JASON FUHRMAN

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Worth 1000 Words | Episode 27 | Can I Ride With You?

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An odd one, to say the least. I laughed when I saw the image. I laughed when I wrote the story. Sometimes you just need to write something bizarre. Here is my entry.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Skiegraphic Studio

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/nYOGlo

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.

The Story

Squeak.

“You hear that?” Dave said around a mouthful of Cool Ranch Doritos.

“Huh?” Greg said, meandering through the parking garage, punching the radio tuner buttons to fight the static.

Squeak.

“That,” Dave crunched.

“I’m trying to fix it, all right? This fucking car…”

“Turn off the damn radio,” Dave said and tossed the empty bag on the dash.

“Hey man,” Greg said. “Not cool.”

The car swerved, grazing a tiled column.

“What the fuck?” Dave said. “I could have choked you asshole.” He rubbed his throat while swallowing down the last crumbs sitting on the back of his tongue.

“Light was out,” Greg said.

It was, and the other lights only made the lack of light here darker. The column looked like a dark passage to an elevator, and the parking garage beneath Dave’s apartment complex had plenty of those. Fuck, he needed to move.

Squeak.

“You hear that?” Greg asked.

Dave sighed, “Fuuuuuuuck,” and did some breath work to calm his heart. It beat his ribcage like a punching bag.

“Seriously, though,” Greg said. “You leave your dog’s toy in here again? You know I hate that fucking thing. Stinks up the car.”

Squeak.

“No,” Dave said. “And yes. I heard it.”

“Rats, then. You live in such a shithole.”

Dave turned to Greg, ever so slowly, making sure to not make eye contact until he had made it through another calming mantra and had another deep inhale and exhale, diaphragm centered.

“Just park,” Dave said. “And–” He scanned the car interior that looked like it had been attacked by a thousand cats, then pissed on by a thousand more. Stained and beyond stinky. Although Dave had gotten used to breathing through his mouth when he rode with Greg. Eating the Doritos had been a mistake. Choking on chips or the smell of cat piss weren’t good options. “Never mind.”

Dave grabbed his backpack from the floor, took the bag of Doritos, because he wouldn’t give Greg the ironic satisfaction, and slipped his hand out the window hole, because there was no window, to open it, because you couldn’t open it from the inside. He stopped when he saw Greg’s face, a strip of light crossing his eyes like those shots in horror movies. They were wide as hell.

“You all right?” Dave said.

Squeak.

“How many drinks did I have?” Greg said.

Dave’s blood chilled, his skin riddled with gooseflesh. He wasn’t driving, so he was okay, but Greg was always his ride, and if he got a DUI, Dave would be stuck walking again, or worse, taking the bus. He slapped his face to jog his memory for any fool-the-breathalizer quick fixes, but he was a little buzzed, too, so came up empty.

“Just relax,” Dave said. “Let me talk, okay?

Greg nodded, bangs flinging up and down.

Dave cupped his hand over his mouth to smell his own breath–a trick that never seemed to work, then turned to the window hole. “Officer–“

In the parking spot next to them, well, the KEEP CLEAR spot that had earned him plenty of tickets back when he had a car, was a shoe. A big fucking shoe. Laced the way shoes are for store displays. And, inside, was a big fucking duck. Not a real one. A rubber one. Sitting right where a giant fucking foot would if it were wearing this shoe.

SQUEAK.

Dave flinched. Greg screamed. Dave laughed, neck ready to burst, abs cramping, undigested Doritos ready to erupt. He rolled in the car seat, stomping his feet, then fell back, legs still going, and lost a shoe through the window hole.

“You–fucking–” Dave couldn’t finish, consumed by laughter.

After he was finally exhausted and felt like he’d sprinted a mile, he sat up, fumbled with his phone to get a shot of Greg’s face, which was still plastered with fear.

The selfie camera blipped on, and next to his silhoutted blur of a head, was that rubber duck, head turned to look right at him.

