glassweb - Tumblr blog

[glassweb]

Why not.

[glassweb]

One day, there was a thief.

"This man has stolen," announced the guards, "we demand justice."

"Death to you," the king said. And when the king speaks, so his word is law.

"Please," the thief cried, "have mercy on a simple father."

But the king had spoken, and the thief was taken away.

Then, there was a soldier.

"What has brought you before my throne," asked the king.

With a bow, the soldier said, "I hail from your neighbor, a traitor for your crown. Use me as you see fit."

With narrowed eyes the king once more called for death, "how can I trust you, who has betrayed your land. Death to you."

And when the king speaks, so his word is law.

Lastly, there was a murderer.

"Punish me," he said, "for I have killed more of your people than any other."

The king simply laughed, "you who have served my family well, why would I punish you?"

"Because I deem it just," replied the murderer.

But when a murderer speaks, so his word is not law.

---

Crows cawed in time with the drip, drip, drip of sweat on the ground, the sun baking their black feathers in the blistering heat of a bright summer day.

Drip, drip, drip.

Drip, drip, drip.

Drip, drip, drip.

Blood.

Hot, salty, drip, drip, dripping from an axe. From the block.

From the head at the murderer's feet.

So much, too much.

Drip, drip, drip.

Wood, stained too many times over. Brown with iron.

One last neck.

Drip, drip, drip.

To die by the axe of the murderer was to die of shame.

The murderer felt none.

Drip, drip, drip.

Drip, drip, drip.

Drop.

The crows held their tongues, waiting. Watching. The drip, drip, drip from life to death.

The drip, drip, drip.

Pop.

Of eyes opened beyond death.

And the murderer screamed.

If someone is killed, however many years they would have lived is added to the killer’s lifespan. For as long as you can remember, you have been an executioner.

[glassweb]

Ok so question 1: Do you need a prologue? Prologues can be long and boring for a lot of people, depending on the topic and the writing itself. Is it something necessary for establishing context or is it simply a preface to the main plot? Does the information you want to convey fit better being revealed within the story itself?

Question 2: Why do you need a prologue? Hopefully this gets answered when thinking about the first question, but if not, what information do you need to put into the prologue? Why does it need to be there? How can you best convey that information in a short time? Can it even be conveyed in that short time? Does the reader actually need this information? Basically, all the fun stuff that needs to be thought about in depth before answering question one.

Tip 1: Keep your prologue short. It shouldn’t be too meaty, so don’t worry about making it so. Only put in information that is necessary but do so in a way that makes the information interesting and gripping.

Tip 2: Be descriptive. Prologues are often the most skipped part of literature, so make sure that you’re packing it with relevant details that will make it interesting. You don’t want people to be bored.

Tip 3: Only go over one scene. If you’re attempting to set up a sort of backstory, try to do so in a way that summarizes said backstory in a singular sequence of events. Flashbacks are not great to put in a prologue, so it may be best to go over events from the perspective of someone other than the main character. Speaking of which...

Question 3: Who is within your prologue? Is this a glimpse of the protagonist’s backstory? If so, refer to question 1. If not, who is being portrayed? Are they a part of the protagonist’s main story? Do they appear again throughout the story? If not, it’s better for the reader not to know them. Getting attached and used to a character that will not be utilized later on isn’t something that people want.

And of course, Tip 4: Know who, what, where, when, why, and how before starting your prologue. Who is in it, what are they doing, where are they, when is this set, why and how is it happening, and what impact will it have on the story itself. Physically writing the prologue is only the second step of writing it. The first is blocking out what exactly the situation is.

I have no clue if any of this is really useful, but I guess the big takeaway is that you should only add the context of a prologue if it’s needed or a truly good addition. Fingers crossed it helps a little.

Any tips with writing the prologue? I'm losing my mind here

[glassweb]

To Walk is to Run: 3

Forests had always called my name with hushed tones. Quiet enough to be drowned out by my own desires, but always loud enough to raise a gentle hum in the basin of my skull.

No matter where I went, I always wanted to be near the trees. Near the green jungle filled with bustling life and the soft sound of water. At one point, it had been a dream of mine to live in the middle of the woods, the flora and fauna my only neighbors. It would be a world where I could forget everything else.

Of course, real life doesn’t often allow for those fantasies. So, I acted as a responsible young adult. I went through college, got a job offer much too good to refuse, and found myself looking for an apartment in that beautiful city.

I didn’t expect to hear the forest’s call again for a long time.

The forest is a demanding thing, though, and I awoke to the smell of leaf mulch and damp wood.

