schizoidnightmares

[schizoidnightmares]

The Recent Centuries, II: Next Stop

AI placeholder artwork generated above using HiDream I1 Dev — CC0 1.0

In the next exhibit’s holographic account, a young teenage male of Southern Eagle descent snores on a pile of dirty clothes that cover his entire bedroom in a thick, dank layer. A few small green lizards devour a line of ants up his wall. He wears tattered clothes covered in numerous dirt and grease stains. A gust of wind blows past the broken screen on his bedroom window. He yawns and stretches his arms.

He rests there for a short while until the sound of a gunshot echoes from the distance. He sits up, exposing the soaked clothes from under his back. The sweat dripping off him glistens in the sun as it peeks through the window. The clothes swallow his entire forearms as he crawls through them. The clothes jam his bedroom door shut, but a hole has been cut in the middle, covered by a thin sheet, stapled at the top. He rolls past it, onto his feet, into a hallway where he balances atop a narrow plank that rests on a compressed layer of old plastics, newspapers, and other garbage.

He waves through the flies as he carefully walks the planks down the hall, going past a bathroom almost entirely filled with used diapers. He stops at the entrance of another room. A see-through drape hangs over the doorless frame. He stares expressionlessly at a middle-aged woman who shares some of his features, cradling a diapered toddler in her arms as she sits on a couch smoking a cigarette. She pays no attention to him. Her room has rusted metallic flooring, and aside from a widening collection of partially extinguished cigarette butts that nearly touches the ceiling, it is mostly spotless. Several televisions are stacked in front of her against the wall, but none appear plugged in. The teenager looks to his shoulder and sees a centipede about the size of his forearm crawl up his back. He casually and gently directs it onto his arm and walks over to an opened window with shredded drapes at the end of the hallway. He shakes off the centipede outside before climbing a rope ladder out the window.

He reaches the ground, only one story below. A young adult male real estate agent outside on the dead lawn discusses the unit for sale on the first floor with an affluent-looking couple, all of Southern Eagle descent.

“This here is a great rare find,” the real estate agent says in a smarmy, flawless Northern Eagle accent. “On the market for just eleven months. Free of any existing tenants. Those tires inside don’t come with the sale of the unit, and they will be removed before closing. Very spacious inside, I’m very excited to show you. Recently renovated. The door comes with a security bar. No windows, so great safety for families. The previous owner fully barricaded the stairs to a separate, off-market unit on the second floor, with rebar and plywood, so you‘ll have great privacy. Shall we take a look inside? It’s a great find, and I’m certain you won’t be disappointed.”

The teenager walks to a bus stop across the street from his house. The area is suburban, with identical panelled townhomes lining the streets. He sits down in the bus shelter. Inside, a young woman of Southern Eagle descent holds her nose and grimaces at him before quickly rising to her feet and waiting for the bus outside — at a comfortable distance.

The bus arrives, and the doors open for the woman. The elderly male bus driver of Southern Eagle descent greets her. The teenager makes it on the bus just as the doors close. He drops some coins in the fare box receptacle. The bus driver makes no eye contact with him and steps on the gas as soon as the woman sits down, causing the teenager to stumble.

Looking around the bus, seeing all the other seats missing, destroyed, or blocked off by the squatter at the back, the teenager tries to sit down next to the only open seat available — beside the woman. The woman blocks the open seat with her purse just as the teenager tries to sit down.

The bus driver catches the scene in the mirror and calls out sternly, “Is there a problem!?”

The woman says nothing as the bus driver frowns at the teenager in the mirror. The teenager turns away and braces on a handle on the other side of the aisle. Half a dozen Southern Eagles crowd in at the next stop. The woman does not move her purse.

The teenager, along with a few other passengers, gather near the side rear exit door as the bus approaches the next stop. The driver lets on another half dozen but does not open the exit door. Some of the passengers start fanning themselves.

As the bus drives away, one of the male passengers waiting by the exit yells out to the driver, “Hey man! Hey! That was our stop!”

The bus driver is unresponsive and continues driving on. One of the passengers requests a stop at the next stop, but the driver, again, does not stop to let them off. Some of the passengers get visibly frustrated and antsy.

The same man who yelled makes his way through the crowd to the front of the bus to speak with the driver — the man’s face fumes, “Hey man! Are you going to stop to let us off or what?”

The bus driver turns his attention to the man and accidentally hits an old lady trying to cross the street with a walker. The lady is sent flying forward, hitting the side of her head on the hard pavement. The bus comes to an abrupt stop.

The driver sighs deeply, clearly annoyed, as he puts on the parking brake and gets up, carrying a long rattan cane. The fuming man steps aside as the driver gets off the bus and approaches the lady. The teenager, the fuming man, and some other passengers decide to leave through the entrance door. As the other passengers go their separate ways, the teenager walks down the sidewalk towards the start of a massive lineup outside the Department of Family Cohesion (DFC) headquarters, going several blocks down. The bus driver yells at the old lady to move, but she just moans on the pavement as she touches her head. He beats her several times with his cane before giving up.

Two police officers exit through the crowded entrance to the DFC and approach the bus driver and the old lady on the street. They talk to the driver, and one officer points toward the bus. The driver returns to the bus. Before leaving to return to the DFC, the officers drag the lady to the nearest sidewalk and toss her walker to the side. The bus hisses and carries on unhindered down the road. The people nearby in the swelling, yet stagnant, lineup outside the DFC show no interest.

The holographic account ends in silence. Some schoolchildren drool, and others barely stand awake on hard leans. The escort claps, and they all suddenly stand alert.

Speaking to the group, the receptionist explains the next exhibit before leading them into the other room, “The creators of The Recent Centuries felt firsthand accounts of everyday life most accurately explain how life was truly back then rather than pivotal moments in history. We hope you enjoyed the first account. The next takes us forward to the year twenty-fifteen.”

Thank you for reading

This story is the second scene of “The Recent Centuries,” the first chapter in Futurebad. The previous scene is available here. When the next scene is available, it will be linked in this section.

Full copyright applies to this post. © Schizoid Nightmares. All rights reserved.

[schizoidnightmares]

The Recent Centuries, I: The Privileged

AI placeholder artwork generated above using HiDream I1 Dev — CC0 1.0

As the hairless corporate-indentured schoolchildren enter the last-standing museum with their latest-model humanoid escort, they find no one else inside except the fleshless android receptionist who greets them with drooping lifelike silicon eyes that never blink. Outside, autonomous cranes wait still to swing the wrecking balls. The receptionist and escort light the way using lamp implants on the tops of their heads for the school group as they venture further into the dusty darkness of the museum. Most exhibitions have long since closed and their artifacts removed — sold off, scrapped, or dumped. Loose old tape and rusted metal sheets hide away the abandoned sections.

“We are privileged and pleased to show you the last preserved exhibition — The Recent Centuries. Our museum has devoted all of its last resources in keeping it in full functionality. For its last showing, we have made certain that all exhibits in this exhibition will display properly. These exhibits make use of holographic displays and speakers — showcasing the technology used before the widespread adoption of BCIs, brain–computer interfaces, and augmented reality without external devices. Even humans without BCIs can access this exhibition. However, it would seem none of you are outdated, so be sure to make use of neural communication — verbal questions won’t be necessary while we remain connected. My model is incompatible with your latest hardware, so I will only be able to receive your questions but must communicate verbally. Please accept this inconvenience,” the receptionist informs the school group in a partially slurred, barely audible, tired Martian accent, its electronic voice box breaking with some words.

The receptionist leads the group through an archway into a seemingly empty room that soon comes to life in a colourful, vivid holographic top-down representation of postwar New World suburban nineteen forty-three. The schoolchildren stare blankly at the display, some teetering on their feet, their eyes heavy with dark circles.

A masculine, mature, posh voice with a Northwestern accent gently echos from surround sound speakers, “It was the year of their victory over the Old World imperial monarchies, the end of the Total War. The nations of the New World worked to rebuild the ruins of its defeated enemies in the image of democracy, free enterprise, and relative personal liberty. They were successful. Within a decade, the New World established a new international economic and political order. Trade flourished, and every nation prospered in this unprecedented postwar economic miracle.

“Back then, money existed, which was used for the taxed exchange of goods. Taxes paid for government, an institution that provided basic services, such as roads, police, firefighters, and, at least in some countries, education and healthcare. And people — particularly men after women returned to domestic duties following the war — were paid well back then. So well, in the most prosperous New World country, the United Federal Republic of Eagle (U.F.R.E.), the average family could afford its own automobile, generous supplies of water with low concentrations of pollutants, three daily non-recycled meals with excessive nutrients, television receiver — a primitive one-dimensional display using radio waves — and even a detached private residential shelter with a fenced grassy field exposed to the relatively stable natural environment. For many, except females and undesirables, it was the golden age. And for a time, life was stable, longer, and, for some, happier. But, like all golden ages, this age would not last.

“The first postwar generation, the ‘Post Generation,’ grew up during a time of unparalleled economic prosperity across all classes. Unlike their parents, who endured — particularly the men — great sacrifice during the Total War, the Post Generation, colloquially referred to as ‘Posts,’ reaped the rewards without much relative hardship. They grew up with an intense sense of optimism and entitlement. Once their parents retired and Posts took over the reins, they gradually eliminated job security. They refused to adapt to a ballooning population and supported cuts to infrastructure and urban planning. Taxes, the fuel of government and civilization, became the ultimate evil. Posts must have it all because they always have. Many mishandled their finances, becoming increasingly reliant on their impoverished, opportunity-starved children to provide for them in their later years. The birthrate plummeted, and everyone began pointing fingers. Posts that continued to hold onto their power replaced their own people with desperate foreign workers who would work for much less money and rights — further displacing the newer generations in a race to the bottom.