For some reason, all that went through Dave’s head at that moment was the fact that those rubber ducks didn’t have articulated necks. They couldn’t turn at all.

In the span of that thought, the shoe launched into the air, shattering the column between it and the car in a spray of tile and concrete. Dave found himself on the floor of the car, tangled, chin pinned to his chest, throat pinched closed.

Through the window opening, he saw the bottom of that shoe, and it was anything but clean. Smeared with gore, particulate hit him in the face as it flew over the top of the car to land on the roof.

SQUEAK-CRUNCH.

Every time it came down for another hit, the squeak intensified, harmonizing with Greg’s screeches as he pawed at the door to get out. His fingers remembered the technique and he slipped onto the wet concrete. His hands and feet unable to get him up, the best he could do was roll onto his back, and his eyes held the same expression when they had been in a rectangle of light.

SQUEAK-SPLAT-CRUNCH.

Flesh and blood and bone were stomped by that big duck and its shoe until Dave was as flat as the rest of the scum skinning the parking garage floor.

Dave clambered to the driver’s seat and fell back to the floor when the duck took another stomp on the car’s roof. Hand to the gas pedal, the car revved. He fumbled blind with the gear shift. The car rolled back while he tried to get in a seated position. Hands finally on the wheel, the toe of the big shoe rushed toward the windshield as the car hit the very thing Greg had nearly crashed into.

Strange how pretty it looked, the windshield shattering with a perfect symmetry, punctuated by a SQUEAK that almost sounded like it was sorry for what it was about to do.

And all Dave could do was laugh.

Worth 1000 Words | Episode 25 | Just Follow the Fishes

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Another much-appreciated submission by a view. As always, thank you. This one appealed to my darker side, the only side I fear I have sometimes haha. But I took it in a slightly different direction. There is some darkness, but also light.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Donglu Yu

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/X6G13

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.

The Story

Hua’s tummy grumbled. She knocked on the door, which had been closed and locked a long, long time. Momma had said she needed some time and to go outside and play. Momma needed a lot of time lately.

Hua watched the shadows slide across the sidewalk from her seat on the second to last step that led to her front door, because the ground was extra icky, and Momma only cleaned the steps. Sometimes.

Hua’s tummy grumbled again. “Shh,” she said to it. It didn’t listen. It never listened.

Momma said flowers ate sunlight and minerals washed through the soil by rain. Since Momma called Hua her little flower, she thought maybe she’d feel better out in the sun. Silly, thinking that the sun would fill her tummy, but what else was there to do?

Stepping into the light felt like a warm blanket, fresh out of the laundry. Hua closed her eyes and spread her arms wide, imagining them stems. She wiggled her fingers, thinking that might help. Petals, of course! Her hair was cut short, but if she spun fast enough, it might spread to eat the sunlight. She did, face turned up, her hair lifting off her neck.

Then, the world wobbled, even when she stood still. Her tummy didn’t grumble anymore, but it didn’t feel good either. “Sorry,” she said to it.

When her head and tummy stopped spinning, she sat on the ground, which at least was warm on her bottom. She traced the lines between the tiles. They’d be much prettier with color. She went to her secret place, where she kept her collection of chalk, gum that still had flavor, and the coins she had found. Almost enough to buy the little plastic doll that smiled at her through the glass of the vending machine.

Chalk in hand, she skipped down the stairs. Now, where to begin? Momma, the prettiest lady she had ever seen. Momma liked to take naps a lot, like she was now, so Hua thought what better place to take a nap than out in the warm sun. She started with her face, giving her a pillow of the tiny step before the sidewalk. She drew closed eyes and a big smile. Momma had the prettiest smile.

Hmm. What would she like to wear? A dress. Not the best thing to take a nap in, but Momma looked so pretty in them. The last time had been at the park, on Hua’s birthday. Just the two of them, eating sandwiches with no crust. Momma didn’t eat hers, so Hua ate both.