It took a moment, but with a start I realized where I was. What had happened.

My hands, scuffed up as they were, stung as I put my weight on them to stand. Standing proved to be too much of a challenge, and I simply sat down on my heels, knees screaming in protest. 

As I scanned my surroundings, I noted that I had gotten further into the wood line than expected. From my spot on the ground, I couldn’t see the small stone wall that I’d scaled what felt like minutes before. The trees cast long shadows down onto me, and I couldn’t help but shiver when a cold wind played with their leaves. Leaves that scattered sunlight down to the ground below.

A beautiful place, it was. 

A place that I couldn’t stay.

Perhaps, for a while, I would be able to sit though. As uncomfortable as I was, I needed a plan, and quickly. 

There was no way that I could head back to the city. I was positive that it had already been overrun by the monsters that we had witnessed in the square. There were always worse outcomes, but I tried to put them out of my mind.

It was likely that the rest of the world had at least heard about the event by now - hopefully - but there was no guarantee.

I needed somewhere safe. I needed somewhere that I could actually think. With people who understood what I needed, what I had caused.

It was a simple solution, really. I was surprised that I hadn’t thought of it immediately.

I needed my family.

They were out there, somewhere, and they needed my protection. I needed their help.

It was with a heavy sigh and a creaking of bones that I finally stood, hands and knees raw from my impact. There was a sharp shot of pain up my right arm, and I looked down to see a monstrous gash snaking its way from my thumb around to my elbow.

The perks of adrenaline, I hadn’t even noticed that I had hit something. Or maybe it had come from my tumble in the woods. Either way, infection was sure to set in quick without any form of treatment. It only served to make the situation more dire than before.

A fun way to derail the straightforward plan.

Step one, find supplies to treat my injuries. 

Step two.

Find my family.

[glassweb]

To Walk is to Run: 2

When I was young, so young I had nearly forgotten the memories, a gravestone had appeared on my street.

It was a simple thing, with the stereotypical shape that every Halloween gravestone has and a few lines of text too beaten down by the weather to make out. That, of course, didn’t make sense. One day the stone wasn’t there, and the next it simply was.

Despite the suddenness of its appearance, the neighborhood treated it as if it were a normal part of our day to day lives. Despite the fact that around it lay a blackened ring of dead moss and even more dead insects, it was simply accepted.

They all moved on.

Strange occurrences like that had followed me through my life, more often than not having to do with the dead and their cold hold on the world of the living.

Having spent years attempting to flee from the ghosts of people unknown to me, I knew that running was futile.

Running was what I did, though.

Away from the strange little gravestone. Away from the skeletal hand hidden under the porch. Away from the knives that would hover threateningly over my roommate’s sleeping form.

Away from the sight of two bodies, spasming on the ground of a pretty little plaza, crowned by a delicate smattering flowers.

Out of all the sights that I had seen, the bodies had been the worst. And so, like always, I ran. I ran faster than I had ever run before, feet hot from the friction they made with my shoes. Chest heaving with breaths that would not leave my lungs. Heart heavy with a scream that couldn’t be voiced.

I ran until black spots crowded my vision, familiar white stars dancing their way through my eyes. It was as if they were taunting me. Dangerous and kind, at the same time. If I closed my eyes - if I stopped moving, even for just a moment - I would fall. And I would fail.

So, I pushed forwards.

Further and further until the built-up streets turned to sprawling markets, and telephone poles faded to towering trees.

Then, finally, there was a wall.

It was a small thing, built of old stone and covered in a thin coat of moss. It was obviously from some other time, where people cared enough to stack rocks so lovingly. When farmers would painstakingly drag them from their fields in an attempt to keep the bad things out, and the good things in.

I could only hope that it - a little border between the known and unknown - would serve to be enough. Stretching behind it, endlessly rambling on, was an ancient forest. A stark jump from the busy, frantic city. A city which was on the verge of collapse. A city faced with a terrible curse.

A city dealing with the fallout of my presence.

Those thoughts, elbows linked with millions of others, swirled around my head as I slowed - for only a moment - before placing my hands on the rough wall and vaulting over, stumbling as I hit the natural forest floor.

This is my fault, and I am running.

This is my fault, and I cannot stop.

“This is my fault,” and my eyes closed, welcoming the call of the rushing green and brown ground.

[glassweb]

In all my travels, I never encountered a lifeform with minds as confusing as those of human beings. 

Where other aliens think in simple words and phrases, rarely ever conjuring up images - at least ones that somewhat resemble the object of their thoughts, humans were capable of reaching such feats and even surpassing them.

