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What brought this poor soul to such a fate? What was his name? What was his story? Well, that is what I venture to discover, through a dream.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Tomas Duchek

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

The sough of the wind chattered the branches, carrying a memory. His name? His story? His love? For a love he must have had once. So said the ring encircling his finger, which encircled the roots of the forest bed, which was his bed, among the snow and moss and earth.

Who was that love? The memory carried by the wind was too high, too agile, too fickle, too unwilling to reveal its secrets, content in eluding him, until it bored of that and the forest was silent again.

That silence did not leave a space for his mind to discover what the wind had teased. It only enlisted a weight upon his eyelids to bring him to slumber.

He closed his eyes, for it was all he could do. His dreams were dark. A starless sky. A cave. A well. At the bottom of that well shone a coin, golden like the metal on his finger, what imagery stamped upon it too fine to decipher. He swam through the pitch and reached out what he imagined was his hand, for he could not see it either, waiting for his fingers to occlude the coin and then the sensation of its surface to manifest. Such a small thing could buy so much. He felt his mouth salivating at the thought of the feast it could yield. Mutton and bread and cheese washed down by sweet mead, which he would slam down on the table to demand more, more, more. And there would be a woman. His love? No, for she was laden in bruises makeup couldn’t cover, though cover it she tried, even angling her body in such a way to favor her unblemished side to the firelight.

This coin could buy flesh, and he wasn’t a choosy man, not yet, not until he found his love. Tonight was not for love, and he hungered for what love was not. He took her hand and stood, and with a turn of her head she showed him a hoop in her ear, polished to the coin’s luster. He reached for it, but could not grasp it, instead pulled stumbling up the stairs by the woman, who deposited him in a room as dark as a cave.

Blind as he was, he probed the darkness for a hint of wall or anything. Nothing he felt, but something he saw. The elusive color tuned to the sound of the wind. He lunged for it and found a shuttered window where a golden orb gleamed. The coin, he thought at first, but his fingers went through as if it were a ring. A knothole, he found, splinters as well, and through that knothole shone the sun. He threw open the window to find anything but the sun. Darkness is what he saw, but at its core lay that coin, that permanent fixture of his madness, still out of reach.

Still, he reached. He crawled. Hands and knees pressed against stone, cut into them. Jagged and fierce, it rent his flesh, yet still he pressed on, his eye on the prize, because love could wound him more than stone.

Walls rose, so he stood, blood trickling into his boots, which gripped the stone well enough, rooted him, nearly. Careful steps he took, gaze flicking to the ground as if he could see it, until he heard the hammer and clink and eventual clatter of what could only be iron to stone.

Something did occlude the coin then. Something hunched and ragged with a crude swathe of ink set over its shoulder only to blur before he could make sense of it. A creature, a trial, to prove his worthiness of what he knew he had already won. His finger lay absent of that, but of course it did, him having yet to conquer what stood before him, seething with its weapon ready to feed on something more substantial than teeth of rock.

He charged forward with a bellow, his only weapon, and the creature did stir, did take notice, but lash out at him it did not. It eclipsed what could only be the cave’s entrance, as if to steal his prize, to never attain what mystery the wind sang.

A gasp broke through his shout as his hands took hold, and another glimmer hovered in the dark, a ring encircling a finger, catching what little light remained, and it would be his. He let his hands do the work, bringing this creature to its end before its blade found him. When his strength was spent, he looked again to be sure he had won, and there, staring back was a tooth in a maw with no others because he had taken them with his fist, silver as the moon in a starless sky.

He saw just that, then the moon itself faded away, and he was left with the sough of the wind tuned to a chime hanging from the eave of a cottage of a dead man at the edge of a lake near a forest with twisted roots that whispered through undulating soil like maggots just below the surface, feeding on the rotten flesh hidden by the skin of the earth.

He followed the whispers, as he had followed so many things, first at the bottom of a well, then in a chamber of lust, through a cave with a beast that was but a toothless man who had perished from his touch.