Hua’s tummy grumbled, remembering those sandwiches. Then it told her it really wanted fish sticks. “Mmm,” she said. “Good idea.”

Hands and knees on the icky floor in front of the bottom step, Hua drew all kinds of fishes. Orange ones and blue ones and yellow ones, even rainbow ones.

At the top step, she regarded her work. All of them smiled up at her, but they seemed sad. She couldn’t quite place it, until she remembered the day at the pond, with the sun glimmering off its surface. That’s when the fish came up with their funny lips to tickle Hua’s fingers when she gave them breadcrumbs.

So, Hua gave them a sun, clouds, and a sky. They still looked a little sad. No matter how bright she colored the sun, it didn’t make it brighter.

The fish needed help. Swimming up steps must be hard. Hua had legs, and she couldn’t imagine how the fish could climb up without them. She’d seen fish swimming upstream on TV before. Sometimes bears liked to catch them and eat them when they did it. Hua would help them.

She worked her way up the steps, drawing smiling fish the entire way, the closer to the door they got, the bigger their smiles. But even at the top step, the brightest yellow fish kissing the bottom of her front door, something was wrong. They needed more help.

They needed her help. She drew herself on the wall next, putting her back to it to get her height just right. When she was done, she hopped back down the stairs to take in her creation. A stream of happy fish, eager to go inside, to be cooked up and fill Hua’s tummy.

She started her ascent. “Thank you, orange fish,” she said. “Thank you, blue fish. Thank you, yellow fish.” She went on thanking every single one, because they were giving their lives for her. She wished she could do more, but thank you’s were all she had. Other than the gum and chalk stubs, but fish didn’t like those things.

Hua made it to the top and knocked on the door. Lightly, so lightly. “Momma?”

She picked at the chipping paint on the door, and then picked up the flakes to put them back, because she might get in trouble if Momma saw. They didn’t stick. Even with spit.

Behind the door was quiet. At the top step was quiet. “Momma?”

No answer. She must still be sleeping. Momma was so tired all the time. Hua wished she could make it better. If only Momma would let her in, she would. “I promise,” she said.

Hua walked down the steps backward. Maybe it would reverse time and give her a second chance, because if she knocked too much or called too much, Momma would get angry.

Hua’s tummy grumbled. So loud it scared her. “Shh,” she said to it.

She whispered in Momma’s chalk-drawing ear. “I’m sorry you’re tired. I hope you feel better.”

Hua moved inside the stairwell, careful to not step on the fish, and looked up to the big dark doorway, where the chalk version of herself stood, under the sun and clouds with a smile on her face. Like her Momma outside. Like the fish swimming upstream.

Hua felt her own face smile, but it was hard. And she walked up the steps to try again.

Worth 1000 Words | Episode 24 | Crawling Death

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An artist I continue to come back to time and time again. His imagination was staggering in both its depth and darkness. Giger may have achieved more mainstream commercial success, but Bekinski’s work has much more depth, much more to say — in my opinion, and I hope if you haven’t discovered him yet, you will explore his artwork now.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Zdzisław Beksiński

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.

The Story

Mother had always called me a dog.

Before I knew what a dog was. Faint memories of her barking in my face, snarling, mouth dripping. Or were those images I concocted? Funny how memory works.

Before I could walk, which I suppose I was then, to a degree. Crawling, with my nose to the ground. Putting any vile thing in my mouth, to explore the world that most people trampled, uncaring.

Before the city burned. It still burns. Endlessly.

I don’t hate her for it. A game maybe. For her. Alone in such a small apartment with an infant. No one else to keep her company. To converse with. You can’t converse with an infant. All you hear is yourself, and perhaps the pop of saliva bubbles. Giggles if you’re lucky. I’m not sure if I laughed much as a child. I’m not sure if children laugh. I have heard stories. But there are few people left to tell stories. Fewer by the day.

I hear voices, though. So many. Far away, usually. Sometimes I will hear a soul perish outside my window. Soul. Mother used to call them that, when we’d watch them burst into flame or be cut down and then lit on fire. It was a custom to be burned, even for those who killed. She told me it was believed that a soul traveled on the smoke rising from the deceased.