“For Posts, nothing was sacred. Not the once revered religious institutions that provided social and moral support, which they starved and kept their children away from. Not the rivers, lakes, and ocean shores that once flourished, which they overexploited and polluted without worry. Not even the air they breathed was sacred. Posts knew their mortality so well that they worked hard to ensure nothing of value was left after they passed. Near the end of the twentieth century, birthrates across the New World had collapsed, suicide skyrocketed, and homeless filled the streets, with the Old World quickly catching up,” the voice concludes as the holographic display dims and flickers off.

The schoolchildren now barely stand. None appeared stimulated by the holographic retelling of history and voiceover. A schoolgirl tips over onto her knees. The android escort comes over and repeatedly shocks her with a shiny finger taser implant until she rises back up to her feet. The rest of the schoolchildren immediately open their eyes wide and straighten their backs, suppressing their yawns.

Shambling along in a wavering but orderly line, the schoolchildren follow the receptionist as it leads and introduces them to the next exhibit in the exhibition, “For the next exhibit, you will witness the firsthand holographic retelling of a moment in time in the year twenty hundred and one — the first year of the third millennium.”

Thank you for reading

This story is the opening scene of “The Recent Centuries,” the first chapter in Futurebad. The next scene is available here.

Full copyright applies to this post. © Schizoid Nightmares. All rights reserved.

[schizoidnightmares]

Exodus, II: Premonition

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“Father, I had a dream last night after the session at the Assembly,” the son, Crown Prince Sun King II, privately reveals to his father, King Sun King I.

The father and son sit together in a small study in the relative privacy of the King’s Bay Palace, a by no means modest royal residence.

“A dream of what, my son?” the father asks.

“Fire raining down from the starry night — the bay ablaze. It was the Empire. Heaven’s Martials had arrived,” the son explains.

They both sit quietly for a moment before the father interrupts their contemplative silence, “As rational men, we can only come to one conclusion… That this is a vision from the First! The Assembly may dismiss your reasoning, but they cannot dismiss the First. I shall call for another session. The Assembly must be informed of this at once!”

The son lets out a long, deep, frustrated sigh as he rests his face against his palms, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head before voicing his pain, “It’s just all so tiresome, Father. Can’t they be convinced by reason and history alone? All the scrolls in the King’s Library couldn’t convince what a mere dream could. Respectfully, Father, this is not the way of rational men.”

“Tsk! Such nonsense, son! Only an irrational man would dismiss a vision. To do so otherwise would be blasphemy! You must have faith, my son. You cannot have reason without faith. Your destiny is irrefutable now. The Assembly will support your quest without question if they are all of rational hearts,” the father exclaims.

The day after tomorrow, the Assembly reconvenes. There is much hushed speaking after the father invited his son to reveal his vision to the assemblymen.

Assemblyman Rigid Back III stands to speak as the other voices become quieter, “Members of the Assembly — we would be fools to ignore a vision from the First. Respectfully question and oppose the reasoned argument of His Highness I may, but to do so to a vision would be absurd! In my humble view, His Highness must heed this vision. It is His Highness’ destiny! I implore all fellow assemblymen to endorse His Highness’ journey beyond this land. May the First guide His Highness and keep His Highness safe!”

As the assemblyman returns to his seat, the father rises and swiftly calls for a vote. The Assembly is unanimous. The son shall depart the island on his quest. Sitting, tired and reserved, the son sighs in both relief and resentment.

Thank you for reading

This story is the second scene of “Exodus,” the fourth short story in Schizoid Nightmares Anthology I. The previous scene is available here. When the next scene is available, it will be linked in this section.

[schizoidnightmares]

Exodus, I: The King's Republic

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“Forgive me, Father. I assumed your objection,” a young man softly speaks to an older, similarly-looking fellow.

They both wear white tunics and stare out from a balcony overlooking an opulent port city of marble. The city partially encloses a saltwater bay illuminated by the faint candlelights of resting trade and fishing vessels that bob gently on the surface.

“My noble son. Your mistaken assumption does not invite my offence. You will inherit this island and the responsibility of safekeeping that comes with. I cannot tell you how you must do this, only that you must. The Assembly will question your motives, but I will not. I know your heart is pure. You think firstly of our people,” the older man tenderly replies.

“Your thoughtfulness humbles me, Father. The First could not have blessed me better. I do not fear what the Assembly will think of my plan. I know what must be done. We cannot just wait here idly, waiting for the Empire to conquer us. I know they are coming, and they will not afford us mercy on behalf of our civility.”

The father turns to his son and fondly puts his hand on his son’s back. Without interrupting his son, the father allows him to continue his thoughts. They both look out at the bay.

“Even if the Assembly objects to my plan, they cannot stop me or arrest those that would follow me. I will return, Father, but not to an island of slaves. Your legacy will continue. The King’s Republic will go on as a free and sovereign state. This is my promise to you and our people. Their prince will not abandon them nor their king.”

The next day, in the early afternoon, men wearing identical white tunics with vivid blue robes atop gather in an aged marble rotunda. Sunbeams glisten past the marble openings and towering columns. The men sit on the rows of stacked benches carved smoothly in marble adjoining the walls. The father and son sit beside each other. There is much lively discussion before the father stands, quieting the chatter.

“Members of the Assembly — from the day of the first sortition, my forefathers have ruled alongside this Assembly. Each generation has commanded, without fail, the respect of our citizenry. Rest assured, this timeless tradition will continue, regardless of my son’s path, Crown Prince Sun King the Second. To relieve further doubt, may I remind the Assembly that in the gravely unfortunate event of my son’s death, my cousin, Grand Duke Frog Hand the Fifth, would succeed my reign,” the father’s voice echoes around the rotunda.

After the father sits down, an assemblyman eagerly stands up and cracks his voice, “Members of the Assembly — with all due respect to His Most Gracious Majesty, His Highness’ path is one of abandonment! It would be unprecedented. With exception to our first king, His Majesty Ocean King, a king or his heir has never left the island. Members of the Assembly, to permit His Highness to leave the island would be intolerably unwise. Should His Highness fall in the Empire’s hands, dare I not ponder the consequences! His Highness must remain, for His Highness’ sake and our people’s!”

Another assemblyman rises after the previous one sat down. He speaks in a conciliatory tone, “Members of the Assembly — the words of Assemblyman Rigid Back the Third contain wisdom but do not properly acknowledge the limits of the Assembly’s authority. As the assemblyman rightfully pointed out, our first king left the island. Surely if the Assembly cannot prevent a king from departing, then a, respectfully, less important crown prince may do so as well. His Majesty Ocean King took great risk exploring the canyons to our east, but it was His Majesty’s risk to take.”

The assemblyman lowers to his seat. Quick whispers fill the rotunda for some time before another assemblyman stands to speak confidently, “Members of the Assembly — both Assemblyman Rigid Back the Third and Assemblyman Good Ear the Eleventh forget, in good faith, that His Majesty Ocean King only left the island before His Majesty’s coronation. His Majesty did not leave after, nor has any king or heir thereafter. Perhaps the Assembly does not have the authority to regulate the travels of His Highness, but for a king or his heir to depart the island would indeed be unprecedented.”

Murmurs echo about. The assemblymen all share glances, nodding in agreement. The father rises alone as the others remain seated. He waits before they all fall silent before articulating, “Very well, members of the Assembly, I call for a—“

The son tries to stand, interrupting his father, but his father prevents him, placing his hand gently in his way. He leans down and whispers to his son, “Grant them faith.” He then returns to addressing the Assembly, “I call for a vote. Before commencing, I invite His Highness to speak for himself.”

The father returns to his seat, allowing his son to stand before the Assembly. The son takes a moment to glance around at the assemblymen and lets out a hushed, deep breath.

“Members of the Assembly — I give thanks to my father, His Majesty Sun King the First, for inviting me to speak before you. Permit me to appeal to tradition. Our civilization was built because a group of men bravely left their homeland in search of the unknown. When they discovered and settled this island, they again departed in search of greater ground, ultimately returning with new friends, who like them, had left their native land. Together, they became who we are now. Today, the world is far less a mystery than it was then. Since before I became a young man, I studied the known geography and recorded history of our world. When—if you permit me to depart, I will not be sailing into darkness. I will leave with the best of our warriors. They will accompany me at all times on my quest. We will travel where countless have before. True, there are risks, but I must think beyond myself. There is greater risk to everyone if I should stay.

“For many, I gather, Heaven’s Empire seems all too distant — regarded as a mere acquaintance for trade. By the time they do feel close enough to home to become a threat, it will be too late to act.

“No obstacle has impeded them. The Empire has conquered vast, inhospitable deserts, cold, rugged mountains, deep forests, and hostile jungles. They are conquering the Grand Savanna as we speak. They have conquered every people they have shared a border with. The badlands west of the Savanna will not pose much of a challenge, nor will the canyons beyond. That leaves only a small stretch of ocean to our island, which, since they regularly sail across the Far Ocean on the other side of the mainland, will have no stopping them. So, you see, my fellow Islanders, they will come and conquer us — unless we stop them first.”

The son lowers to his seat as quiet whispers echo around the rotunda. One of the assemblymen politely requests to delay the vote so that further questions may be addressed to the son, which the father grants. The same assemblyman stands to speak, “Members of the Assembly — many have spoken today — most notably: His Most Gracious Majesty, His Honourable Highness, Wise Beard the Ninth, Good Ear the Eleventh, and Rigid Back the Third. I rarely speak to you. My name is Tall Column the Sixth. I humbly requested a delay so that any of you may ask further questions, but mainly to ask my own. I address this to His Honourable Highness, how do you intend to stop the Empire from conquering us? Surely, we cannot compete in numbers. Our loyal warriors of the Watchmen are well-trained but, respectfully, cannot match the resources and experience of Heaven’s Martials.”