When his eyes opened he wanted to close them again, for he knew now why he was here. His ring was no ring to represent his love, for he had none. The forest told him what the wind had not, whispering his deeds now that he was close enough to hear them, consumed by the roots to the waist. For he was not a man of love, the ring a trinket taken from a man who had loved.

He closed his eyes, for it was all he could do.

Personification is used often in writing to bring more depth and perspective to things that otherwise have none. I took it a step further and wrote an entire story about such a thing.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Dmitry Vishnevsky

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

A horse clopped across the bridge, which evoked the memory of its birth.

A slumber in mud. Deep and timeless. Time meant nothing to the stones that nestled there when the river had been but a trickle. But now the bridge knew what time was, so it could label that concept.

Wake up, said callused hands.

It’s time to grow up and move on, said a pickaxe.

You’ll do great things, said a mallet.

You’ll do terrible things, said a man.

The stone became many at the hands of these men. Separated, reconnected, and reshaped to itself and its brethren it didn’t know it had.

Hello, said the bridge.

Hello, it answered.

The trickle that would become a river became a creek. It played its music to the bridge as it passed beneath it, bringing all manner of thing. Leaves and twigs given new life though they were severed. The bridge never knew the dead could move with such vitality. It wondered where they would end up, because it couldn’t see far. The creek bent quickly and was hidden by the trees that hung low as if to drink from it. They would molt their dead from time to time, and if the bridge were lucky, they would do it upstream so the bridge could see them running toward it as if they were its children.

The bridge only had dead children, it seemed. If not leaves and twigs, then animals.

A man with a stick upon the horse upon the bridge evoked the memory of a death like no other.

A human child. The boy had been playing on the bridge with his fishing pole, which was only a branch with an imaginary line.

The bridge wanted to tell him to be careful, to not get too close to the edge, because it knew the perils that lay beneath the mist and the mirrored surface of the creek that had grown to a river. Though the bridge tried to speak, it was made of stone. The boy sat on the edge with his feet hanging. He raised his pole like it was a sword, and it seemed to transform into that, because the boy stood and swung it and then spun in the other direction to thrust it like the bridge had seen men do across it, who had also fallen to their deaths. The bridge had been forced to look at their faces until the animals and bugs stripped them clean enough to be washed away.

The bridge didn’t want to look at the boy like that. Not ever. But it was a particularly damp season and moss had grown over the bridge like skin. It wasn’t hard for the boy to find it. The bridge felt the boy’s heel press hard and then slip. The bridge was forced to look at the boy fall with a look of confusion and fear, much like the child who had been born under its arch to a woman who lived there for some time. While that child was fearful of life, this boy was fearful of death. Not because he knew what was to come, but because he didn’t.

The bridge knew. It watched, helpless, as the boy smashed his head on the rock, his eyes looking about calmly as blood trailed from his nose. His mouth moved as if to speak, but he didn’t speak. Soon the boy’s eyes stopped looking, and his mouth stopped trying to speak. The bridge watched him decompose as it had all the others.

There were many years of stillness after the death of the boy, as if the world mourned its only son. The bridge savored the stillness, because it, too, mourned the boy.

“Nearly a hundred years it took,” the man upon the horse said.

The voice of the man and horse upon the bridge evoked a memory of its family.

When the snow cleared, they came. Men with great machines that nearly separated the bridge, stone by stone. For that is what the machines carried. The bridge recognized some of the stones and spoke to them in the old ways. Some spoke back. Some didn’t.

After a time, the bridge saw where its distant cousins were taken. To assemble a tower so tall only birds could reach it, and they did, flocking around its peak and perching upon its stones to be shooed away by men hiding in its nooks.

Many came and walked across the bridge. Man and woman and child and animal. Often, the bridge saw the same ones pass back again. It was nothing like the bridge had ever known. The boots and wagon wheels and horse hooves cleared the stones of moss, even in the damp season. No children fell to their deaths. The river widened and raced with a ferocity the bridge had never witnessed. Mist tickled its underside, where it was fine for moss to grow. And grow it did, into great beards to rival those of the elder men who crossed it.

