I have to say, as stressful as these things can be, and as much work that goes into making these videos, I’m still having fun. They don’t have much of an audience, in fact, they are the lowest viewed videos I make, despite them taking far far longer to create.
So why do I keep going? Because I love writing. I love the pain of it. I love the rewarding feeling I get once I write that last word and have created something that I didn’t know I had in me. It’s a great exercise in subconscious creativity, and one that I’m sure will carry over into my longer-form writing.
So, thank you to the handful of people who keep watching, and thank you to the artists that keep inspiring me every week.
I hope you enjoy the story.
Artwork by Alexy Egorov
https://www.artstation.com/artwork/Qrxkbx
Alexey’s Artstation profile
https://www.artstation.com/air-66
DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time, and keep it as raw as possible. If I decide to publish later, all of these will go through formal editing.
The Story
He tasted salt.
It started on his skin. A film. An organism that grew and grew and grew. Nothing he did could wash it off. But what did he have?
A dark tomb.
Somehow he missed the taste of blood. The taste of life.
The screens had burned out long ago, glassy dead eyes now.
Cables encircled him. He couldn’t move them off even if he wanted. Inside his chest was the last thing that worked, the last thing that had energy to it. Love.
His tomb rocked forward, slid back into a cradle of some kind, not quite able to climb over the lip of the void.
He stretched his mouth open. Salt crumbled. He opend his eyes. More salt. It didn’t sting anymore. He was becoming part of it. His body had finally relented.
His dry tongue circled his dry mouth. Teeth clacked. Could he?
“…”
No.
The gods fought overhead, miles above. A rumble. A crash. But it was a fiction. He knew that. It just sounded nice. Like speaking a legend, an old story. He missed old stories, telling them. He lusted for earth. No matter how solid, metal wouldn’t do. Layers upon layers, earth had. Near endless. Leading to a hot core. Much like the one that held on inside him.
“I …”
Who was that? Him, of cou rse. A husk of the deep baritone he used to possess. The one that told the old stories, the ones that people forgot. Caught up in the things that had only brought them down. Destroyed much of what was left.
The true stories.
But there were shores. Lush with starving minds. Minds he could fill. If he could only move. Rise. Finish what he started.
He touched the cold hull with the last of his energy. His hand warmed. A light there. A notch. A hemisphere with two notches.
It flashed red. Not meant for him.
For the man who came before him. When he had first tasted blood. The blank screens weren’t the only dead eyes here. He shared this tomb.
If there had been light, he would see him, sprawled on the other side, a fresh coat of skull and brain on the console. Ironicially, the man died where one was supposed to look. But with the power gone, it was useless. The lens was most likely far below the surface anyway.
As if response, water trickled from above. He heard it but didn’t see it. His throat constricted at the sound. The sea was teasing him now. Although he knew he couldn’t drink it, he would. Oh to die with a wet mouth.
The unbeliever had, lucky fool. A mouth of blood, but wet nonetheless.
Thunder rolled, boulders across the sky. The energy made its way to the surface, stirring the depths.
A hollow silence, a pressure, before everything imploded. Water rushed in. He opened his mouth wide.
Let it all in.
Nails on his skin, a thousand thousand nails, and it tested all the points, working its way over every nerve, every vessel, to his wrists. And he was alive. His legs, eager to push his head to the surface, held him up. His mouth breached, and he tasted the air.
Then the sea brought him a gift. He cradled it like a babe. Like the one who they had forgotten. He went to kiss the forehead, but his lips passed through where it should be, and once again, he tasted blood.
His didn’t command his teeth to chew, but they did. Ravenously. Eyes rolling back in pleasure, he swallowed the sweet matter.
He gagged. A bit of bone lodged in his throat. So this is how he would die. The muscles there worked like the legs of a millipede, working the shape down. The shape was wrong, smooth, spherical. His throat empty for so long, he could sense every angle of its surface.
Then something smashed against his tomb, and he was thrown forward, nearly out of the water to the waist, and the opposite wall punched him in the chest.
The shape was loose, tumbling in the air above, pristine, an unblemished sphere, except for two protrusions on either side, cylindrical, the piece to the puzzle.
Dreamlike, floating, his arm that wasn’t his arm, sprung up, his hand that wasn’t his hand, grasping, getting hold, such a precious hold.
Those old gods wanted him to sing the name of the true God, because they hurled their great stones again, moving the sea the opposite direction to throw him back in his bed of steel tentacles. They didn’t threaten to strangled him. They parted. Oh, what signs, what beautiful signs.
Invigorated with the hopes and dreams turned flesh of the other man in his belly, his fingers led the key to its mark.
The world ignited, as if the one true God had opened his eyes. He basked in the glory, was thrown to his knees, as he should be, as the great machine hummed to life.
Then the voice of God said, “Five kilometers to surface. Prepare for decompression.”
He felt it, truly felt it. It was as if he chest were to explode, his head to burn away to stardust. An ecstacy flesh could not fathom.
The eyes of God dimmed, allowing its disciple to complete his mission. Then, He said, “Population 2135. Agriculture. Light industry of aero-filament. Arrival in thirty-six minutes, twenty-five seconds.”
He found his sustenance at his feet, and he ate. He would need the strength. They must witness him rested, full, clear of mind.
The hatch opened with a hiss. The cold breath of all of creation filled his lungs. He climbed the ladder, one leg not quite working, but he made it to the top. There, strapped to the top was a mark of truce. He straightened it, and it served his balance well.
The great machine carried him toward the blinking shore, holding the symbol of Truth. “Let there be light,” he said.
And there was.
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