The son takes his turn to respond, “Members of the Assembly — Tall Column the Sixth is correct to ask this question. I thank the other members as well for speaking today. Tall Column is right to say that we cannot defeat Heaven’s Empire, not in any conventional battle. I don’t even propose we try. My intent is not to defeat them—”

Loud whispers interrupt the son before the father raises his hand, rendering silence for his son to continue.

“—it is to divide them. An empire divided will not focus its wars on gaining new territories. It will be too busy trying to hold onto old ones. How can they be divided, you may ask? The Empire is already stretched thin. Their technology outmatches the primitive tribes they have fought. Their strategies demoralize and destroy the cultures they enslave.

“The key weakness is their economy, which relies on slavery. The slave population far outnumbers the free population. If we instigate even one rebellion among those enslaved in the Savanna, unrest will spread. Our warriors can train the slaves. It doesn’t even matter if the first rebellion fails. Word will spread. Slaves across the Empire will learn that they can rebel.

“The Empire’s reach is on a thin thread. With the right amount of tension, it will snap. The slaves will rebel with the right encouragement. They have a choice between working themselves to death for their masters or fighting to the death for their freedom. I wager they will choose to fight.

“Once enough learn of this choice, you will have a divided empire. The slaves will build kingdoms of their own, at least just as bad or maybe even worse than their masters. These kingdoms will fight amongst themselves. The Empire will focus on trying to regain them, likely a futile effort. Meanwhile, we will be ignored or, at best, seen as a distant trade partner. The badlands and canyons are not attractive locations to expand into — at least not for a long while. Our support for rebellion may even grant us favour among the new kingdoms. They will regard each other or the Empire as their enemy.”

After the son finishes, Rigid Back quickly soars to speak, “Members of the Assembly — If His Highness’ plan should fail, that will seal us an enemy of the Empire! Our hopes of more trade will die! They will surely seek to conquer us and destroy us completely!”

The assemblymen share grumbling whispers before Wise Beard stands, adjusting his robes. He speaks calmly and deliberately, “Members of the Assembly — I see wisdom in His Honourable Highness’ plan and the words of Assemblyman Rigid Back the Third, but I must agree more with the latter. It would seem we have a choice. One involves waiting, and the other a bold but risky endeavour that may doom our relations with the world’s most powerful state that Man has ever known. I would rather us wait. And since this debate goes beyond whether we should allow His Honourable Highness to leave the island but also sponsor war with, may I remind the Assembly, a presently peaceful, albeit distant, trade partner — essentially a non-enemy whom we have not declared war upon… It is my view that His Honourable Highness should remain and not be allowed to instigate a conflict that, regardless of His Honourable Highness’ intentions, would directly connect back to us. We must not allow it, and our warriors must be ordered not to accompany him should he attempt to leave the island against our—“

The son suddenly stands, interrupting and shouting down at Wise Beard, “They will not take your order over a grand prince!” His father yanks his son down. The whole rotunda falls silent in shock. The father stands, keeping his hand firmly on his son’s shoulder.

“Members of the Assembly — I apologize on behalf of my son for his outburst. No matter his status, that does not permit him to disrespect an assemblyman. However, debate on this matter has gone far enough. It is now time to vote. Those in favour of prohibiting His Highness Grand Prince Sun King the Second from leaving the island… This would be with, naturally for His Highness’ own protection, an armed escort of some of our finest warriors. Please stand.”

Well over half of the assemblymen stand.

“I’m sorry, Son…” the father whispers softly to his son, who is still fuming in his seat. The father then addresses the assemblymen, “Members of the Assembly — your wishes are clear. His Highness shall not leave the island. I give you my word—“

The son glares up at his father, his face bursting with anger.

“—he will respect your wishes. The Watchmen will be informed of this decision. This concludes this gathering of the Assembly.”

The son storms out of the rotunda as his father watches on and sighs tiredly.

Thank you for reading

This story is the opening scene of “Exodus,” the fourth short story in Schizoid Nightmares Anthology I. The third short story is available here (its last scene is available here). The next scene is available here.

[schizoidnightmares]

The Gorge, VII: Rediscovery

A.I. placeholder artwork generated using NightCafe Stable Diffusion XL v1.0 — CC0 1.0

187th of First, 1100 A.W. — It’s hard to believe where time can bring us. More than a moon ago, I learned we were not alone. Now, I know that we were not even the first Politans to arrive here. Almost a century before we landed, in the year 1004, After Wisdom, the Heaven’s Sanctuary Ship King’s Maiden left the harbour of the Lower City. It disappeared beyond the ocean’s endless horizon and was never seen again.

Heaven’s Council presumed the Maiden lost at sea. Named after its architect and captain, Ocean King, the Maiden was one of many sea expeditions authorized by the Council. During a violent storm, its sails were damaged, and she became adrift at sea for some time. Most of her crew perished on the voyage, but her captain survived.

Eventually, the Maiden beached on the rocky shores of what later became known as King’s Island. To its east lay the Orange Canyons, where nearly a hundred years later, the HSS Heaven Sails would land. King’s Island was uninhabited when the Maiden arrived. Her surviving crew, no more than a dozen or so men, made a home there for some time. They lost track of time and perhaps remained stranded for years. However, the men held onto their loyalty to their captain, Ocean King. With his help, they built a new, smaller boat, nothing at all to rival the majesty of the Maiden. It was good enough to get them off the island and venture into the canyons in the east.

In the canyons, King and his men discovered a new civilization, the Orange Communion. Back then, the Communion was suffering from a three-way schism. Their society was divided between the Hedonists, the Sadists, and the Ascetics. They all worshipped the Primordial, an ancient subterranean creature of untold size, thought to be the creator of Man and most other life. The Communion saw the Primordial as a god, which they called the First. The Hedonists believed that to worship the First, they must partake in regular rituals of carnal pleasure and strive to enjoy their lives. Happiness, the Hedonists believed, was what the First wanted most for its children. The Sadists were the opposite. They believed that sacrifices involving tremendous pain and suffering were the way to please the First. Lastly, the Ascetics opposed both pleasure and pain. Abstinence from either extreme — moderation — was what they believed would satisfy the First.

Conflict escalated within the Communion into a civil war. In the end, the Sadists triumphed. Hedonist and Ascetic refugees fled the canyons. Ocean King returned with his men back to his island. They helped as many refugees as they could before settling in isolation. Over the decades, they built a civilization of their own, and their numbers stabilized at a thousand. King established a new form of government: democratic sortition. Men of mature age, regardless of background, held a right to be chosen, at random, to participate in the Assembly of their legislature. King declared himself the sovereign for life and retained executive power. What they created became the King’s Republic, ruled by Ocean King under the laws passed by the Assembly. King’s men and their descendants interbred with the canyon’s refugees, forming a new culture of mixed identity. Today, Ocean King has been succeeded by his eldest son, Rock King.

King’s Islanders speak Island Tongue, a blend of Orange Tongue, the native language of the Orange people, and Heavenish, my mother tongue. They write in Heavenish since the Orange lack a written language of their own. Still, they can understand me, and I can understand them — mostly.

To explain what has happened between now and my last journal entry, I’ll start from where I left off. I spent two more nights after the 146th with my scrolls. They then took all my writings. The only way I could track the passage of time was by counting each time they cleaned my quarters, which was always after my last meal. For weeks, I did not see the sun. They never tried to speak with me, but I was treated well. I never saw my crew again.

On the 165th, my captors, who I later learned were devout warriors of the Orange Communion, released me. I felt such great pressure against my eyes when I saw the sun after all that time. The warriors escorted me through more tunnels in the sandstone before we came to a small dock. A ship was waiting for me, the King’s Republic Ship Maiden Rock. Aboard was a crew and some heavily armoured soldiers with blue capes bearing the golden symbol of the Republic, a crown held up by four pillars — with a set of stairs below.

The KRS Maiden Rock is a grand bireme with two decks. Her captain is Stone Fish. We travelled downstream to the sea. There we oared north and spent over a week on the ocean off the coast. It was beautiful watching the Orange Canyons as we passed by. Eventually, on the 177th, we arrived in port in a bay on King’s Island, at their capital, the City of King’s Bay — home to most of the island’s inhabitants. A few other outposts and smaller villages sparsely line the eastern coast of the island.

This is my tenth day on the island. The weather here is slightly cooler, and the breeze has a chilliness to it. The island is rich in limestone, and the Islanders have built most of their homes and the marvellous palaces out of marble. While not as grand as back home, the structures are still extraordinary and, dare I say, more beautiful than what I’m accustomed to.

On our journey downstream aboard the Maiden Rock, I witnessed new horrors and even one creature larger than Many Eyes. The biggest I saw was a massive arachnid (almost the length of the Maiden Rock herself) situated in a tight crevice. The Islanders call this creature a crevinid. Many Eyes itself belongs to a species referred to by the Islanders as legfeeders. Apparently, neither crevinids nor legfeeders are interested in eating Man. The Orange people also revere the giant fauna of the canyons. The other creatures I saw were a large, gaunt reptilian bird with a deep croak cry, called a skystalk, and an aquatic Man-sized insect-like creature called a riversting. The latter, riverstings, are the only dangerous of the creatures, at least to Man. They can paralyze an adult man with the sting from their proboscis. Once paralyzed, they inject acidic saliva into their prey, which dissolves their innards. Once sufficiently dissolved, they use their proboscis to suck out the contents. Their large claws are also a menace and can cut a man’s limbs clean off. I witnessed one feeding on a big fish on the river’s edge against the canyon’s wall. They apparently feed on any animal. The Islanders say not to swim in the rivers of the canyons.

On the voyage to King’s Island, Captain Stone Fish explained that the Republic and the Communion formed an agreement some time ago to stay clear of each other’s territory — not that the Islanders venture very often beyond their own shores. When members of the Communion discovered our group, they suspected we were Islanders attempting an invasion, albeit they were also confused by our presence. The Communion quickly dispatched an emissary to the island with my seized scrolls. I was spared, but the rest of my crewmates, who were not slaughtered in the skirmish, became sacrifices for the First. The captain said they suffered great anguish before their deaths, but he did not care to go into further detail.