Through humans, I have been able to see images in my mind, unlike anything I had ever experienced before.

And this amazing ability extended even to the smallest of humans, who could imagine the faces of their parents, and know what sights meant that their hunger may be satiated, or their discomfort cured.

The oddest thing, however, might be that humans feel no need to limit their imaginings to the reality of their circumstances.

If I were put in their shoes, with abilities such as theirs, I would no doubt try to use them for a practical purpose. Surely such a powerful skill would be able to be put to good use. Projects wouldn’t require drawn out and overly complicated blueprints. Memories of complicated medical procedures could be clearer and the increased experience could provide a safer environment for patients and doctors alike.

And maybe, were we able to replicate humanity’s mindscape, we could do simpler things. Things that, on the surface, had no practical value. But things that could give us life.

A world where other lifeforms could create art out of thin air. Write stories about made up characters and landscapes. The same characters and landscapes that flashed so quickly through the mind of a daydreaming human.

What a waste, I had always thought. To have such an incredible and amazing skill. Only to use it as a simple distraction. As an escape when their minds became dark with boredom. 

Some humans can’t do such things, though. And they never seem upset about the waste. So, what right do I have to be? If those who are part of the same species don’t feel resentment because of it. If those robbed of this amazing talent learn to live with it, why can’t the rest of us?

Still, the worlds that humans can create are amazing. Sometimes they’re boring or sad, but often humans imagine rolling landscapes of vibrant colors. They’ll close their eyes and see a dark surface switch chaotically from a texture rough as uncut stone to smoother than the finest glass. 

The shapes and images that they come up with are ones that we could only dream of, if we could dream in a meaningful way.

So really, my goal with this is to express to humanity just how precious their gift really is. That they should cherish it as much as they can.

That they don’t forget, even in this ever-expanding world, that some of the brightest beauty can come from inside their heads.

As it turns out, aliens all have aphantasia. This makes Humans the only species capable of imagining images in their heads. This greatly confuses alien telepaths, who report seeing “constantly shifting landscapes of alternate realities” when peering into human minds

[glassweb]

The moon had always been your favorite.

The glaring sun was always so intent upon beating down upon your back. The harsh burn of its light only added insult to the injury of your already damning situation.

Your shoulders were heavy with the weight of your pack, burdened despite its meager contents.

A sleeping bag hung off a set of straps at the back, and the inside was laden with pots and pans. The occasional piece of produce or thick protein bar were nestled within the pockets formed by the metal, though you could say with certainty that the latter did not get removed often. Those were only for emergencies.

Your pack, heavy and - strangely - small as it was, had more pockets than you cared to count. Each sported its own little patch, denoting what could be found inside. There was one for matches, another for toothpicks. Yet another for the various assortment of pocketknives that you had found and nursed back to health over the years you had been running.

And yes, if the pack hadn’t been heavy enough already, you always carried it at a minimum of a jog, with the exception being the rare times you would allow yourself to sleep.

Even when you would stop at various stores or pass through bustling markets to pick the pockets of every wealthy man you could see, you never stopped moving.

Such was the task of racing the sun.

The planet moved fast, and that was always your main concern. No matter how quickly you moved, the rotation of the earth would always be able to outpace you. Unless you went somewhere that it hardly ever set.

So, despite the constant heat, your feet were always cold. Your fingers never stopped feeling as if, were you to hit them hard enough, that they would shatter. Every piece of your body felt like a fragile icicle, trapped in the war between the sun and the arctic circle.

It had taken five years to reach the place, your doubt in the ability of modern transportation to get you there while the sun still shone driving you to run, row, and ride across the world in frantic circles until you finally made it to your destination.

What was it all for, though? 

Without a purpose, your constant suffering would be for nothing. What drove you to such extremes?

A simple human emotion, known by the name of spite.

This curse was a petty one, laid upon you by a witch who felt scorned. Scorned in the simple act of letting a door shut. She hadn’t been near enough. It would’ve been awkward to hold it open while she was still a good forty feet away.

But no. She was used to “chivalry” and being treated like a queen, because once upon a time that was exactly what she had been.

So it was spite. Not some noble desire or remorseful woes. Simple, vile spite.

Spite that told you to survive, no matter what challenges may arise.

Spite told you to outlive the bitch.

And outlive her you would.

You were cursed to “die the next time the sun sets on you”. That was 10 years ago. You’ve been racing the sun ever since.