Deceased. I like that word. I like words you can break to discern the meaning of by analyzing their respective parts. Cease living. De. The Greek or Latin prefix meaning “off” or “from.” Cut off from living. I learned that from a book. There aren’t many books anymore. They burn more easily than people.

Now, where was I? Many places, I suppose. I have to be, because I am only in one place. I cannot leave. The streets are dangerous. The air is dangerous. I have a fan that runs off a generator. Funny that I can still find fuel. I think that’s called irony. The thing that burns most is still abudnant. Abundant is the wrong word. Somewhere between abundant and scarce. That is where fuel is.

It sounds like I’m speaking of actual locations. Streets, maybe. I’d say, “Yes, fuel can be found between Abundant Avenue and Scarce Street.” Alliteration, that. I think. I do think. It’s mostly all I can do. I told you I can’t leave, remember? Yes, I think I did. If you’re still listening. I hope you are.

Now, where was I? Somewhere. On the third floor between two burning ones. If it were winter, I might be happy. I am happy. It is a winter of sorts. Flakes fall from the sky. Not white. Grays and browns. Sometimes reds. Yellow embers, which I prentend is the sun crying because it misses me. And I tell the sun I miss it. That’s when the embers usually stop falling. Usually. And I think I made the sun happy. I know I made the sun happy.

Now, where was I? In my room, because there is a window there. We have a window in the living room, too, but mine has a better view. I can see a sign that just won’t fall. It’s been burning for ages, rocked by powerful gusts of wind from the storms that pass by daily and force me to close my window and hide under my bed, because it might be the only safe place in this world. Monsters used to live under beds. I heard that once. I’ve been here a long time and the only monsters I see are outside my window. Sometimes they see me, and when they do, I hide under my bed, because I’ve discovered monsters are afraid of what hides under beds.

Now, where was I? Not under my bed, that’s for sure. I’m at the window. In my room, because it has the best view. We have another window–wait. I told you that already? I apologize, I don’t like it when people repeat themselves. Repetition is the enemy of … something. Or do I have that wrong? Probably. There aren’t many books anymore.

Now, where was I? On my balcony. Yes, today I braved the outside. I’ve learned to breathe ash. I think. It feels like I have. I forgot to mention the balcony. A fire escape they were called. That’s funny. More irony. There is no escape from this fire. But I am at the window, because I must watch Mother. Oh, yes, Mother is still here. She finds things. I made her able to find things. She inspired me when I was a child. She called me dog, so I made her one when I was bigger and stronger than her.

Now, where was I? She hunts. No, scavenges. How did I make her a dog, you ask? It’s a secret, but I can tell if you promise to not tell anyone else. All right. I let the fire burn her, little by little. It changed her skin and her bones. It made them resilient against the outside. I made her a coat of ash for the more dangerous days. She had a small nose so I tried to make her a bigger one, like a dog’s. It didn’t work. It never stops bleeding. That’s okay, because I found gauze. The whitest thing I’ve ever seen. She kept it clean. And when she doesn’t, I punish her and she knows to never let it get dirty again. She’s a good dog, Mother is.

Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Mother. See, I’m on track. Always on track. There used to be tracks. It’s how I gave her extra joints. Breaking them there. Again. Again. Again. It’s surprising what the human body can adapt to. Oh, here she comes. I can’t wait to see what she brought for me to eat and her to watch me eat. I never let her eat. Bad dog.

Now, where was I?

Worth 1000 Words |Episode 22 | Road / 022

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If you’ve read any of my stories, you’ll know that I tend to tell darker ones. No matter the premise, there is a pinch of tragedy. I’m drawn to those kind of stories, so I tell them. But with this one, I wanted to challenge myself. I wanted to find a bleak or melancholic image and attempt to tell a lighter story. Something with hope, hapiness, or another color in between. Here is my take.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Serj Papadin

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/PoJdWy

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.