The Communion, not desiring a potential conflict with the Republic, arranged for my peaceful departure. I admit it feels wrong that I was spared but not the others. Still, I am grateful. My arrival, especially the information contained in my writings, has caused quite a stir among the Islanders. I’ve already met Rock King and stood before the Assembly. They’re working on updating their own written history with the dates recorded in mine. They are fascinated by our airsails, which existed as mere crude prototypes by the time their ancestors left the Polity. However, they have no plans to attempt a return. The island is their home, and their blood is forever mixed with the people of the canyons. And now, this island, too, is my home.

Thank you for reading

This story is the seventh and final scene of “The Gorge,” the third short story in Schizoid Nightmares Anthology I. The previous scene is available here. The next story is available here.

[schizoidnightmares]

The Gorge, VI: In Hospitality

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146th of First, 1100 A.W. — Four days now in these caverns. We could have never prepared ourselves for what we would find. There are others here, a whole new people. They look similar to us, but they are smaller, ubiquitously hairless, and have darker skin, like a sappy brown. These people have carved out structures in the caves and the walls of the canyons. While not appearing as sophisticated as us, they still exhibit impressive craftsmanship and metallurgy. If only we spoke the same language, maybe all the bloodshed could have been avoided.

Last night, one of our crew died in his sleep. Fog Eyes believes the cause was a scorpion sting. Leaping Tiger remained vigilant throughout the night and saw Many Eyes for the first time. The sight of it shook his spirit. He saw it crawl over the body of the deceased, showing no interest before retreating back into a tunnel. Immediately after, he awoke the whole camp. He then decided to move our position.

Around midday, deeper into the caves, we came into first contact with these new people. Two women and a man stood before us, barely wearing anything. When one of us tried to approach them, they ran off. More of their men came after, a lot more. These men wore bronze breastplates and lush, feathery helmets with vivid orange felt and decorative ribbons.

At first, they hesitated and looked shocked to see us. They then came at us ferociously with torches and curved bronze blades. Very few of the crew had any weapons. The captain, Leaping Tiger, drew his sword. He was struck down almost instantly. Many others fell in the brief skirmish — maybe over a dozen, with many more injured. We had no choice but to surrender.

They stripped everyone except me of all their belongings, including their clothes. The others became chained and marched away. Those too injured to stand were slaughtered on the spot. The strange men, who initially inspected my scroll cases, escorted me through a different series of tunnels. They’ve placed me in confinement, ironically a lot more comfortable than my previous conditions, either in camp, on the island, or the airsail.

It’s actually quite pleasant. I’m confined to a spacious cavern with most of the basic amenities I’m accustomed to at home in the sanctuary. I have a proper bed, a desk and chair carved out from the rock, a wash basin, and even my own garderobe. There are few bugs inside here, although I do get the occasional spider. A thick metal door locks me inside. My captors have fed me well so far. I’ve had fish, some sort of fruit, and seeds. They’re attentive with water and even have cleaned my quarters for the night. They’ve allowed me to keep all my belongings, including all my scrolls.

I don’t understand why they spared me but not the others. Perhaps they don’t regard scholars as combatants. Then again, Fog Eyes and the cook, Leap Frog, did not fight in the skirmish. A few others also did not participate. Maybe they spared me because they want to learn more about us, regarding me as the most knowledgeable of the crew. That would explain the hospitable treatment. I admit I am terrified of the other possibilities. There is no good in thinking too much of it. I distract myself by documenting all that has happened. Fulfilling my purpose shall keep me sane.

Thank you for reading

This story is the sixth scene of “The Gorge,” the third short story in Schizoid Nightmares Anthology I. The previous scene is available here. The next scene is available here.

[schizoidnightmares]

The Gorge, V: Many Eyes

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144th of First, 1100 A.W. — Yesterday, our hope of seeing home again went up in flames. The HSS Heaven Sails is no more, a burnt carcass. Some pieces of it are probably on their way to the ocean by now. Maybe someday, a piece will drift back to the shores of Heaven’s Peninsula. Maybe. That’s about all the evidence that will return of us.

You can see it all in the eyes of the surviving crew. Shock, pain, fear, and anger… It’s all flowing through us like a sizzling stream of molten metal. Our future is cast. These canyons, or whatever lies beyond, will become our new home and grave. There’s no fixing it.

I barely have the motivation to write anymore, but it helps to keep my mind occupied. Only 47 of us are left now. 13 perished in the fire and chaos that followed. We know little about why or how it happened. At early dawn, a fire broke out on board. There was a great panic. Some crew aboard threw themselves over. Some died from the fall, and others perished when the airsail crashed and exploded on the island. We, the survivors, escaped the flames by jumping into the river. Most of the dead died there, drowning. We could still feel the heat and see the steam even a decent way downriver.

We haven’t lost everything. During the fire, some crew tossed as many supplies as they could overboard. I had all my records already with me on the island. However, I did lose one of my journals in the swim downriver — mainly containing technical minutiae. I’m surprised how well my leather scroll cases held up in the water. Most of the paper inside is in good condition.

Downriver, we found a hole in a rock wall. There’s a cave inside, with a whole network of tunnels. We’ve travelled deeper within and taken shelter. The caves are full of biting insects. The spiders, ants, and scorpions are the worst. They’re a bit bigger than the ones at home and a lot more vicious. At night, they won’t leave you alone. You can see them crawling all along the walls and ceiling, coming in and out of crevices in the rock. They drive the crew mad.

There’s also something else in these caves, something much larger than any insect, or mammal, for that matter. Captain Leaping Tiger thinks the crew are seeing things, but he’s wrong. I’ve seen it — only its eyes, its many eyes. Whatever it is, it’s bigger than Man. Maybe twice the size. Last night, I saw it watching us from another tunnel above our camp in the caves. The light from the fire reflected in its many dark, round beady eyes. It remained still all night but was gone by the time I awoke. I didn’t dare move. Some of the other men saw it, too.

Despite all that has happened, the captain has kept the surviving crew together. There are some with minor injuries. Our cook, Leap Frog, suffers from burns on his arms. He’s still keeping his spirits up, but Doctor Fog Eyes has ordered him to refrain from performing his duties. Fog Eyes is despondent. He sees the destruction of the airsail as if it were a divorce — from a wife he never married. I feel more shock than loss, but I’m grateful to be alive. However, getting shelter outside these caves will be a relief — away from all the insects.

These caves are not entirely enclosed. Light from the moon or the sun leaks through crevices in the rock above. Tonight is our second night. I write by faint candlelight. We’ve moved further in the caves since the first night, setting up camp in the broadest part of the caverns we could find. It’s still cramped but not as bad as the cabin was back on the airsail.

The mysterious creature I and some of the crew saw, we call it Many Eyes. I haven’t seen it tonight. We’re not in the same place we were before. One of the crew claims it looks like a giant millipede but with countless hairy, thin pairs of both bottom and top legs completely surrounding its body. He says it moves slowly and methodically. It would pull insects out of crevices with its legs, retracting them rapidly into its body. He did not get a sight of the creature’s length. Instead of turning around, it crept away backwards. He described its locomotion as silky smooth, with no bobbing of its eyes.

I don’t know if these descriptions of the creature help ease my mind at all. Perhaps, while curious of us, it doesn’t regard us as a potential meal. We’re much bigger than the insects, so I find it hard to believe it could swallow a man. We probably would taste a lot different, too.

Thank you for reading

This story is the fifth scene of “The Gorge,” the third short story in Schizoid Nightmares Anthology I. The previous scene is available here. The next scene is available here.

[schizoidnightmares]

The Gorge, IV: Somewhere Beyond

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142nd of First, 1100 A.W. — The 21st and final day over sea. When the captain announced the sighting of land, I felt the whole airsail move. It was like life had suddenly returned to a stiff corpse. “Was I dreaming?” I first worried. Only once my own eyes had seen it did I truly believe. A relief like no other washed over me. I felt rejuvenated and intoxicated with wonder. Could there ever be a more heavenly feeling? We became the most blessed souls in the whole wide world. The crew roared and screamed in absolute joy. We all scrambled to the deck.

The past week felt like an eternity — every day more hopeless than the last. Somedays, I felt like falling overboard to save myself from whatever worse inevitable doom awaited me aboard. The crew was in utter shambles. We were a floating graveyard, a basket of forlorn misery. We might as well have called ourselves a skeleton crew. We certainly looked like it.

The land gracing my sight for the first time… My dreams could not have prepared me for its beauty. On our new horizon… Vibrant orange cliffs illuminated by the sun and clear blue sky… I had never seen a more beautiful and majestic orange. No pigment could suffice. The crew all became so entranced by it they could hardly perform their duties, even as Captain Leaping Tiger violently hurled his tired voice at them.

In that single moment — the orange glistening on the horizon — all our suffering was reduced. Hell fled the heavens. Discovery and more awaited us. As we drifted closer, the cliffs climbed further up the horizon. A visual of an orange labyrinth of canyons emerged, made of gorgeous sandstone. Its eroded surface revealed no sign of Man or settlement.

At first, there was no place to tie down and anchor. The terrain is rugged and makes the Wise Mountains look gentle by comparison. As far as the eye could see, deep canyons drained into the sea. We eventually found a low sandstone island on a river in a canyon. Ahead of us, the canyon’s walls close in, forming a tight gorge with an arch. It’d be barely wide enough to fit the airsail. We secured our mooring line to the archway and settled ourselves on the island, which was low enough to give us access to the river.