[glassweb]

For a long time, there was nothing but darkness and a single pinprick of light, far off in the distance. Part of you thought that you must’ve been in hell, and the light that you could see was heaven. That you were just too weak to reach out and grab that speck. If you did, maybe something else would appear. Perhaps you would find be in paradise instead of purgatory.

Time slipped by like molasses, and the light remained as far away as ever.

Until you looked away.

And when your eyes found their way back to the light, it seemed to have grown. If you had been able to gasp, or widen your eyes, you surely would’ve done it. For the time being, you just kept staring.

Until you looked away again.

And the light grew in size. Again.

Amazed, you looked away as long as you could, until the smell of dirt found its way to your nose, reminding you of times long gone by. Digging through mud in a hot garden, side by side with your mother. Your fingers, chubby little things, grasped at long green stems that rose from the earth.

You felt your skin warm under the close light, much like that of the sun. You hadn’t even known that you were cold. 

And, finally, you looked back at the light. 

A blinding light, a beautiful light. A light that was slowly seeping into the remaining darkness. And for just a moment, your world was nothing but a pure white spectacle.

Suddenly, it was gone. As if it had never been there at all. Certainly, it had, though. The smell of dirt was so strong. A great weight pressed down on your chest, so heavy that you could barely breathe.

Wait.

You couldn’t breathe.

Desperation began to claw its way up your throat, the burn of bile announcing its presence as adrenaline began to pump through your veins like fire.

All you could taste was earth as you gasped, desperately attempting to take a breath, clawing at the weight the whole time.

Slowly - very slowly - it loosened. You weren’t out, but you weren’t dying. Odd. Little by little - slowly - you scraped away at your cage, fingertips wearing themselves raw and bloody. 

And eventually, you were free. Alone in the open night air, stars winking at a skinny slice of the moon.

All around, the groans of other people rose up in a mournful choir, questioning the same moon that you were transfixed upon. Hundreds, if not thousands, of voices rose in tandem with yours, crying out in pain. Shock. Fear. 

Maybe even love.

Love for people they hadn’t seen in too long. Love for a world that accepted them back with open arms. Love for the soft, silver light that outlined the blades of grass and leafy trees.

That love sent you walking. Nothing mattered but finding more love. After too much of nothing, you felt like you would die if you didn’t feel your mother’s embrace. Your father’s warm hand, buried in the hair atop your head. The laughs of your little brother and sisters.

Before you knew it, you were running, trying to find something recognizable, scanning the empty streets for signs of anyone who could point you in the right direction.

You kept running, sprinting ahead on bare feet, definitely just as bloodied as your hands. As you ran, you noticed others doing the same. Dark figures in the night, inky tears running down their faces as they cried out for someone - anyone.

So distracted, you didn’t notice that you were going to run into one of them until you actually did, sending both of you sprawling onto the hard cement.

The person - a young girl - sent a glare at you that quickly turned to horror. You were sure that your face showed much of the same. One of her eyes was milky white and the other, completely nonexistent. A single, dark socket stared at you. Ragged hair framed what was left of her face, and her body was in much of the same condition.

You were sure that you showed much of the same.

Desperation, different this time, welled up again. This time it was spiders across the surface of your skin. The night was suddenly too cold, the light breeze that stirred the trees one that sent pinpricks across your skin.

You had to find them, your family, fast. How much time did you even have left? How much time until your body failed and sent you back to the endless void, with that one taunting light?

How long did you have to tell them that you loved them?

Certainty of your fate tugged at your heart as you swore to yourself, to the twinkling stars, and the mystical moon. As you swore that nothing would find its way between you and your family.

The love.

Life itself.

Nothing.

A zombie apocalypse movie but from the perspective of one of the zombies.

[glassweb]

I used to think of myself as unbeatable. To a point, of course. I was aware that there were some mortals out in the living world that were certainly more skilled than I, but I was confident in my ability to force a soul to move on when its time came. 

Arthur was the exception.

No matter what I did, he fought tooth and nail to return to humanity.

At first it frustrated me. I had spent billions of years shepherding the souls of man and beast alike into the afterlife. Who was this single, old man to deny the natural process as many times as he did?

On year 101, I became confused. I was more skilled than him, that I was sure of. There was no way that this 191 year old man possessed the same knowledge and intellect that I did. On top of that, I didn’t see myself as a “scary” god. Most souls I spoke to saw me as a comforting figure. Like a parent or best friend. Maybe an older sibling. Yet Arthur always looked at me with fear and hatred.

In his mind, I was the one true villain.