The man and horse crossed the bridge to evoke the memory of its death.

Chipped and bowed and moss-ridden with the traffic and absence of traffic of the people who had built and visited the great tower made of its cousins. It spoke to its cousins in the old ways, to tell them what was to come. Some denied the bridge. Some did not.

Year after year, fewer of the living and the dead visited the bridge, and in that negligence, the concept of time was lost to the bridge. It lost the concept of waiting, of watching, of remembering.

The river became a stream, a trickle, and then nothing at all. The bridge forgot its birth. It forgot its death because it was experiencing it now. Dry and buckling and too much for its own weight, the bridge collapsed.

Stone by stone, it returned to the mud.

Sleep, said the mud.

The bridge did not dream. The bridge did not wake.

In honor of who is quite possibly the greatest living American writer, Cormac McCarthy, and his announcement of two new novels coming out in the fall, I wrote this story. The art hit me immediately and it fit his tone so well, I had to give it a try.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by David Bocquillon Carrasco

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

The two men drove long into the night because the dawn was their destination.

“Almost there,” Holden said, who drove.

“Where?” Tom said, who rode beside him.

“Where we need to be.”

“We don’t have to be anywhere. I like driving at night.”

“Night’s almost gone. See that?” Holden pointed at the windshield.

Tom looked at it but just saw Holden’s finger with his long sleeve pulled to his knuckles. He stretched it all the time to hide the scales on his skin. Like he was stretching his other sleeve now. Holden thought he was hiding it between his seat and the door, but Tom saw.

“All I see is a window you forgot to wash,” Tom said. The glass was smudged with circular marks that looked like the radial metal pattern Holden had been working on at the shop when Tom had first met him. The light had struck the metal in a way Tom had never seen light strike before. Holden struck him that day.

“It was your turn,” Holden said.

“It was my turn to fill up the tank,” Tom said.

“Doesn’t change the fact that dawn’s coming.”

“I still don’t see it. Look at the time. It’s only 2:30.”

The clock was analog and did read 2:30 with a minute hand that wobbled from the road. It couldn’t make up its mind if it wanted to go to the past or the future by a minute.

“It always says 2:30,” Holden said.

Maybe the clock was broken, but Tom didn’t feel like arguing.

“Can I roll down the window at least?” Tom said.

“I’m cold already,” Holden said. He wore a puffy vest that glimmered when the headlights reflected off the reflectors on the side of the road. Beneath that he wore a hooded sweatshirt. The hood was pulled over his head.

Tom moved closer to him. “Feels all right to me,” he said.

“There’s a draft in the door.”

“I can’t feel anything.”

“I told you. It’s here at the door.”

“You can have my jacket.”

“I don’t want your jacket.”

“Okay.”

Holden turned on the high beams and it hit the fog and painted it bright and gray and solid.

Tom found he wasn’t wearing his seat belt, so he moved back on his side against the door and clasped it on. “You’re going to get us killed,” he said. “I can’t see anything out there.”

“You don’t have to,” Holden said.

“I’m serious. You know what I mean. It will be all for nothing.”

Holden hit the brakes and the car skidded to a stop. A french fry cardboard slid off the dash and fell on the gear shift and swung there. They’d bought it and shared what used to be inside at a burger joint ten miles or so back at a town of fifty people called Two Shores where they’d killed the girl.

“You don’t know what it was for,” Holden said. He hit the french fry cardboard off the gearshift and smashed it with his heel.

“The hell I do. I was the one who did it.”

Holden thought about that squeezing the steering wheel like he was wringing clothes dry. He didn’t notice his sleeves fall back to show his scaly skin.

Tom touched his hand where the scales were.

Holden threw Tom’s hand off the wheel and grabbed him by the collar of his denim jacket. “Don’t you ever touch me.”

