See

This is on The Obscurian, but I don't want Chupacabra to be stopped, even though I don't think any of us look at it anymore. Oh, sad.


Summer crawls 'til Winter snows
And all will come undone
People crash while no one knows
That none of us have won

All wear masks to hide the pain
And truth is buried deep
Twisted tongues will lie again
For pride they wish to keep

Vile words spat without thought
Cut deep into the bone
See the mess that Man has wrought
Blind to what we're shown

Dumb Light

Sky full of flies
Fault lines breaking up the ground
And it’s so easy to fall with the sun blacked out
See, they build them steeples high
There is one truth I’ve found
Even with your eyes wide open, babe
Aint nowhere to go but down

So I’m down here with the locusts, love
Marching in no direction

Trying to keep these fuckers off my heals
Trying to keep from getting eaten
See, down here we all cannibals
Gregarious little creatures
We'll eat your flesh and pawn your watch
at the first sign of weakness

And the locust king is a pretty thing
I spent a year between its thighs
It taught me how to sing a pretty song
And how to weave a pretty, pretty lie
Said there’s a reason for every thing we do
And ya'll beholden to me
Each of you is a sad collection of
Myths and dreams and ennuii
And each myth exists, you see
To support the next in line
We've stacked them all right here
The big one on top is mine

And they say one day a hero'll come
To seek repudiation
They say that he'll be gaily dressed
And in the highest fashion
And all that bling may mean something
But your own dumb light is blinding
Your the answers to the riddles
Your the deapth of any hell
Heres an empty bag and heres the cat
Heres the bottom of the well

writers group revival

What this town needs is a genuine revival! My house, December 7'th. It will be like the Christ-ass episode of writers group, complete with crying and hugging and a great big, solid, dripping moral at the end!!!

XOXO

P.S. There will be cookies and wassel, but bring something you stingy lechers!

The Experiment...

This might actually count as an experiment in terms of both the title of the story and the fact that I was high as a kite on Nyquil when I wrote it. Not only that, but this one is another of what Crease calls "my diarrhea stories", written in about twenty minutes. Tell me what you think. Please.