None of it made any sense. No matter how many times I asked him why, he ignored me and proceeded to put everything he had into beating me at the games I had set up. Chess, checkers, connect four, monopoly.

He bested me in feats of strength. Sword fights, jousting, archery, wrestling.

Even when I thought that he’d run out of contests, he’d just propose a new one. Seeing who could count the most stars in the sky without stopping. Listing off words until we ran out. Naming all the cast members of Friends. 

Arthur never gave up.

But one day, on his 514th death, there was something different about him.

His eyes, usually bright and full of unwavering life, were dim. Something had happened to my ancient Arthur, something that had won him extra time - year after year.

So I asked why.

And finally, so many years, he acknowledged my words. He looked me straight in the eyes as he moved to utter his first words as a soul.

“They cut down his tree.”

Poor Arthur, old man that he was, graced me with the story of his tree. I am not sure how much I can share, but I’ll summarize. 

He lived in a remote part of Alaska with his wife. They had four children, each leaving their childhood home to live in more heavily populated areas. However, they would make sure that they and their children would visit the grandparents every few years.

One of the grandchildren was named after Arthur, and they were great friends. Together, they planted a small yellow cedar. Little Arthur lost his life to that same tree at the age of fifteen, and Old Arthur saw it as one of the only remnants of his beloved grandson.

When he died, he feared what may have happened had the tree not been watched over until the end of its life. So he was determined to stay and ensure that it died a natural death.

Unfortunately, during the 513th year, contractors bought up the property that the tree was on, and when developing it, cut it down.

Poor Arthur, old man that he was, died on the spot from the horror.

Poor Arthur, old man that he was, died of a broken heart.

A broken heart that, in turn, broke his spirit.

And with unshed tears, I took him to his final resting place. A place where he was greeted by friends, family. And his beloved Little Arthur.

As the god of death, before a soul passes on, they may challenge you to a contest for one year of extra time. There is one soul that is on his 513th extra year, even after you added a rule that it has to be a different contest every time.

[glassweb]

----------------------------------------------------

-- Log 18437 --

[TRANSLATE] >input language {Terran English}

I am writing this log in hopes that it may help any and all future travelers within galaxy number 237183292, otherwise known as “Janiewa”, “Meiadsa”, or “The Milky Way”.

I am from the Granit invasion crew F-93 aboard the Freanam war vessel. My identification is JA-8219 and I am the medical officer for my crew. 

371 grans ago, the Freanam entered galaxy 237183292 after the discovery of the existence of a planet in the goldilocks zone. Our mission was to secure it for research and access to potential resource wells. 

We followed standard procedure and landed on the planet in question, assigned P-471897124873188, otherwise known as “Earth” or “Terra”. 

As of writing, most of the groups aboard the Freanam have been incapacitated by the locals, the majority of whom have been killed.

Per procedure, we landed with our energy shield enabled and active, our own weapons were at the ready. We weren’t expecting the blood that followed the opening of our doors.

Apparently, the locals of the planet are advanced enough to have created crude weapons for themselves, but despite some vestiges of intelligence, they have yet to develop energy technology and weapons. 

Our shields - the shields produced by the Galactic Confederation - are only meant to defend against energy-based attacks. All other known sentient life in the discovered universe has advanced to this point, but the Terrans only have solid projectiles.

APPROACH THE PLANET WITH CAUTION

Medical officers are not trained with the skills to repair damages made by physical attacks. I alone have lost over 23 workers. The Terran weapons are made to pierce the flesh of softer beings, and their projectiles are even capable of damaging the ship itself. I fear that I have yet to see the extent of the carnage that they can cause, as I have only seen four or five in person so far. They call themselves “farmers”.

I REPEAT, APPROACH THE PLANET WITH CAUTION

I presume that if this log is found without me, that I have been killed. Please, be careful. I don’t know what can stop them, if anything. As I write I can hear the sound of their projectiles making contact with the wall behind me. I have been hidden in a back closet for four grans now. 

And if somehow I am still alive, please, help me. I don’t want to die here. I don’t want to d

-- END OF LOG 18437 --

----------------------------------------------------

The body of the alien lay broken and bloody at the feet of the two men, if bloody was a word that could be applied to the body of the creature that oozed bright neon green substance.

“I think we’ve got most of ‘em by now, Jerry,” one of them huffed, crouching down to poke at the corpse warily.

The man next to him sighed, mouth pulling at a jagged scar that made its way from his temple to chin. Straight through his eye, a gray and sightless thing. “Y’know we can’t stop ‘til they ain’t a threat. Destroy the tablet thingamajig, don’t want any alien buddies coming on down.”