We drank from the river. Its water is a lively turquoise colour. It reminds me of the blue waters of Heaven River during the late First of the Year. It used to be blue all year round but has turned a more murky green or brown in recent years. I wonder if I will ever see the falls again — to feel its mist rising up the cliffs of the hanging Heaven Valley and smell the scent of the damp stone walls of the Sanctuary. The taste of this river does not remind me much of home. It’s more chalky and salty. There are plentiful fish, but they are nothing like the pink and silver ones from home that fishers harvest from the river. These ones are various shades of purple and green. Nobody’s caught a big one yet or seen one any longer than a foot, for that matter. They taste… Very fishy… Perhaps I’m just not used to being without seasoning.

The cook, Leap Frog, is ecstatic. I can’t remember the last time I saw him smile like this. However, the captain has been growing a worried face. As night has approached, I wonder if he is thinking about his orders. The others have seemingly been swept up in the excitement, but if anything, only the easiest part is over. We still have to somehow return home and report our findings to the Council. Only essential crew can return, including myself, so we must leave most of the others behind. This island isn’t much bigger than the airsail herself. Though, the land, while arid and rough, does bear water. I wonder if we may be leaving tomorrow. The doctor, Fog Eyes, doesn’t seem too bothered by the situation. He’s too busy feasting on the catches from the river.

I will try and get some rest. It’s strange to be on land again. The ground is so solid and still. A welcoming feeling…

Thank you for reading

This story is the fourth scene of “The Gorge,” the third short story in Schizoid Nightmares Anthology I. The previous scene is available here. The next scene is available here.

[schizoidnightmares]

The Gorge, III: Lonely Among the Clouds

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132nd of First, 1100 A.W. — It is the 11th day out. Supplies are thinning out faster than the airsail’s cook, Leap Frog, expected. The captain has ordered strict rationing. There has been no land in sight. Each day drags longer. I feel like my body is shambling towards death.

I can’t even remember what it feels like to be on land. Getting a good sleep has been impossible. All members of the crew are exhausted. At night, when I do manage to dream, I dream fleetingly of discovering land or falling overboard. I have lost weight since we left. Everyone has.

The smell inside the gondola is almost unbearable. I hate it down here. It’s crowded and miserable. All the men look at me like they want to murder or cook me on a stick. I’ve been spending more time on the deck. I used to avoid going up there, but either I’ve become more accustomed to the winds and the heights, or it’s just not as bad as being below.

I’ve been falling behind on my duties. I can’t write on deck, and writing inside the gondola is filled with disruption. Whenever I put pen to paper, a crew member comes over and asks me to clean. I only get work done after Leaping Tiger berates the crew for harassing me. I’m surprised he sticks up for me as he does, but I doubt it has anything to do with a personal liking of me. For the captain, only duty matters. He may look as dead as the rest of the crew, but his spirit is unwavering.

Fog Eyes is the most pessimistic of the crew. He believes we are on a doomed voyage. We won’t have enough supplies to return home even if we find land. Whatever we may find on land — if we find land — may not even be edible for us. Leap Frog jokes about resorting to alternative food sources. They may be jokes for now, but what happens when all that is left to eat is us? I would be the first on the chopping block.

Sometimes, when I’m up on deck, I think I see shadows beneath the ocean’s surface. Not shadows from clouds… Dark shapes, like whales or sharks, but even bigger… We’re too high to get a close enough look. Maybe if the captain let me borrow his telescope… I would not dare ask. I’m sure if he saw anything, he would have me write it into my reports.

To keep my spirit occupied, I daydream of home… My mind wanders into the depths of history… Some of the other crew have resorted to religion — prayer. They believe the Wise One will guide us to a promised land. It reminds me of history, 400 years ago…

The Council never liked religion. Not now and certainly not back then. They have always tolerated private practice… What people do in the privacy of their home… Organized religion, however… The Council regards it as an intolerable pestilence.

It all comes back to the early 700s, the founding of Heaven’s Polity. Heaven Valley had just been conquered then. The former tribal peoples brought over their superstitious nature during their integration. Among them, a messianic figure arose, the Wise Man. He claimed to be in contact with the Wise One through mind speech.

Others, well before the Wise Man, reported hearing whispers when traversing the Wise Mountains. This was before the dawn of science in the 1000s. We now know, through repeated experiments, that there are no whispers to be heard in the mountains. Those claiming such are deluded or charlatans. Ancient texts confirm that mind speech is only possible in close proximity. Man had tried many times to once again find the caves of the Wisedogs, but entrances to those in Wisemount have long been collapsed.

Some have prophesied or speculated of the Wise One’s return. According to ancient texts derived from the Wise One’s memories, Wisedogs can live for centuries. It seems unlikely that the Wise One would still be alive today, at over 1000 years old, but perhaps he may be. Even if he did return, civilization is in a much different shape than it was when he left. Mind speech could help establish a better understanding of people’s thoughts, but written texts and the scientific method have long since proven superior to memory.

The Wise Man fell soon after he arose. Initially, for a short while, the Council tolerated him. Soon, his influence over the valley people began to rival that of the Council. The Council outlawed his movement and threatened repercussions if they continued. The Wise Man was widely derided in Heaven’s Sanctuary and the settlements along the lower part of Heaven River on Heaven’s Peninsula.

From their council chambers in Sanctuary, the Polity ruled with an iron fist — not that they have grown much softer since then. The Wise Man was undeterred. He believed faith in the Wise One and his own religious authority would guide his followers to a new golden age. His followers refused their work assignments and followed the Wise Man instead. The Council sent out a detachment of soldiers to arrest him and his followers, which had grown to the thousands. They fled to the mountains.

The Wise Man instructed his disciples to build a temple at the top of Wisemount, an absurd proposition. Most explorers never make it to its summit. However, his disciples listened to him and followed through. They were unsuccessful, of course. None made it back. All of them died — thousands of them, including the Wise Man. They believed the temple would help strengthen his mind bond with the Wise One. The Wise Man’s death did not stop his movement…

Throughout the 700s, more people in the valley turned to worshipping the Wise Man and the Wise One. Some people in the settlements of the peninsula even started worshipping them. The Council, terrified of the prospect of another colossal loss of labour, outlawed all public displays of worship. Anyone attempting to lead a new congregation was sentenced to death. Sometimes, their followers too, for good measure.

Even today, some still worship them. Some believers reject the messianic status of the Wise Man, while others embrace him. The influence, while diminished and unorganized, still remains. Ironically, the Council ordered the construction of the Temple of Wisdom in the 900s on the outskirts of the mountains. Officially a museum honouring the legacy of the Wise One and the founders of Heaven’s Sanctuary, many believers still use it today as a place of pilgrimage.

Faith and superstition are stronger in the Upper City in the valley, where most of the descendants of the conquered tribes reside. Poverty is also greater there than in the Lower City. It is time-consuming and labour-intensive to transport resources up and down the falls. The Council has tasked the Works Guild with constructing a system of elevators utilizing the kinetic energy of the falls. So far, it remains unrealized. Watermills are all along the Heaven River. However, the Council believes the greatest potential for energy lies in Heaven Falls.

The more I think of home and all the possibilities there, the more I wish I never went on this voyage… Not that I had any choice in the matter. Incentives offered by the Council serve only as insurance. If any of the crew had refused their orders, the Council would ensure their regret for their disloyalty. Slavery may have ended when the last tribes were defeated, but one’s occupation has seldom been one’s choice.

The needs of the Polity override those of the individual. Even before the conquests, the Council ruled successfully since the founding of Heaven’s Sanctuary. It is their continued success, prescribed in the Heaven’s Mandate, that legitimizes their perpetual reign.

Thank you for reading

This story is the third scene of “The Gorge,” the third short story in Schizoid Nightmares Anthology I. The previous scene is available here. The next scene is available here.

[schizoidnightmares]

The Gorge, II: Goodbye Sanctuary

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123rd of First, 1100 A.W. — We’re on our second day out. The peninsula has long since disappeared beyond the horizon. The falls once felt inescapable, but yesterday, they became a speck and faded away.

With the little sleep I have managed, I still dream of home. My duties aboard have kept my waking mind from drifting too far into homesickness. I am kept busy by my journals — filled with reports on how the crew is fairing and even the state of the airsail. These reports won’t just be of interest to the Scholars but also to the chief architect and the other members of the Air Guild.

The architect of the Heaven Sails, Bright Fish III, desperately wanted to accompany the expedition but couldn’t due to Council orders. The Council won’t allow one of their greatest minds to put himself at risk. Every member of the crew, including myself, is ultimately expendable to the Polity… Replaceable really… I’m not among the greatest of the Scholars — just adequate enough.

Beyond my journals, my ship duties have been very light so far. Captain Leaping Tiger II instructed me yesterday before boarding that I am to stay out of the way of the crew. I don’t think he even sees me as a crew member, just a passenger. Deadweight. I’m not worried about him, though. The Council chose him because of his unwavering loyalty to the Polity. He has even rejected marriage offers — regarding them as distractions from duty. He’s a skilled pilot, almost the best in the Air Guild. Still expendable. Pilots come in every generation, but architects, especially those like Bright Fish, do not.

Nobody seems to like me, but they also don’t seem to hate me either, not yet anyway. Supplies are still fresh. The gondola is cramped but still about as clean as she was when we left. There are no private quarters on board. Not even the captain is afforded such luxury. The air inside is a little chilly. However, on deck, it can be very brisk and treacherous. They say it feels a lot like being on the ocean. Not that I can relate…

There isn’t much to see now, with the peninsula far out of view. Aside from the bridge and the observation deck, there aren’t many opportunities to see outside. Small portholes line the walls of the gondola in most compartments, letting in some natural light but not offering much to see except glimpses of clouds and the sun. The ocean from this high above looks like a sheet of rippling melted blue glass.