"Please, Mr. Gordon. Have a seat."
Donald looked around the small room, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. But there were no speakers that he could see, no glass that would signify a two way mirror. In fact, the only thing that he could see in the room was a chair that reminded him of the one that graced his dentist's office.
He sat, and the chair reclined automatically.
"Are you comfortable, Mr. Gordon?" the voice said, and Donald sat up to see if he could pinpoint the source again. A small metallic arm darted around from behind the chair and pushed his head around until it faced forward. "Please, Mr. Gordon. Let the chair do the work. Now, are you comfortable?"
Donald flexed, trying to see if there were any cramps currently or that might form if he sat long enough. "Yes, I guess so."
"Mr. Gordon, I don't mean to sound rude, but you may be here for quite some time. We want your visit here to be as pleasant as possible. So, if you feel anything, please, say so now, and the chair will automatically reconfigure itself to find your maximum level of comfort."
A little impatiently, Donald said, "No. I'm fine."
"Good," said the voice, and two steel bracelets clamped down on Donald's wrists, locking him into the chair.
Donald immediately began to struggle. "What is this?" he shouted.
"Please, Mr. Gordon, don't fight. The restraints are merely part of a complex biometric system, designed to measure the slightest detail of your bodily systems. Right now, we are showing a thirty seven percent increase in your heart rate and a twenty six percent increase in your blood pressure. Neither of those are good for a man of your advanced age, Mr. Gordon. Now please, just try to relax. Besides, as we said, you may be in here for a while, and any abrasions you might make while fighting against the restraints would not be able to be treated until we are done in here."
Donald took a deep breath, and tried to relax. He looked around the room for a moment, trying to focus on something to take his mind off the chair. It was impossible, though. The room was completely nondescript institutional tile on all four walls. The door that he had entered was precisely fitted with the wall, and he couldn't swear to its exact position.
"Commencing study on subject 1437-Alpha. Are you ready to begin, Mr. Gordon?"
Donald felt a drop of sweat rolling down his nose, and his entire body ached with the craving to wipe it away. Instead, he watched it trickle inexorably down his nose and dangle, seemingly for an eternity, before falling into his lap with a nearly inaudible plip. "Yes," he said, trying to keep his mind off the next drop of sweat that was already beginning its long journey.
"Very well. Now, before we proceed any further, let me ask you this. You have signed all of the appropriate paperwork, including waivers, insurance forms, and next of kin, is that correct?"
"Yes, yes. Is all that really necessary?" he asked.
"Certainly. We are reasonably confident of the intended outcomes of this experiment, Mr. Gordon, but there are always aberrations in any experiment. Hence your forms, as well as this confirmation that you are here of your own free will."
"Yes, that's fine. What are you guys working on again?"
There was a moment's silence, and then the voice came on again. "We are testing the strength of the fear impulse, Mr. Gordon. Specifically, we are testing whether you are more afraid when you know that the objects aren't real, or when you are not in on the joke, so to speak. You, Mr. Gordon, are part of the control group. We have let you in on the joke, as I have said. You are going to be subjected to a gauntlet of common phobias, but rest assured, they are all simulations. You are not in any danger. However, once the experiment has begun, you may not leave. Mr. Gordon, this is your final chance. Can you speak very clearly, so that we may record your response for prosperity. Do you wish to proceed with this experiment?"
Donald watched a final drop of sweat drip from off his nose, and then he said, "Yes."
"Very good," the voice said. "Beginning phase one."
Suddenly, the lights went out. Donald tried to see or hear anything in the blackness. For a beat, there was nothing, and then he heard, or thought he heard, a gear turning.
The lights came on, and Donald was staring down into an abyss. He was dangling at least a mile in the air, his legs pulling down with the intense force of gravity, and he could feel the breeze buffeting him. He felt his stomach drop, and he looked aside to make sure the restraints were holding him. As he watched, he could see a gear turning within the chair, the restraints loosening bit by bit. Three more revolutions and he would be falling, end over end, towards that cold, unyielding ground so far below. Two revolutions. Donald held his breath. One revolution, and Donald began to pray.
The gear made its final turn, and with a sound as loud as judgment, the restraint popped open, and Donald began to scream.
"Interesting reaction," the voice said.
Donald opened his eyes. He was back in the room, the same blank white walls staring serenely out at him. His face was pouring sweat, and he wished that he could wipe it away. But the restraints were still firmly in place, and Donald wondered whether they had ever opened at all.
"Let me again reassure you, Mr. Gordon, that all of these are merely simulations. You are in no danger whatsoever. Now, are you ready for the second phase?"
"Can I get something to drink first?" he asked.
"Of course," the voice said, and a small mechanical arm rose out of the machinery again. Instead of swatting him, however, this time it was holding a glass of water out to him. "And open, Mr. Gordon."