“Fair,” the unnamed one said, standing and bringing a booted foot down on the blue screen. It shattered to pieces like a pane of glass, or perhaps a sheet of ice. “Can’t have ‘em gettin’ to the cows n’ shit.”

The alien invaders were confident. Their personal shield tech had withstood all enemies and types of energy weapons. Then they landed on Earth and found the shield’s fatal flaw: Solid Projectiles.

[glassweb]

All the kid did was stare up at him with unblinking eyes, mouth held slightly ajar. If it wasn’t careful it would drool. A horrifying prospect, truly.

“Answer me!” the Grand Mage demanded, shaking his fist threateningly. No being in centuries had defied his orders, how dare this child feign ignorance to his words?

It just continued to stare, blue eyes boring straight through to his soul.

Perhaps the child was a telepath?

The wet noise of its slobber hitting the floor broke him from his pondering. No, there was absolutely no way that the child had the intellectual capacity to perform telepathy. He stared right back at it, red eyes meeting blue in a desperate attempt to find an answer, any answer.

The child hiccuped.

Out of its mouth came a singular, crystalline bubble.

The child was transfixed, eyes moving to the swiftly-climbing sphere as it drifted away from its grasping hands.

“Bubuwh” it yelped, making an attempt to stand. It simply fell back onto the floor, and tears started to form in the corner of its eyes. No, no. The child should not cry. That would be bad. Crying children are never a good thing, the Great Mage knew at least that much.

Fortunately, the child's attempt to start wailing was cut off by yet another hiccup, producing a second bubble. The Grand Mage had half a mind to pop it himself, but the child was faster. Upright quicker than a blink, it waved its fleshy hands in the air in a relentless attempt to touch the little pocket of air. It managed to do so, much to the Grand Mage's surprise.

Even more surprising was the voice that suddenly burst to life.

WOULD NOT YOU LIKE TO KNOW OF MY POWER, FEEBLE MORTAL?

Silence.

All the Great Mage could do was stare in shock at the babbling creature before him, fist shoved almost entirely inside the cave of its mouth, drool dripping down its chubby arm. The power that emanated off of its incredibly small form was overwhelming. What had it seen? What had it been through?

What could it do?

“Magicians are quite rare. They are not born; they’re made. It is through unimaginable pain that their powers manifest. Their ability is linked to their own personal trauma. So tell me child, what can YOU do?”

[glassweb]

Cottage Cheese

I have realized that my day to day life can be divided into two different things. Of course, that could be said about anything. Such as the time that I am brushing my teeth as compared to the time that I am not brushing my teeth. Because of this, I am simultaneously horrified and fascinated that I am able to categorize the things I do between being repulsed by the very idea of cottage cheese and wanting to shove copious amounts of it into my mouth at as fast a pace as I physically can.

As far as I am aware, my only exposure to cottage cheese has been midnight thanksgiving prep with my mother - during which we would be making one of those classic jello mold salads from the 80’s - or commercials that appear while I’m watching YouTube. I have to admit, the frequency of these commercials makes me somewhat concerned. I first saw one watching a video on my sister’s account, and mentioned my desire to try cottage cheese. The next thing I knew, I was getting cottage cheese ads on my own account. I am certain that I am being watched.

But I simply felt to share the fact of my cottage cheese moods swings. If anyone sees this I hope they find it amusing if not disturbing, as I often do.

[glassweb]

The Weight of a Word

The thing that I find most fascinating about words is the weight that they can hold despite their size and two-dimensional existence. This weight is not one of meaning though. Rather, the weight of a word is a feeling. The connotation that attaches itself to a word has an impact on the emotional state of the reader, listener, writer themself.

“Dead”, in my opinion, is one of the heaviest if not the heaviest words to exist in the English language. Dead is a fallen tree rotting into the ground of a forgotten forest. Dead is the smell as it deteriorates over time and the wood becomes soft as sponge. Dead is way that it disappears back into the earth as if it had never been there in the first place.

People are never dead.

When a person dies, whatever it was that made them who they were is gone. Left behind is a husk, a dead and forgotten tree. Some still care for the tree, the tree was once theirs, but the person inside has left. They have simply gone somewhere else.

 In that way, people are never dead.

Recently, millions were struck with the loss of an amazing person. Technoblade was more than just a YouTuber, he was an inspiration. A comfort, a creator, a writer, a comedian, a friend, a brother, a son. Technoblade was a legend. But legends never die.

And Technoblade never dies.

