go on, some of you might need a quick lesson in the two primary types of Diabeetus. Okay, so Type I Diabetes is, like, where your pancreas doesn’t work at all and you produce no insulin. Type II Diabetes means wonkier regulation and the pancreas working sometimes. It’s much, much more common, and yes, it can result from poor diet. Usually, One hits you younger whilst Two hits you when you’re older. If you are still confused and need to know more, follow the links and freaking learn something, dammit.]]

Another thing we diabetics FUCKING OH GOD WE FUCKING HATE is when one of you non-diabetics try telling us that we can cure our diabetes through diet, prayer, going to Denmark, avoiding microwaves, eating organic foods, homeopathy, etc. Look, I know you just want to help… I get that. But come on. STOP. We are sick of hearing it. Know what you know? Fucking NOTHING. I’m sorry to sound like a big meanie but, uh, I have a high blood sugar. Yeah, that’s it. I’m usually very cool about friends offering advice, and honestly, I don’t want them to feel like they can’t do that– I speak of those people who don’t even know me and offer me bullshit advice like I should fucking listen to them. And the best part? If I give them dietary advice, they blow it off as “opnion”. OH IRONY, YOU ARE A HORRIBLE BASTARD.

Please note: When a diabetic of 20 years or so gives you dietary advice, LISTEN.

Food is everything to a diabetic. It’s what saves us and kills us. It is our life-raft in a bullshit sea full of hungry monster sharks who hate diabetics but want to gobble us whole because we are so sickly sweet. My whole life revolves around food, water, insulin, and test strips.

Oh, shut up, meat-stick, I know everyone needs food. But I need it more than you right here, right now. Okay?

Hydration is the constant, pooping monkey on our backs, too. Or, dehydration, rather. We need more liquids and yet can never get enough. Our whole lives are found finding a balance and realizing nothing matters and we’re just biological machines who need more repair more often.

See, being a diabetic is about hard REALITY. And, yeah, I know it could be worse. You have cancer? That sucks! I feel for you; I truly do. But when you make it through your cancer, you will be done with it… or maybe you will worry about it coming back. I don’t know, really, cancer is different for everyone. But one thing I do know: When / If I get cancer I will fucking DIE. And if I live (because I’m a mutant) I will still have diabetes. If I win the lottery, I will still have diabetes. When I watched my sons born– THE HAPPIEST MOMENTS OF MY LIFE– I had diabetes. Shit, having great sex… still have diabetes. And maybe my blood sugar was high, so it hurt when I orgasmed.

Yeah. Having sex while you’re diabetic sucks, too. It’s even more fun if you have a sudden drop in blood sugar and don’t notice. The sexy times with someone convulsing on top of you? SEXAY.

I can’t enjoy a bowl of ice cream. Well, I can. But then I need to take more insulin… which is hard on my kidneys… and then I think of my favorite grandma dying in the hospital because she did the same thing… and I am always happy when all my tests come back and my doctor says jokingly that my organs are amazingly harvestable. Good news, right? I’m a mutant! Goddamned Wolverine! I even have hair that grows like his! Oh, but that will end one day.

I will fall apart piece by piece, bit by bit. This is why diabetics drink, by the way. People will be, like, “Oh, you shouldn’t do that! You need to stop!”. Oh, go fuck yourself, you horrible piece of shit. We already judge each other as diabetics; the last thing I need is some fuckwit trying to tell me what I should do for legal fun. One guy– ha, this kills me– one guy said one time that he didn’t want to pay for my medical care because I abused myself– AS HE SMOKED. Hey, guy? Die in a fire.

In reality, many diabetics do try to stay in shape. This is why we “don’t look sick” a lot of the time. We stay fit, eat right most of the time, and stay frosty about everything because we know our deaths will be painful, horrible, and slow. We want to stave off the reaper for a long as possible. When was the last time you thought about your death? I think about mine constantly. Every time I eat, every time I take one of my 3-5 shots a day, every time I take my pills (12 a day or something), every time I try to relax with a cocktail at a tapas bar, every birthday, every time I hug my youngest son when he wears a dinosaur suit. All the time. Every day. All day.