Tom looked at Holden and his eyes that were like gems, and he wished he knew something about gems so he could give them a name. He put both of his hands over Holden’s.

Holden’s gem eyes closed and he fell into Tom with his forehead pressed to his chest and he wept. Tom went to put his hand on the back of Holden’s head to pull him closer, but Holden moved back into his seat and then opened his door and got out.

Tom sat in the car until the dome light went off and then he sat there longer. Holden was a shadow outside that was darker than the night, which had become blue. It reminded Tom of the color of Holden’s eyes and he wanted to see them so he got out too.

One of the two shores that had left the town of Two Shores behind crashed and roared beneath a solid sky. Holden paced on the beach pulling at his sleeves. Tom followed Holden’s footprints like he’d seen done in a movie before so it looked like there was only one man. Tom passed Holden to get a better look at the water and there was evidence of two men.

“What are we doing here?” Tom said.

Holden still looked like a shadow ghost. Something that wasn’t his hand extended from his sleeve.

“Stopping for good.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I think you do.” Holden held the gun so Tom could see it.

“All we been through and you want it to go down this way?”

“I do.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Holden pointed the gun at Tom. “Do you believe this?”

“I believe that killed a woman who would have ruined our lives.”

“That’s not all it’s done. Or about to do.”

Tom looked at the ocean and then looked at Holden again. He saw his eyes now and suddenly knew what a blue gem was called.

“I’m sorry I did what I did that got us into this.”

Holden saw gems in Tom’s eyes then. “It was both of us.”

“It was.”

“But it can’t go on.”

“Why not?”

“It just can’t. I’m sorry.”

Holden aimed the gun at Tom and pulled the trigger. It clicked. It clicked again.

“I thought you were different, but I suppose I always knew.” Tom reached in his pocket and pulled out the rounds he had removed from the gun after killing the girl and threw them into the ocean.

Holden watched Tom in the half-light of dawn and Tom watched Holden.

Sci-fi too soon? Nah. The energy of this one caught my eye, so I had to figure out exactly how the characters found themselves in such a strange situation.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Su Jian

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

Ninety beats per minute. Jett counted every tap on the back of his neck where his helmet strap was tied too tight.

“You hear that?” he asked.

Grim didn’t respond other than the constant swallowing, apparent by the bobbing of his neck guard.

Hands sweating in gloves gripping guns. M-something, dot something, dash something. Serial numbers weren’t Jett’s thing. He worked by touch, by grip. That’s what told him this was the right one, the right place. Keep a grip. Gotta keep a grip.

Jett kept his grip while crouching outside a door with another number: 299. The building was non-descript, repurposed, refitted, reused, like everything anymore, so no way to tell where the hell they were or what they were up against. He and Grim, that is, who sat on the other side of the door due to bad knees, rifle aimed.

One-twenty beats per minute. Above him now. Standard paneling with a vent every ten feet before the corridor turned, which wasn’t far. Should have checked. But time. That’s one thing they didn’t have. Grab the body and get out.

One-eighty beats per minute. Frantic. Something trying to escape.

“You have to fucking hear that,” Jett said.

Grim shook his head, eyes behind the dark glass of his helmet, which jutted out comically, sized for cartoon eyes.

Jett snorted a laugh.

Two hundred beats per minute. His fingers tapping on the rifle’s stock couldn’t keep up. Driving him mad, Grim’s stagnant pose driving him madder.

“Fuck it,” Jett said and kicked the door in.

He scanned the room, Grim’s presence palpable behind him. Rifles painted the room with laser scribbles, calculating, calculating, calculating, far slower than the overwhelming tempo that crescendoed when he’d opened the door.

Computer screens striated in green formed the room’s perimeter, splashing light onto keyboards, coffee mugs, crumpled papers, and . . . what the hell was that? A fan of red fogging an alcove near the back of the room. Twitching in time to the nailgun in his head.