It’s always loud inside. The ship never sleeps. There’s always work being done by the crew. I’ve never felt sick, and no one else has reported feeling ill yet. That doesn’t silence the cacophony of coughing at night. After a while, perhaps my ears will adjust to it all. It’s a far cry from the often solitary, quiet work in the Sanctuary… Only hearing the low hum of the falls and the scraping of ink on paper… Occasionally hearing faint echos of the bustling life in the Lower City…

Sometimes, I feel sudden panic, realizing how far above the sea we are. I hold on to whatever is nearby and close my eyes. It was a strange feeling on our first ascent. I felt a pressure and pop in my ears. Now, we mostly stay at the same altitude, but every now and then, the captain will order a descent and then a climb. The winds carry us constantly eastward, but gusts can be unpredictable. For the most part, it is a smooth ride — definitely smoother than riding a tame.

The physician on board, Doctor Fog Eyes, has been keeping track of the crew’s health. I copy their reports in my own journals. He notes the same effects as I have felt. Occasional panic, constant mild or changing sense of ear pressure, and difficulty sleeping. Regardless of their experience, no crew member, not even Captain Leaping Tiger, has been on an airsail for more than half a day at a time. The doctor’s pressing concern is the effect inadequate sleep will have on the minds and bodies of the crew as our voyage progresses. He predicts a gradual breakdown in performance, morale, and health. If our supplies get low and we are forced to severely limit rations, he worries about the real possibility of a mutiny. Without the captain, he does not believe we can make it home. The doctor, captain, and I are among the few designated as essential returning personnel. I will try to stay in their good graces.

The captain values what the doctor has to offer. The doctor is probably the eldest crew member. He could never father a child, a consequence of his impotence. His wife requested the Council for a divorce, which they granted. The Council practically never permits divorce unless they see it as a way of “freeing up a resource.” The doctor hasn’t been married since, and no younger woman is interested in him. The Council has promised him an arranged marriage with a lady no less than 15 years his junior if he returns alive from the expedition. A reasonable incentive… Not one I was offered — understandably. If they offered me that at my age, it would be like adopting a child. That would be more of a punishment than a reward.

If I do return alive, the Council has promised to grant me land in the Lower City, near the shores of the peninsula. Not that I will be able to enjoy it much before I retire… It’s a fair distance from the falls. Still, land is an increasingly scarce commodity. Wealth or land is what the rest of the crew are promised as well… In addition to a share of whatever riches we happen upon on our journey. The captain is the only one I’m aware of who is purely on board out of a sense of duty. The Council most certainly exploits his selflessness.

Thank you for reading

This story is the second scene of “The Gorge,” the third short story in Schizoid Nightmares Anthology I. The previous scene is available here. The next scene is available here.

[schizoidnightmares]

The Gorge, I: Heaven Sails

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121st of First, 1100 A.W. — Tomorrow is the day I say farewell to the sanctuary I have only ever known. If my mother were still alive, I don’t think she would approve of where her son’s education has led him to. Had I known, I wouldn’t have done so well in my studies. My father, however, might have approved. He would probably see it as the closest I will ever get to being in the Guard. It wasn’t for him to decide my destiny. No matter his service to the Polity, it is for the Council to determine the fate of us all and up to the citizen to see to it that fortune is good. I always wondered what my life would have been outside the Scholars. In a cruel twist of irony, I am about to find out. Be careful what you wish for…

It could be a long voyage before we find land — if we find anything at all. We might end up right where we started. You would think it would be better to try to cross over the desert, north of the mountains, than the ocean first. At least you have land beneath you. Well, land that isn’t underwater, at least… The Council is convinced, however, that it is the ocean where, somewhere beyond, fertile land may be found.

This will be the first expedition by air. There have been many by sea and, especially, by foot. All have failed to find any fruit. For more than ten thousand years, Man has been confined to this land. We have conquered the valley and the lower peninsula… The mountains are too rugged to settle… Beyond the mountains… A wasteland where you can find yourself surrounded by sand all the way to the horizon in all directions… The farthest any expedition party made it out there was 19 days before they had to return. And only a few out of dozens returned to tell the tale. If the heat and exhaustion don’t kill you, the sandstorms will. The strongest of our tames can’t handle the desert either. The Council has decreed that no more expeditions are to be made there. Probably for the best, considering most don’t even make it past the mountains.

The world is curved, maybe round, this much we know. Expedition parties that have traversed far enough into the desert or the ocean drop below the horizon. Nobody has fallen off an edge yet.

I should feel lucky it isn’t a voyage by sea. They are by far the roughest — in many different ways. First, you have the sea itself… Her motion can make you very sick. Then it’s a matter of duration. Sea voyages are the longest — with the surviving record being 83 days. For that voyage, it was a miracle they returned at all. Their ship was a total mess, and their crew — utterly decimated.

I am told flying by air is the safest, despite being the newest form of transportation and never having flown far beyond our land. The first prototypes of airsails were deadly disastrous, often killing their own inventors. Over time, they became safer than even walking or riding a tame. Their expense is what limits their use, particularly the procurement of lifting gas, an explosively dangerous process. For now, airsails are just a scientific curiosity. And by tomorrow, a use for faraway exploration… Hopefully, not for the last time.

The HSS Heaven Sails will be staffed by a crew of 60, including myself, the sole historian. The others won’t think highly of having a member of the Scholars on board. They probably won’t think I’m worth the weight and space. I can’t completely disagree with them. The most use I’ll be for them is helping with sanitation. I have no skill with ropes, and they wouldn’t even entertain letting someone like me take one of the wheels. Certainly, I will be there to document their glory… Or doom… But that won’t much matter to them if we can’t make it home.

If we do somehow find land, some crew members will have to stay behind. Only essential personnel and I may first return. I imagine many possibilities for mutiny. If such were to occur, I highly doubt the mutineers would think twice about throwing me overboard. At least if I am thrown overboard from an airsail, I will probably die on impact with the sea. They say it’d be like falling on stone — a merciful death compared to a seaman’s.

There are many tales of doomed expeditions in fiction… Often full of cannibalism and sodomy… Almost always as sea voyages… No writer has imagined an air voyage yet. Perhaps we will become the defining legend. Hopefully, a more… Optimistic story…

The Council was very open about why they selected me as the historian to document this expedition. They want a young, fresh mind. Aside from a few distant relatives, not having any living family was also a factor in their decision. I have never been married, or in love, for that matter. The life in the Scholars is… Scarce of women. So scarce that most members eventually get their marriages arranged by the Council.

Women and children are not allowed on the sea or on long expeditions on foot or by tame. The Council forbids it. Children are a burden, requiring care and constant vigilance. The Council sees it as senseless to risk potential bearers of children. If a woman becomes too old to bear a child, she’s seen as a burden anyway, unable to pull her own weight. The same rules apply to airsails. The skies and the seas are the sole domains of men.

Maybe, if some of the adventure stories are true, there will be beautiful women waiting for us on the other side of the ocean. I can’t really imagine it. Man, for all we know, has always been confined to our land. Even if more people are out there, I don’t think they would be pleased to see us. They would probably regard us as invaders rather than explorers.

Thank you for reading

This story is the opening scene of “The Gorge,” the third short story in Schizoid Nightmares Anthology I. The second short story is available here (its last scene is available here). The next scene is available here.

[schizoidnightmares]

Heaven Falls, III: The Valley

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The boys remain silent as the old man carries on with his oration, “Heaven Valley is where Man first appeared during the Emergence. We don’t know much about these first peoples, only that there were very few. They must have struggled greatly against the creatures of the valley long before the tribes tamed them.

“We know when the Emergence took place from the Wise One. Ten thousand years ago, his kind first came into brief contact with Man in the caves of the Wise Mountains. It was perhaps a stroke of luck since Man had not yet ventured deeper into the mountains where its peak, Wisemount, rises. Man’s skin was pale then, but his form was as ours.

“Our ancestors lived in the caves for some time before settling south in the valley. Beyond this point, we rely on the oral tales of the savage tribes. Wisedogs seemingly have an innate ability to keep track of the passage of time, but for Man, the rise and fall of the moon and the sun would suffice.

“If Man emerged ten thousand years ago, it was far longer ago that the Wisedogs emerged themselves. Not even they can remember when they first emerged… Tens of thousands of years, perhaps…

“The savages of the valley began as small groups, no larger than a hundred. They lived just as they live now, as nomadic barbarians. After pillaging the resources of one area, they would move to another to repeat their barbaric cycle of life. There were so few of them that this proved to be sustainable for the valley. For a time…

“As groups interbred, ties of kinship formed between them. Eventually came the first chiefdoms. These groups were and are ruled by members of elite families, with a single chief reigning over them all. Do not confuse these barbaric structures with government. They lacked and still lack law and writing. Many of them don’t even use wheels… Or have any concept of it…

“These chiefdoms are and have been in a constant state of war — sometimes for resources and other times just for the sake of it. They demand regular tributes from their people, centralizing the fruits of labour under the greedy hands of the head chiefs. There is some trade between them, but deals are seldom honoured. Slavery is their main form of commerce.

“While many of these chiefdoms supposedly worship nature, they are, in fact, the greatest destroyers of it. Large creatures have almost all disappeared — hunted and devoured — by these savages. The valley is full of their bones from eons of wars. Excrement has even built up as they have no concept of public sanitation.

“Heaven River, to them, is just for everything… Drinking… Bathing, if you want to call it that… Even dumping dead animal carcasses. They rarely dump their own dead in it, at least. Some of our people get sick every now and then from its water — polluted by the savages upstream.

“Some day, my students, our people will conquer the valley. Every generation builds up for it. It is our destiny. The valley’s soil is rich and fertile. We could support greater numbers with land that isn’t confined to the far edges of the valley. Heaven Falls is our sanctuary, but it will not be our prison.

“Our wise leaders, selected by their virtues — not by the amount of bones or feathers on their heads, will liberate the valley from savagery. Imagine a whole civilization united along Heaven River. This is the dream of our people, and it is your future.”