Depression? Sure. It’s the kind of depression that makes you laugh at everyone elses’. Oh, girlfriend dumped you? Rough story, bro. I have to eat this cottage cheese or my partner is going to find me dead beside her one morning. She probably will anyway. I could have a fatal stroke RIGHT NOW. Anyone could, but I am far more likely to than the average, non-diabetic person.

I try to have a better outlook by reading about terrible things. But just think of this: If you are a diabetic who survived the Holocaust… you still have diabetes. Ugh, those poor, poor souls. I guess the… upside is… that there’s little chance a diabetic… could have survived a camp? Shit. That makes me want to cry. Nevermind the fact that being a diabetic in the 40’s was a direct ticket to early death, anyway.

Eventually you learn to live with the diabetes. You just accept it after awhile. You just stop telling people to shut the fuck up about it. Sometimes, though, you get to know another diabetic who’s self-destructing hardcore. I knew a guy back in Seattle who was like that. I’m positive many people reading this felt the same way towards me. But this guy already literally had one foot in the grave– his leg had been amputated. He ended up dying young. I mean, he was around my age, but his condition was advanced. He just didn’t care anymore. Everyone in the goth-industrial scene in Seattle was affected by his death. I asked the dude from VNV Nation to dedicate a song to him… partially because some of the deceased friends asked me to, and partially because I knew the deceased would have appreciated it as he wasn’t the biggest VNV fan.

That guy’s death had a different effect on fellow diabetics I knew in the scene. All of us– I think, anyway– were a little annoyed by the outpouring of sadness and sorrow. How come we got lectures while you yahoos bought that dude drinks? You know that he talked funny because he had severe neuropathy, right? I can think of a few of us who discussed it privately. We all toasted to his life, regardless of our personal opinions on him. No one deserves to check out as a diabetic mess. Especially intelligent, creative individuals who really tried at life. But he gave up. He committed slow suicide, it would seem. Nowadays, people regard that person as a sad footnote in their lives, but we Type Ones who knew him never forget The Diabetic Who Led By the Example of Dying. We all took permanent note– duly. We knew we didn’t want to be him… and I’m pleased to say we’re still alive. At least the individuals I’m thinking of.

I think of the time being brought back to this shitty world, puking up my guts at the hospital while they tried to stabilize me.  I asked if I could have a cigarette and the nurses and doctors laughed. Then then tried to give me a shot of something and I went into seizures. The ER doc told me later that he never, ever believed in gods or miracles, but he never had seen someone survive what I went through.

And I thought of that time when I started to collapse at an IHOP in Seattle years later. I had a seizure, I was told by the concerned looking gangster guys who were helping me. Everyone thought I was just some junky, but one gangster guy had a diabetic cousin and he knew diabetic reactions when he saw them.

Another thing diabetics have to learn is that no one cares. Those guys who helped me only did so because they grew up with a diabetic. Unless you are closely acquainted with the disease, it’s just a nuisance to you. You know, like handicapped people. If you’re not handicapped, well, fuck handicapped people. I only know this now because I walk with a limp and Canada isn’t as polite as you think it is.

I won’t even get into all the stories I have about being in insulin shock. In short: “Diabetics are rude!” Unimpressed, humanity.

I should wrap this up for now, but I could go on and on; and surely I would offend somebody even more. If what Is say bothers you, well, you know how I feel. You know how diabetics feel. And if you were that guy who tried to tell me at PAX one year that diabetics should be euthanized, please understand that I enjoyed the fear you expressed when I told you I was diabetic and am a crack shot.

Okay, back to being in pain, enjoying a messed up back, a CTD, diabetes, and coffee. Be good to yourselves and, most importantly, to each other.