He shot Grim a glance. “You–”

Grim was gone. The distance to the door clear but for a small jittering figure. A small man. A boy, maybe. The spot at the top of his jet-black hair smeared with a white reflection. He was almost a blur. Then Jett’s mind caught up, caught up to the now two-hundred and twenty beats per minute. That was this bot’s twitch rate, because it had to be a bot.

Jett readied his EMP round. Just one. But it would be enough for this little guy. Could be a maintenance bot malfunctioning, doing the rounds of cleanup, and this place was in need of it. It had nothing in its hands, though, except a vibration that made him dizzy.

Two-hundred and fifty beats per minute. Music lessons at the synth flashed, Jett’s hands slapped for not keeping in time, always off, always slow. Keep up. Gotta keep up. What the bot had told him, its safety guard overridden by Dad, hence the hand slapping. Smarter than us, Dad would say. Bigger than us. That last statement always emphasized by a soundless scream, which both scared and puzzled Jett when he was about the size of this thing wading through the puddle of light toward him.

“Woah,” he said, eyes flicking toward the green EMP light.

“It’s not a fucking horse,” Grim said from behind.

Jett seized at the shock, from head to toe.

To finger.

The EMP round ejected right over the head of the rogue bot-boy, carrying with it a glow to illuminate its face for a fraction of the now two-hundred and eighty beats per minute. And that face made Jett stumble back into Grim.

A scalp of implants growing cables reaching into shadow. Left eye a hollow socket, right eye monacled in blackness, but not as black as the mouth opened wide in a silent scream.

Grim shot off a burst that cut across the bot’s torso. From those wounds quicksilver filament erupted, and Jett brought up his guard, but the ropes turned back on the bot and snaked around its torso and arms, glowing, then tearing. The bot doubled in size, crawling out of its carcass, the same gaping expression aimed right at Jett. He fired off a few more rounds into the abyss to no effect.

Grim was on his side in the doorway, thrown by the transformation. He hopped to his feet, his visor not looking so funny anymore as it flicked around the room, searching for what Jett hoped was a way to get him out of this mess. Then he dashed through the door.

Two-hundred and ninety-nine beats per minute barraged Jett. Caught in a glitch of gravity and his own body malfunctioning to the cacophony, he wanted nothing more than an even number. Instead, he landed a few more rounds, which was all he could do. To that beat.

Another doubling. A chain reaction that didn’t need a catalyst anymore. The void-mouth exhausted a pressure that threw him against the wall. Monitors shattered, and glass was taken up into a cyclone stripping the walls clean.

Jett smelled that oh-so-familiar funk of the outside, a split second before the wall exploded and he was sucked out into it, propelled by the snarling giant’s scream that was not silent.

His helmet snapped off his head, so he held his breath, cycling through every projectile his M-whatever-it-was had. Muzzle flashes of every color spattered the giant bot’s face, which was so large even the room couldn’t contain it. Its body, stories tall, burst free into the highway rift, as Jett continued to fly backward, inches away from its bite.

A trail of exhaust marked Grim below, weaving through debris passing and impacting his K-whatever cycle as he headed toward him.

Jett fell. The tempo slowed. Too slow to save him from the giant? From being torn to shreds by the twisted pipes behind him? For Grim to catch him?

Jett gave into the tempo, and counted.

One of the best times writing I’ve had in a while. Maybe I need to do more rhymes? haha. Either way, I hope you enjoy this twisted fairy tale.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Rob Bliss

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

In a house so clean, no footprints could be seen, lived a girl named Molly Red, who wished her parents dead.

Why would a little girl ever wish such things? Well, have a seat, lend me your ear, and I will tell you what this tale brings.

As I said, the house was impeccably white, so utterly spotless, there was not a speck of dirt in sight. Playing outside in the dirt and grass was a favorite pastime of Molly Red, who happily played as evening fell, not yet desiring her parents dead. But when she went inside, greeting Mom and Dad, she forgot to remove her soiled shoes, and when they saw what they brought, they were far from glad.