Thank you for reading

This story is the third and final scene of “Heaven Falls,” the second short story in Schizoid Nightmares Anthology I. The previous scene is available here. The next story is available here.

[schizoidnightmares]

Heaven Falls, II: The Primordial

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After a short pause, the elderly man resumes his oration, “There is another, that without we would simply not be here. Not even the savages that roam the valley… Or the valley’s savanna. We all come from the Primordial. It is responsible for all life as we know it. Where it came from… What exactly it is… We don’t know. We only know it exists thanks to the Wise One and the collective memories of his kind.

“The Primordial lies everywhere beneath us. Its size… Unimaginable. Within it… An incomprehensible maze of corridors. A constant creation of new bodies… Life. Some call it our mother… A god. I will let you decide on your own, my students. Or you could not decide at all and accept it as a perpetual mystery. I am not here to make up your minds for you, only to teach you what our people already know.

“The Wise One’s kind does not regard the Primordial as a mother-like force. They view it more like an untamed garden of horrors. The first of his kind escaped the Primordial in pairs, all ending up in the caves of Wisemount. Their memories are faded, but they remember their first ancestors went through what seemed to be a series of trials… Perhaps as a way for the Primordial to determine what is worthy of life on the surface.

“Some of Man believe that your body returns to the Primordial when you die. It absorbs your life experiences, learning your successes… And your failures. Using the sum of your memories and the memories of others… It creates new life… Superior life. Many believe this is the cause of Man’s creation, and ultimately all life.”

The old man sits down, resting his back against the stone statue. Several boys raise their fingers, some raising more than others.

The old man points to one of the boys — this boy raising only a single finger — prompting him to speak up, “Does the river come from the Primordial?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Maybe all springs come from the Primordial,” the old man replies. The boy does not look satisfied with the answer.

Once prompted, another boy asks, raising two fingers, “If we don’t bury our dead, does that mean the Primordial doesn’t learn from us?”

“Uh…” the old man pauses. “I don’t know.”

The old man prompts another boy, this one raising only one finger, “Is the Primordial a boy or a girl?”

The question puzzles the old man for a moment. He then sighs and answers, “I don’t have the slightest idea.”

“You don’t have any answers!” a boy screeches.

Rising to his feet, the old man glares down at the boy. The cavern falls silent. All the boys lower their hands and look down meekly at the floor.

“The duty of a teacher is to impart knowledge that already exists. We don’t make it up on the spot,” he sternly replies. “That duty belongs to the preacher.”

Thank you for reading

This story is the second scene of “Heaven Falls,” the second short story in Schizoid Nightmares Anthology I. The previous scene is available here. The next scene is available here.

[schizoidnightmares]

Heaven Falls, I: The Wise One

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“Ten millennia from Emergence — hundreds of generations lost forever in ignorance. Only four have since blossomed in the light of knowledge. Recorded memory… History has known only a century.

“We are the shepherds of wisdom. Each generation grows on the last, enriched like layers of rock. Before us, Man was ripples in the sands… At the mercy of the eroding winds of time.

“Hear this, my students. Civilization cannot survive without recorded history. Illiterate savages know nothing of their past. They pass whispers from the old to the young, tales that change every time they are sung. But with recorded memory — beginning from the Wise One and now with writing — we tell our stories just as they had begun. The Wise One, though not Man, uplifted us from the barbaric state of forget,” an elderly robed man orates in a grand enclosed cavern, meticulously carved out from the rock.

“The Wise One gifted us not only the blessings of history but knowledge unknowable to Man — knowledge of the Primordial,” the man continues his oration. Behind him rests a tall stone statue of a small canine. Its long, flowing hair is smoothly carved. Sitting upright, it stares up at a round aperture, bathing in the warm ray of sunlight. Burning torches hammered into the rocky walls complement the natural illumination. Around the old man is a flock of boys wearing tan robes identical to his own. They listen on benches carved out from the cavern’s floor.

“Savage tales offer us no wisdom. They poison our minds with lies about our past — our beginnings. Only the Wise One and our written history can guide us to true knowledge. First discovered in the dark caves of Wisemount, north of the valley, the Wise One came from a race of dogs — the Wisedogs. He, like others of his kind, possesses the remarkable ability of mind speech.

“Indeed, my students. The Wise One can hear the thoughts of others and speak their own thoughts… All without even a whimper or whisper… All in the mind alone. Man does not possess this ability, but strangely, perhaps as a form of primordial brotherhood, he can hear the thoughts of Wisedogs, and they can hear his.

“The Wise One is the only of his kind — that Man has found — whose thoughts are coherent to us, and ours, to his. With the Wise One’s mind speech and perfect memory, Man could reliably store the experiences of his elders. No more whispering lies.

“Leading the Wise One from his mother cave, a group of Man travelled south to Heaven Valley. Guided by Heaven River, Man found Heaven Falls. There, with the help of the Wise One, he built Heaven’s Sanctuary — our home — into the side of the falls. Word spread of the Wise One’s abilities, and others flocked to the sanctuary. It was not long before the roots of civilization took hold.

“The falls offer us security… Inside these caverns, we are safe from the savages and creatures of the valley. As much as we would like to, this sanctuary cannot be a home for all. Not every Man believes in the wisdom of the Wise One. The ignorants that feast on the valley — hunting the Primordial’s creatures to exhaustion — reject knowledge. They know only savagery. Most are not welcome here. Their presence would uproot our civilization and destroy it. Without us, all of history is lost.

“Before the Wise One left us three decades ago, returning to his mother cave in Wisemount, he bestowed his last gift: written language. True, our scholars had a significant influence on its design. Still, our script would not have been possible absent his wisdom. If not for writing, our civilization would soon be lost to the unrelenting winds of time. Now, our knowledge is set in stone. Uh… Quite literally.”

Thank you for reading

This story is the opening scene of “Heaven Falls,” the second short story in Schizoid Nightmares Anthology I. The first short story is available here (its last scene is available here). The next scene is available here.

[schizoidnightmares]

Flesh Run, IX: Fleshed Out

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I break through a thick layer of membrane. Lucky pushes me forward from behind, and we both tumble into a large, wet, fleshy, cylindrical canal. Behind us from where we fell is the tunnel I dug, the ridged membrane quickly sealing it closed. Light, faintly passing through the encompassing membrane, dimly illuminates our surroundings. A shallow brown, murky, putrid liquid rests stagnantly up to our ankles. On either end of the canal is a large closed orifice. The air reeks and brings out tears from our eyes.

Watery squeaks echo from one of the canal’s ends as an orifice opens. It reveals a brown, rolling mass, almost filling the whole circumference of the canal. We feel a strong, warm breeze blow past as the mass rolls towards us. A chokingly rancid odour pervades the cavity. As it approaches, I can barely make out what appear to be limbs and faces, partially disintegrated into the brown rot.

Lucky turns and tugs at my hand; I nearly trip. We both run for the opposite end. Our feet stumble on the cartilaginous ridges that line the canal, and we make a sluggish pace. The liquid in the canal sucks back at our feet — flowing behind us towards the mass.

I can almost feel the mass grace my back as it tumbles after us. Lucky is the first to reach the closed orifice in front of us. After realizing I am still holding onto the uprooted tooth, I quickly toss it to them. They hard press the sharp end of the exposed root into the orifice. It opens just enough for them to slip their arm through. Lucky turns to me and desperately sticks out their other hand. I grasp it, and they pull us through the orifice — right as I feel the mass press against my back.

We slip into another cylindrical canal with a membrane wall partially blocking the way ahead. Yellow light scorches from beyond. I hear the orifice stretching open behind us — the mass pokes my back. Lucky moves ahead, skipping over the canal’s ridges with ease. They jump and reach up, gripping on the edge of the membrane wall, and pull themselves over. They stand on top of a membrane platform. I see only their silhouette in the blinding light. They crouch down and reach out to me.

I stumble over almost every ridge getting to them. They rapidly shake their hand at me — their palm open. I don’t dare look behind. Nearly losing my footing, I launch myself upwards with all my might. They don’t even wait for me to grasp their hand… They grip mine violently and throw me over onto the platform. The light blinds me like bones piercing my eyes. Lucky pulls me by my hand. I fall forward on my chest and they drag me on ahead across the membrane. The pressure of the light keeps my eyes closed shut.

The membrane floor suddenly changes, shifting to a steep incline. Gravity now takes over. As Lucky and I slide down, they lose the grip on my hand. I lose contact with the floor and feel an abrupt weightlessness before falling again. A thick puddle of mucous cushions my fall. Without delay, Lucky holds me under my arms and slides me to the side. They slip on the mucous, and we fall back on a rough, grainy surface. The ground shakes for a brief moment.

A breeze, colder than any I have felt before, blows over us. My skin tingles. I hesitate before slowly opening my eyes. Our surroundings are entirely unrecognizable. A soft blue light permeates a cavern. The surface is not membrane but instead is made of a dark black and brown gritty texture. The ground is frigid. In front of us lies the putrid mass. Steam flows off and around it, filling the cavern with a foul fog. Behind it, to the side, is the gaped orifice from where we came. Around its opening, the cavern’s surface appears melted, where it and the membrane meet. As it cools and solidifies before our eyes, it leaves behind a series of ridges of the same texture as the rest of the cavern. The orifice closes and transforms into the same frigid surface.

The faint blue light comes around the corner on our other side. Lucky and I get up and follow the light. The floor of the cavern numbs my feet. What we see beyond is a world without flesh. At the entrance to the cavern, we stand before a vast valley of sparsely green. The green concentrates on a blue flowing stream. Foggy masses drift far above us. A warmer breeze brushes the numbness off my toes. Blue light fills the valley, broken up by speckles of yellow rays from above.

We have left our mother.

Thank you for reading

This story is the ninth and final scene of “Flesh Run,” the first short story in Schizoid Nightmares Anthology I. The previous scene is available here. The next story is available here.

