alexandergeorgeyoung

[alexandergeorgeyoung]

He sits in his mansion      and calls her names. ‘Stop changing your name,’      The boys form a circle ‘I had no idea it was you.’      and point. ‘Act like a cunt,’      he laughs ‘Get called a cunt.’      from atop his hill. ‘You were doing so well,’      like a good girl ‘For a while there.’      in her place.

Notch reprimands Zoe Quinn, a response.  ( https://twitter.com/notch/status/874107099604688896 )

[alexandergeorgeyoung]

Short Story | Fanfiction

Dark Souls fanfiction.

The Abyss crept slowly into Anor Londo.

There was nobody to protect him and Gwyndolin was alone, small and frail, trapped in a corner that was only safe for so long. His breath shuddered against his lips, chest rising and falling more rapidly than it had ever had to— in all of his life, he had never tasted fear such as this and now that it struck his mouth and clouded his mind, he was terrified and cowering, whispering desperately to a father that would never hear his pleas.

Stubbornness was what had kept him safe all this time and now it was the sword that he fell upon. When his sister had left, she had begged him to go with her but the spark of madness in Flann’s eyes made him look away and shake his head. The look of disappointment was burned into his mind as she embraced him one last time and when he felt the swell of her belly against his own, a pang of jealousy dampened any warmth he may have felt.

What was it that he had done?

If they had despised him that much… then why did they stay for so long?

Was this retribution for fooling the Captain? For throwing his valiant soul to the monster that scratched at his doorstep and scraped across the marble tiles and left blackness in his wake?

It was a plan gone horribly wrong, but how was he to know that he had tricked the wrong man?

At one time, he had been a man, but… that was so long ago that Gwyndolin had forgotten his face. He had even spoken to him, addressed him as the Chosen and underestimated him from the very start. He was… what the others had been so deeply afraid of.

The sound of teeth on meat crept around him, echoing vulgar down the halls.

There were no more bodies in Anor Londo but his own, withered and gaunt from the years of deprivation. Gwyndolin had grown, but it left him ungainly and awkward, tall and lithe and angular. What little flesh that had softened him and filled his hips and breast out when he was young had rotted away until he was skeletal and masculine, narrow and ugly to his eyes. His thighs didn’t touch and the serpents that his legs tapered into were as bony as he was— there was no meat for the Devourer, but he came for him anyway.

Time’s ravages had chewed Gwyndolin into a shape he despised and left him cowering beside his father’s tomb, pressed into the smallest corner that he could find as the final illusion that protected him shattered. He held his breath and wrapped his hands across his mouth as he shook and bootsteps on dusty marble marched down his hall, accompanied by the sound of a writhing mass. Cracks and scrapes of bone on stone confirmed his worst fears.

Aldrich had found him and there was no escape.

Please, Gwyndolin. Father would hate to see us apart like this, we need to be together. We’re family, Gwyndolin, don’t ever forget that.

“… He is here,” rumbled a voice that made even non-believers sit bolt upright in the pews. “Leave him… for me.”

Is… this about the baby? Gwyndolin, please don’t look at me like that—

“Are you afraid, Lordling?”

Flann would never do that. Don’t be so unfair, he’s a good man—

“Come, now… I will wear you more proudly than any other. You are so beautiful… so much more than I…”

It’s a girl. We’re… going to call her Ocelotte. Just… you know where we’ll be.

“I shan’t rush you.”

Had he rushed Nito?

Gwyndolin shuddered at the thought of the giant’s bones disappearing into that black mass, ancient marrow rendered down to nothingness in the Saint’s tainted, warped body.

And… he was going to go into it as well.

Aldrich sounded like footsteps in slurry as he rose up like a snake, his body a blackness-dripping skeleton atop a bulky body of corruption as he came into view over the tomb and looked down into Gwyndolin’s corner. He slid across the lid of the grand monument, seeping abyssal slime as he stretched with an obscene noise and closed in on the cowering God. Nito’s hand reached out and wrapped around Gwyndolin’s arm with ease, dwarfing him completely and without any effort, lifted his skeletal body as if he were made of feathers.

“Time… has not been kind to you, has it?”

Gwyndolin sobbed, choking on his own tongue.

“My poor, poor boy… do not think. Close your eyes…”

Blackness engulfed Gwyndolin’s hand and bit. He whimpered as the first blossom of pain sparked and spread rapidly as his flesh was stripped, nerves tore and tendons snapped, until he felt the bone crunch and splinter and when it was let go, he was paralysed by the sight of his wrist weakly spurting blood.

His head began to spin, vision dotting black.

“… and dream.”

[alexandergeorgeyoung]

Short Story | Fan Fiction

Deus Ex: Human Revolution fan fiction. Adam Jensen deals with his traumatic near-death experience, which shredded his limbs, innards and mind. Replaced with military-grade cybernetics that he did not ask for, he must come to terms with his radically-shifted body.

The anger gave way to emptiness far more quickly than he thought it would.