Off to her room, she was sent with curses and swats, she kicked and punched in protest, but never got a clean shot. In her muddy shoes, sitting in her room, she faced the wall while Mom and Dad cleaned the space of toy and book and loom. The last they took was made for a girl who was sweet of smile and gentle of heart, Granny had told her when Molly looked at the curious machine, not knowing where to start.

Now it was gone, like all her things. Molly swore on her grave yet to be dug, justice soon she would sing.

The carpet the only thing to pull in ire, she gripped it her hardest until her fingers burned with fire. And burn they did but something more: A prick to her finger, which she drew to her mouth after she swore. Copper she tasted on the tip of her tongue, like a bitter and sour penny from where she was stung.

Back to the carpet she went, determined to remove every last strand until it was rent. She dyed the carpet red with her blood to give it her name, her hate, her wish of death with lack of shame. But after so much time, her fingers sore and numb, the carpet lay there like carpet does, frayed and still and dumb.

Cry she did, holding her face in her hands, wishing and wishing and wishing she could come up with a plan. Once her tears had dried and her voice was hoarse, she heard something strange: A voice from her beneath her muddy shoes, muffled and coarse. She moved her feet aside to see a single carpet strand standing up tall, all the way to her eyes. If she were standing she’d fall.

She leaped back in fright from the bloody worm that was sure to bite. But bite it did not. It wound into the semblance of a mouth, then a nose dripping with red snot. No, she thought, a mustache was what rested upon those yarn lips that would not clot.

With a quiver and twitch, those lips spoke in a hitch: “Hello, Molly Red, who wants her parents dead. I am called Captain Thread, and I owe you a wish, which I can grant, even if it goes unsaid.”

“I want no such thing!” Molly said with shock. “I love Mom and Dad, and take it back or I will turn you into a sock.”

Captain Thread answered with glee, “I can see right through your lies, wee lass, and if I couldn’t, I wouldn’t be me. Now give me a hand, like Granny said you would, so I may complete the task you demand, which I should.”

Something flipped inside Molly, and she turned on a dime. Was Granny speaking to her from a realm beyond space and time?

Hypnotized Molly was, or so she thought, for she weaved quite the creature, so much more than the thread that used to be a simple jot. It formed a man, squat and surly, mustached with a Captain’s hat, claws for fingers, and a middle quite fat.

“Ah, now that is much better,” Captain Thread beamed. “‘Tis grander than I could have dreamed. Now climb on my back, for I need your will to kill and sack.”

Molly did as she was told, soon tangled in wet and cold.

They trampled out of Molly’s room, Captain Thread, and the girl, scratching walls and thrashing halls, muttering in time wishes of doom.

“Slice ’em up good,” Molly said. “Slice ’em up messy, until they’re dead.”

“I am yours to command, sweet Molly Red. Show me to their chambers, so both our bellies can be fed.”

Molly told him and told him good. When they burst through the door, old Mom and Dad were in quite the mood. Angry at first, then faces full of fright, Captain Thread tore into them with grim delight.

He spattered the walls with the gooey insides of the dreadful offenders, one would think they were soup from a blender.

Captain Thread had grown fatter, and Molly could feel she was no longer cold, heat pumped through Captain Thread and her by means so bold. She felt anew, and so did he, for they both cackled a song of revenge and victory.

The house once so clean was now spattered with Mom and Dad, quiet and empty, made Molly a little sad. It didn’t take her long to get over that, strung to Captain Thread, grisly and fat.

He spoke, “Freed me from a prison you did, and I suppose I did you. Perhaps we are clear to part ways, our slates cleaned anew?”

“But you’re fun,” Molly said. “I’m not sure I can let you go. I’ll be alone in this house, wandering to and fro.”

“Quite true,” the Captain said. “I’ve become attached. We are a pair, an unbeatable match.”

His joke made Molly laugh, and so did he, friends for a long time they knew they’d be.

“So tell me, Molly Red, surely there are others who’ve done you wrong. We can hack them to pieces like they should have been all along.”

Molly Red told him, indeed, and off they went to make more bleed.