[schizoidnightmares]

Flesh Run, VIII: Bite Me

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We fall into a dark one-way shaft. Dim speckles of orange light flash continuously and rapidly from far ahead. The five of us tread forward lightly. As we step further, I make out three jaws, each large enough to block off the entire shaft. They open and close rapidly, revealing and concealing the orange light beyond. On the jaws are teeth shaped like ours and tightly spaced. My pace slows, and the others proceed ahead of me — Lucky stops and looks behind at me. Assuming they don’t desire to become meals, their eyes must not have seen them yet.

I expose my teeth to Lucky and pretend to chomp on something. They look at me, utterly bewildered. Further but not too far ahead, the others stop one by one. Lucky turns around and approaches the others before suddenly pausing. Now they’ve seen them.

Meeting up with the others, I realize each pair of jaws chomps at different intervals. The closer, the longer the break between a chomp. The furthest one chomps on the shortest interval. They each bite down quick and hard but open slowly. I also notice that each pair of jaws is spaced just enough apart from one another that you could fit safely between them, provided you keep still and stand tall. However, there’s no way you could get through all three of them simultaneously. Even if you could run as fast as you could spit.

One of us, I’ll call them Bold, boldly attempts to step over the bottom row of teeth of the first pair of jaws… Only for Lucky to pull them hard backwards. The jaws narrowly miss their leg. Lucky stares at Bold, clapping their own hands at the same interval of the jaws right in front of them. Bold, seemingly ungrateful and oblivious, ignores Lucky. They then lift their leg over the bottom row again and plant their foot on the other side. They turn to Lucky — smugly. Lucky gasps, quickly turning their head away and covering their eyes… Just as a scoff leaves Bold’s lips, the jaws come mercilessly, crushing down. And now, it’s just the four of us.

Warm blood pools around our feet. Bold’s body, crushed by the powerful jaws, is split into two. They are a mash of torn flesh, mangled organs, and fractured bones. Their death, aside from the sound of an interrupted scoff and their bones snapping under the pressure of the jaws, was quick and silent. Only their arms and legs, crudely severed, are recognizable. The jaws open, and the remains of their body rest on either side of the teeth. Where Bold had stepped over, the teeth have moved considerably, bent forcibly out of position, leaving more significant gaps while pushing the teeth closer together elsewhere. Blood seeps from the gums around some of the teeth. Inflammation appears everywhere, but particularly worse where the teeth crushed Bold.

While the membrane absorbs the blood, Lucky picks up one of Bold’s severed arms — the one on our side. They rest the arm on top of the jaw’s bottom row of teeth. In tempo, the jaws snap shut, crushing the arm in two. The arm slightly crooks some teeth. Lucky then picks up one of Bold’s legs and steps back. The leftover remains of Bold absorb and disappear beneath the membrane.

Elbowed jolts forward, quickly stepping over the bottom row of teeth after the jaws open. They turn around after making it safely on the other side of the jaws — looking at them as if they are surprised to have made it. Stung watches the jaws intently, readying themselves for the right timing. They make it across but nearly trip on the bottom row. It’s just me and Lucky now.

We both watch the first row of jaws open and close. Lucky raises their hand towards it, bouncing their hand in tempo. They squeeze my arm, then place their hand on my shoulder — guiding me to the rhythm. I ready myself. They quickly and lightly push my shoulder as the jaws open. I step over the bottom row and reach the other side next to Elbowed and Stung. Lucky steps beside me, only but a moment later.

The next row of jaws closes faster than the first pair. Stung leaps forward but trips their foot on one of the teeth. They fall into the succeeding third pair on the other side of the jaws. The third jaws clamps down with lethal force, tearing Stung into two across their waist. Stung screams and then abruptly dies.

The three of us stare silently and watch as their remains soon sink into the membrane. Lucky still holds one of Bold’s legs. After the jaws open, Lucky sticks one end between some teeth on the bottom row. The jaws crush down on the leg bone, effortlessly snapping it apart. Bone fragments spray at us, pushing Elbowed off-balance. They stick their arm out behind them to break their fall. The jaws behind us then bite Elbowed’s arm, completely severing it from their shoulder. Their voice violently shrieks — my ears ring in pain. They try to stop the bleeding with their other hand. Lucky and I look on helplessly, unable to move. Elbowed lays back and rests their head on the bottom row of teeth. The jaws close and crushes their face into their skull. Only a bloody pulp remains. Blood pools between the two jaws, covering our feet up to our ankles. It all then sinks away into the membrane floor.

Lucky and I are alone now. The front-row teeth on the second pair of jaws ahead of us have bent significantly out of shape — leaving a narrow gap, perhaps wide enough to fit through. While the jaws are closed, Lucky cautiously sticks their hand in the gap. The jaws open and close, leaving their hand untouched. Lucky lifts their foot and places it on the exposed gum in the gap. The jaws open and close again — safely missing Lucky’s foot. Lucky grips me. Using their foot, they kick and push on the adjacent teeth. I help hold Lucky in place while they gradually widen the gap. They also use their hands to further pry apart the loose teeth on the top row. The gap should be enough to crawl through now.

We both crawl through, being careful to avoid having our legs crushed by the first pair of jaws behind us. Only one pair of jaws remains in front of us. This one closes much faster than the other two. Too fast. However, this time, we don’t have any bony limbs to spare. I look behind me at the second row of jaws and get an idea. I use my foot and kick one of the loose teeth. After a few tries, the tooth eventually nearly breaks free. Lucky sees what I’m doing and carefully lowers themselves on their side. They pull the tooth free with their hands. I then help them up on their feet. Just before Lucky tries to place the freed tooth on the third pair of teeth in front of us, I stop them. They let me take the tooth from them.

On the end of the tooth is a sharp root. Using the sharp end, I begin digging away at the wall of the shaft. The membrane is initially tough and elastic, but the sharp root manages to break the seal. There’s more tissue beyond the membrane wall, but it’s softer and easier to dig through. I start digging my own narrow tunnel through the fleshy tissue. Lucky follows closely behind, nearly hugging my back. They aggressively nudge me forward as if to escape something from behind them. I continue on, tunnelling frantically into the soft tissue.

Thank you for reading

This story is the eighth scene of “Flesh Run,” the first short story in Schizoid Nightmares Anthology I. The previous scene is available here. The next scene is available here.

[schizoidnightmares]

Flesh Run, VII: Mucous Spa

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Awakening, my heavy eyes struggle to open. I drift in and out of consciousness. Waking once more, I rub my eyes before creeping them ajar. A condensing steam soaks the room. From above, a hot glow seeps through the membrane. I sit up, and my vision blurs. I lick the moist air and gulp saliva down my parched throat.

In my blurred sight, I see figures close ahead of me, bathing in some liquid. All but one ignores me. On my hands and knees, I try crawling towards them. My tongue gently hangs out across my teeth. Losing my balance, I slump on my side, the membrane cushioning my fall.

I reach my arms out, trying to grasp the edge of the bath, which lies depressed into the membrane. The tips of my fingers touch it. Using the joints of my fingertips, I clench the edge and pull myself a little closer. With greater reach, I grasp the bath’s edge and give one strong pull. My body slides head-first down into it. The liquid inside is a thin balmy mucous.

Hands gently turn me onto my back. The muculent liquid still covers my eyes. Arms drift me backwards. They rotate me around. I float weightlessly on the surface. Fingers grace my face. They tenderly wipe the mucous atop my eyelids. Slowly, I open them and see Lucky staring down at me — with a subtle smile, almost cradling me.

Lucky carefully props me up by my back against the side of the bath. Underneath the surface, my feet touch a shallow cartilaginous ledge below. Little coarse hairs touch the soles of my feet and between my toes. They provide my feet with a firm grip on the lip. Lucky raises their hand to my lips. They carry a clear liquid. I sip from it as they tilt their hand. The liquid is lukewarm and fresh but tasteless.

They point next to me. A small nasal-like opening in the wall secretes a clear liquid, dripping into the bath’s mucous. I cup my hands underneath and collect some of the secretions — drinking it. Hydrating but not filling. It nonetheless quenches my thirst. I continue to drink from the secretions until my throat thirsts no longer.

I turn around, my back against the side of the bath and sink into the mucous right down to the tip of my chin. My hands rest below, underneath the surface, on the ledge of cartilage. I let my legs float freely out in front of me and close my eyes…

Thoughts whisper inside my mind. There is no way to communicate them to the others. How would I? Point to my head? Dance my fingers around? The others wouldn’t understand. It occurs to me that I may be the only one among us that thinks at all.

Only five of us are alive, including myself, Lucky, Elbowed, and Stung. At least alive enough to be sharing this bath. I don’t know what happened to the others… Those that survived past the platforms separated by an abyss… I suppose I can assume they drowned in the submerged passage. If my memory serves correctly, there were eight of us alive before we entered it. Three must have perished inside. Maybe panic got the better of them, or perhaps they were just poor swimmers. Though, all of us were of equal experience. Aside from slight differences in facial appearance, we’re all virtually identical. Same height. Same skin texture. Same adult-like development. Hairless. Neuters. Practically equals. What sets us most apart is what’s beneath our fleshy exterior. My thoughts quiet down as I drift further into relaxation.

Half awake and asleep, my chin bobs on the surface. I feel a current in the bath, and I fully awaken. The bath drains, its contents swirling down into a widening orifice, which has appeared at the bottom. Struggling as the current pulls me with it, I turn over, my chest against the bath, and I grip the ledge of cartilage. The membrane then absorbs the cartilage. Lucky, I, and the others slide down the bath’s walls and fall through the orifice.

Thank you for reading

This story is the seventh scene of “Flesh Run,” the first short story in Schizoid Nightmares Anthology I. The previous scene is available here. The next scene is available here.