Most take that in stride, so long as we remember and cherish his life, he will never truly “die”. Even then, though, he hasn’t died.

When thinking of people, I prefer the term “passed on”. Technoblade hasn’t died, he has simply moved onto another journey. Another adventure. I have full faith that he is indeed strategizing on how to take on the Lord in that great blue kingdom in the sky. Their battle will be one for the ages, and I wish him the best of luck.

As for all of us down here, I hope that our voices continue to reach him. That he can understand that he meant just as much to us as we meant to him. That he can hear the cries of “blood for the blood god” as people from all over the globe rally against the curse of cancer that nature laid upon humanity. That the outpouring of love and support for him, his family, and all his friends by the community is to his satisfaction.

At the end of the day, though, the only thing on my mind is that he is finally free.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sk_GB5lomLg

Rest In Peace, Blood God. 💙

[glassweb]

To Walk is to Run: 1

In a world of irreparably bleak prospects there was only one thing that humanity knew for certain.

1. It started in the city.

For me, in a world of paralyzing terror, there were two things.

1. It started in the city.  2. Somehow, some way, it was my fault.

Since the day that the plague had reared its ugly head I knew that if I hadn’t been there, not at that time, that the world would have been ok.

Unfortunately for all of us, I was in fact there and the plague did in fact come into existence.

I had been looking for an apartment, hoping to finally move out of my childhood home to a place of my own. The city, while not the best of locations, was nice enough. A relatively old thing, the buildings were made of old brownstone and the streets were lined with cobble, remnants of a time long gone by and forgotten.

It was my type of city.

It was while strolling down the sidewalk on my way to visit yet another potential dwelling that I heard the first scream.

Now, screaming wasn’t something I was unused to, but it was out of place here.

It was a high pitched thing, but not high enough to be that of a child. Not deep enough to be that of a man. It was a young woman.

The young woman was soon enough joined by a chorus of blood-chilling wails as more and more people turned to see the source of the fear that gripped their comrades.

See, the end of the street I was on was a little central plaza and a fountain framed by countless flowers, sickly sweet in the hot summer air.

Standing atop the fountain was a person. A very gray, very dead looking person.

Just my luck, amidst the screams, the person turned and looked directly at me. If you could really call it a person, that is.

Their eyes were pitch black, as if their pupils had taken them over at the expense of their humanity. They seemed to see everything and nothing all at once, as if peering into my heart but seeing nothing but darkness in return. Black tears dripped down its face, over its mouth, onto its clothes. Far too slowly to truly be tears. Thick as hot tar.

Its clothes were tattered and faded from the sun, fluttering lightly in the wind as it continued to watch. Pale skin surrounded its eyes, mouth, nose. As if any blood present in its body was being forced away. Left to turn dark in veins that ran down the course of its body like lightning.

And as it continued to watch, to wait, it slowly opened its mouth, the black goo stretching across its lips like sticky saliva.

And the thing shrieked.

It was much worse than the horrified sound of the voices around me, nails on a chalkboard and screams of children alike.

It grated on my ears and if not for the shot that rang out I was sure that they would’ve started bleeding.

The thing crumpled when the bullet found its way into its heart, slipping off the top layer of the fountain and landing with a harsh splash in the basin, half of its body draped over the rim and dripping black goo onto the gray stones beneath it.

Looking back, I should have stopped him. The man who shot the thing.

Not from shooting it, of course. My ears will always be thankful for his quick thinking.

No, I should’ve stopped him from reaching out and touching it.

From getting the blackness on his skin.

From turning.

I should’ve taken his gun and put a hole through his head. Through the head of the thing that had fallen.

But I was frozen. Frozen with fear and idle adrenaline as he moved to roll the thing over, his hands stained with the inky night sky as he peered at its face.

A face that blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And as it snarled at the man, I knew that it must have been the beginning of the end.

[glassweb]

Pondering on Chaos

I believe that there is some animalistic instinct within every human being that claws to be free, both in the literal and figurative sense.

I believe that is why so many are drawn to the idea of chaos and a world ruled by the harsh grasp of anarchy. Why so many are drawn to the idea of an apocalypse, or an existence simply different from their own.

People seek excitement.

Excitement cannot be properly had without first obtaining the ability to be free.

I know that I find myself drawn to distant lands of fantasy if only for a taste of an ideal, and I’m sure that many others do as well. Escapism seems to be a strong coping mechanism for all manner of real-world issues.

Then comes the question on whether or not such things could be obtained in our current world. In our current state.