Sometimes, that emptiness mingled with a formless sorrow that perished under another dose of painkillers, washed down with a shot of whiskey to blot the fires around the mottled junction of shoulder and metal. It was a routine; a depressing ritual. He’d never had to bother with the fuss of syringes before, and ibuprofen and paracetamol had fixed him just fine. He’d not been one to stare into the light-marred cityscape before him until then, when his eyes wandered and fell out of focus at his desk. The muted shades of amber were not interesting, but neither were the thoughts in his head.

It took him a while to warm to the idea of looking at himself. His body became something he was detached from, something that he no longer had a connection with– his hands had been clumsy, heavy things that did not work as he wanted and he hated lingering on his legs. His chest was a mangled web of branching scars. He hated the feel of the rivets.

The bandages stayed wrapped around his foreign hips, which he covered with his boxers- the long, vile black metal bones of his legs jutted out from his flesh, material pooled around them in absence of muscle.

Contemplative silence filled the days. The neighbours argued. He stagnated.

Cigarettes. More whiskey bottles to be recycled.

The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog, again and again and again. Awkward, childish scrawl progressed ten years in three hours. He downed another two capsules in celebration and went to bed.

There were bad days and there were worse days, but they blended together, broken up only when the cigarettes and cereal ran out and he had no choice but to shower, shave, dress and feign functionality. A check up here. A restock there. Boxes left unpacked and bed left unmade. Mail half-read. Thank You notes unwritten.

Smoky ticking drowned out the silence on the worn, striped couch as dissipating white sinuated upwards, followed by vacant eyes. His fingers made the smallest of whirrs, barely masked, as he ground out the cigarette he held and watched the last curls disappear in the high ceiling.

Adam didn’t really feel like Adam any more.

Perhaps it was for the best.

[alexandergeorgeyoung]

9.9 Shock Factor! Todd Howard prepares for a slow walk to the glue factory. The actual results rarely matched up. He used sex as a ruse for murder; A systems-driven murder simulation. It’s compulsive and repulsive at the same time.         Indecent proposal! He was left with an open wound that exposed muscle and bone. This kind of statement was typical of the designer, geeing up to the press to write optimistic stories of what was to come.

found poetry, assembled from lines from magazines: EDGE magazine and Chat magazine

[alexandergeorgeyoung]

Play in-browser at itch.io.

[alexandergeorgeyoung]

Play in-browser at itch.io.

[alexandergeorgeyoung]

Prompted Fiction

PROMPT: First line of a story. Taken from J.G Ballard, The Complete Short Stories.

On the morning after the storm, the body of a giant was washed ashore onto the beach.

An ill omen, if ever the villagers had seen one. The steep cliffs above the shore had served as protection from the outside world, their home a ramshackle shanty town built into the recesses of cliff and the last of the land in a cove where the tides could not reach. The presence of the body spelt only one thing, and that was that the giants were moving, stirring from their slumber with a thirst for their bones, weighing up their time to strike.

The soothsayer stood over the body with burning bundles in hand, smoking the devils out of the carcass before they had a chance to burst forth, miasmatic and choking, to kill them all in their sleep. Behind him stood the last few able-bodied warriors with axes in hand and when the wise woman stepped away, they descended upon the giant and carved it into great chunks with difficulty— the creature’s hide resisted blades and the bones took saws, but they broke it down and went through the remains with the old woman, picking it clean of material.

Giant’s eyes, they said, were where their power laid. They were larger than the broadest man’s fist and dwarfed their leader’s hands, where it suddenly seemed so clear how old she was becoming, withering before their very eyes as the siege yawned on. They weren’t to worry, she said.

But they had every reason to worry.

The giants were patient, eternal. The humans were fleeting, weak.

All they needed to do was wait, as they prepared for the ritual.

[alexandergeorgeyoung]

Prompted Fiction

PROMPT: First line of a story. Taken from J.G Ballard’s The Overloaded Man, 1961.

Faulkner was slowly going insane.

It had started as a scratch in his thigh that demanded the scrape of his nail. When he was suited up in his plate, it became more complicated— it spread down his leg and pooled in his knee, then dripped down, slowly, to his ankle and spread like piss in his boot that didn’t cool. He hit it harder against the stone floor when he walked, his lopsided gait so unlike him that it began to draw attention.

That night when he stripped himself of metal and bore his flesh to the damp dark of his chambers, he descended upon the sensation like a man possessed, but his nails were not long enough. They groped at his leg, blunt and soft, and with a desperate growl, Faulkner’s eyes darted around to find the next best thing.

On the low table by his bed sat a stiletto. The blade was finely-forged, hand-finished for him personally with blackened steel cross-guard that blossomed into wings at the edge and sat crowned with a ring of gold. It was gaudy for a man of Faulkner’s position, so he left it be on the wood, gathering dust.

Faulkner stared at it.

He swallowed.

But by the time it was in his hand, the feeling had gone.