Donald looked strangely at the arm for a moment, then opened his mouth. He choked for a moment, then was able to swallow. "Are you ready for phase two, Mr. Gordon?"
"As I'll ever be," he said.
"Good," the voice said, and the lights went out again.
This time, there was no grinding of gears, but there was a sound, and not only that but a sensation, as well. It started around his ankles, slowly rising up his legs until...
The lights came on, and Donald was sitting chest deep in cold water. Out of nowhere, the blank white walls had formed spouts, great mighty fountains that were gushing gallons of water into the room; and the water was rising at an incredible rate.
He twisted in the chair, trying to get away from the water (and that's what it was, it couldn't be any simulation for he could feel it lapping at his chin even as he twisted), but the restraints held him tight. The water rose higher, higher, until it was past his lips, into his nose, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't even think of anything other than the fact that he was drowning, oh dear God, drowning...
And then he was back in the room, his clothes dry except for the sweat that was quickly drying in the cool, white room.
"Well, while there was no vocalizing this time, your heart rate jumped exponentially. Are you ready for phase three, Mr. Gordon?"
"No!" he shouted, straining against the restraints with everything he had. "Let me out, you never told me that it would be like this."
"Mr. Gordon, we told you everything that we would be doing. You are entirely safe, Mr. Gordon. These are simply simulations."
"Simulations, my Great-Aunt Ruth. I nearly drowned and you guys were just sitting here watching it all go down."
The voice sighed. "Mr. Gordon, let me assure you, you are in no danger whatsoever. As I have told you time and again, these are merely simulations. In no time are you in any danger. Would it ease your mind if we warned you what phobias we will be testing?"
Donald looked around the room for a moment, thinking back to the last time, when he'd been straining for a hint of what would happen next, the waiting almost worse than the actual test itself...
"Yes," he said. "Yes, please."
"Good," the voice said. "The next test is arachnophobia, then."
The lights went out then, and Donald struggled to remember what exactly that meant. He'd heard the phrase before, certainly, but right now he couldn't think what it related to. There was a mythological precedent, he remembered, a weaver named Arachne, and she'd been punished by being turned into something...
He felt the first prickle as something made its way up his leg.
The lights came on, and it all came back to him then (spider Arachne was turned into a spider arachnophobia is a fear of spiders oh jesus), and he locked eyes with the thing crawling up his leg. It was huge, it's body roughly the size of a softball, and it wasn't the only one in the room. The room was alive with them, their hairy legs ticking maddeningly on the white tile floor and walls and ceiling. The walls were white, he knew they were white, but to his eyes they looked to be a thick, undulating brown. The one crawling up him had worked its way up into his lap now, and he could feel the legs of it digging into his stomach as it began climbing up his chest and towards his face. Donald began to scream...
...and the lights came on again.
"Mr. Gordon, are you all right?"
His brow was sweating, and again he wished that he could wipe it away, or that the arm would dart out of the chair again, this time holding a handkerchief to wipe his sweating forehead, but the arm stayed secreted away in the machinery, and his restraints were still locked in place.
"Are you ready for the final phase, Mr. Gordon?"
Thank you, God, he thought, and aloud he said, "Yes. Please, I just want this over with."
"Very well, Mr. Gordon. The final phase will be fear of abandonment."
And the lights went out.
Donald waited in the darkness, wondering what horrors he would be confronted with when the lights came back on.
A minute passed, then two.
After ten minutes had passed in the dark, he began to laugh. A simulation, he thought. No danger whatsoever, he thought. Any minute now, the lights will come back on and I will be free from this hellhole, and I'll be able to put this nightmare behind me.
Any minute now.
An hour passed.
Then two.
On the second day, Donald began to scream.

The Exhibitionist

Crease woke up tonguing another face in the sandstone. His cough, like the braying of a autistic donkey, protruded to lift a murder of dessert birds from their vigil. They had perched, he surmised, for the better part of the morning waiting for him to regain consciousness. His tongue was swollen and soar when he tried to speak.

"Flech eateen philisthines! Dont eefen have the dethenthy to eat a man while heeth too numb to notith!"

His helpless flailing, big and awkward like that of something to heavy to support itself, fell short of frightening the birds. In the emptiness of their cackling he could skry laughter, malevolence, enmity. They circled once. He tried to to stand and did a sort of ragdoll summersalt instead. He hoped someone was watching him. Possesed of a constant need to feel abberant, he started to piss and cackle like a hyena, just in case. Like Hemmingway said, he thought, no one can stand before a bar with dignity. Fuck if I can't have it here though.

"C'mon you thtupid dino'th!"

He knew they had him this time, lemming that he was. Fuck, he hoped someone was watching.

Eat, you little shits, eat!

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