Perhaps that inner animal is where that desire comes from. Perhaps places like these are spots where it can be allowed to roam, saved from any real consequences by the existence of a screen and anonymous name, held up like a shield against people who might otherwise want to truly know you. People who might otherwise take away the freedom the animal so craves.

The issue with chaos, though, is that the consequences are often severe.

In our pursuit of a life of excitement we often cast away the reality of the harm that may result. When Hollywood makes billions off of the undead films that focus on the characters rather than the carnage, we are desensitized to the destruction that is left.

It begs the question, is the animal aware of that?

Does the animal seek reckless freedom knowing the cost it will rip from the hands of all others?

Or is the animal aware of the impact that its actions may have on those both known and unknown to it.

Does it seek out freedom regardless?

And if it does, would that make the animal selfish? Or simply what it is, an animal?

Given that animal is a part of all of us, as we are well and truly animals in our own right, are we selfish for wanting something more? Or simply human?

I seek the chaos, the adventure, the uncertainty.

I seek the ability to do what I want to when I so want to. Nothing more, nothing less.

Does that make me selfish?

An animal?

A monster?

Or am I, like all others, simply human?

I’d like to think that I am.

[glassweb]

A Perspective

There’s something to the wonderful, awe-inspiring tragedy of realizing that your life is wholly outside of your control.

On the one hand, some may see the horrible curse of stripped autonomy as a mark upon their honor. A violent stain on dignity they wished had remained untarnished. Those are the people who seek complete power over any and all aspects of their lives. The ones who find themselves unhappy when the smallest detail veers away from their perfectly set out plan.

On the other, there are people who revel in the ability to hand their lives over into the palms of another. Saying, in a way, “take from me this pointless burden,” because they can not bring themselves to treat a person they so despise as human.

The beautiful truth of the reality, though, is much lighter.

You grow and change under the guidance and protection of your parents, your keepers. For the first formative years of your life you are tossed about by the careless arms of fate in a reckless ocean. Your guardians cling to you as your life vest, and you hold them to your chest with needy hands, hoping they save you. Aware that they might not.

To age, though, is a blessing. Over time you find the materials around and about to build a raft, crafted with aching hands and tears and blood.

Glued together with sweat and words whispered in the dead of night, praying in many ways that nobody will hear. That somebody will respond regardless.

One blissful day, that raft will be complete, and you can cast aside the uncertainty of the life vest. You will keep it close, just in case it’s ever needed. But, for once, your destiny is handed over to you.

A fragile thing, meant to be nurtured and cradled, but perhaps fractured where the storm that gripped the ocean with an iron fist slipped through the cracks and doused your heart in cold, briny water.

But it will be yours, and yours alone. Finally, you can change what you want and keep what you deem as part of yourself.

You will be yourself.

Only yourself.

[glassweb]

The tower would've been it. Your greatest achievement, the best work you had ever put out and the best you could likely ever do. Your magnum opus.

You slid the back of your hand over your forehead, slick with sweat that had built up under the glaring sun. A sun which shone bright from behind the massive spire of black rock, creating a menacing glow behind a prison that pierced the sky.

It truly was a work of art.

No doors, no windows. Handcrafted from pure blackstone and magic, shimmering with the rich color of blood when the sun hit it at just the right angle.

Your blood.

Blood which you poured into each and every one of your creations, giving them your power in order to negate that of others.

You had never put so much of yourself into a project before.

Then again, the Council had never asked so much of you before, either.

A prison that could hold any of the Blessed was a big ask, but you always delivered. You never failed.

So when you were finally done you, you sat there. Exhausted, but happy.

When you’d first discovered your magic, you had wanted to do something amazing with it. Anyone could change a table into a lamp, or raise the dead from their slumber. It wasn’t just anyone who had the capability to imprison those doused in the magical touch of the universe. So you were proud.

No one had ever accomplished what you had, and it was unlikely that anyone ever would.

But as you sat, staring, eyes burning from the intensity of the veiled sun, you couldn’t help but feel nervous.

It was odd.

What did a mage as strong as you have to fear? Why, when you looked upon your work, did you feel as though something was wrong?

You were strong, but you were busy. So you pushed the feeling towards the back of your mind and moved on. You had clients to serve. The Council was never a fan of waiting.

As the day progressed and you brought people through to look upon your handiwork the feeling grew, more and more dread creeping up on you until it had formed an icey grip around your throat.

When it made your way to your heart, you knew that something must have been wrong.

And the world sunk into darkness around you.

You are a powerful mage whose job it is to build prisons for powerful mages that are impossible to escape. Today upon completing your masterpiece they lock you up in it.