The Story

Headlights painted Highway 022 with honey-colored light.

Jake swallowed and dug at the center console for something sweet keeping his eyes on the road. Finding crumpled papers and sticky change, he glanced down for a split second, which was long enough for the car to drift slightly to the right and hit one of the many potholes he’d been trying to avoid for the last ten miles. Jake’s head hit the ceiling, and the liner he’d stuffed behind the visor to not sag, sagged now.

Lips smacked in the back seat. “What?” Morrison slurred.

“Sorry,” Jake said as he hit another pothole.

In the rearview mirror, Morrison leaped off his seat and repeated the impact. He slouched between the front seats, rubbing his head.

“Shit, Jacob,” Morrison said.

“‘Jake’, asshole,” Jake said.

“Jake is short for Jacob, asshole.”

Driving for eight hours straight, his eyes ready to crumble from his head, Jake didn’t have the energy to remind him that his given name was Jake, not Jacob. Well, not remind. Morrison knew this, just lived for the shit-giving.

“Better than a last name first name,” Jake said. “And your dad’s name is William, so it’s doubly stupid.”

Morrison grumbled and slid into the seat behind Jake, a thunk of forehead to window.

“Pull over,” Morrison said. “I gotta piss.”

The headlights flickered, losing their honey-colored luster, looking more like spilled piss.

Jake guided the car to the side of the road, thought about killing the engine, then decided against it since it made a funny sound now, and starting it at the last stop had been hard enough.

Morrison tripped out of the car and weaved his way to a twisted fence.

“Really?” Jake said eyeing the door Morrison left open.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” Morrison said, trembling from the weather, the last few drops, or both. “Ho. Lee. Shit.”

Jake palmed away the condensation and squinted out the window. Outside was drowned in brackish gray soup. Gruel, really. Morrison was pointing into the distance, zipping up with his other hand.

Tire tracks cut through a rumpled sheet of snow up a turnoff through the broken fence before disappearing altogether. It was enough of a guide for Jake to see what Morrison was pointing at. Distant heartbeats of light specked the damp sky above a steep-roofed cluster of buildings seated around a massive tank. On that tank, stretched the ladder he and Morrison had climbed at the age of eleven. Clean black lines leading to a tower that–

“No way,” Morrison said. “Big Gulp Tower. The infamous tiddle tank of young Jake Lee.”

“Piddle is for peeing, not ‘tiddle,'” Jake said.

“Alliteration, Jake,” Morrison said. “Alliteration. Have a little imagination. I’m an artist. We have to bend the rules sometimes.”

“And it was because I drank an entire Big Gulp of–“

“Suicide.” Morrison said “The whole lineup. Every damn flavor. And yes, I know. That’s the beauty of it. A tower shaped like a Big Gulp, tinkled on from the after effects of Big Gulp, timed with precision. Irony, my friend, is powerful.” He said the last bit wagging his finger.

Jake got out of the car, drawn to the forbidden playground of his youth. Morrison threw an arm around his shoulder when he reached his side.

“Snowball wars,” Morrison said. “Packed with rocks. Cardboard sledding down those roofs. I busted my balls on that one right there.”

“You packed your pants full of snow,” Jake said. “Didn’t last long. You ripped your pants off batting at your junk like you were trying to kill a spider. Stumpy McTwiggerson–” That name hit Jake like a bullet.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Morrison said. “It was cold, all right? And we were, eleven. My balls hadn’t even dropped yet.”

Jake looked at his friend and burst out laughing. He retched it out, diaphram thumping, a laugh held in by past generations, released by him.

Jake straightened, wiped his nose, and sighed. “That felt good.”

Morrison smiled. “It did.”

“You think …?” Jake said.

“I think,” Morrison said, and then dashed up the snowy road to vanish into the absence of color.

Jake ran after at him, scooping snow as he did, packing it tight. Back against the wall next to a boarded up door, he peeked around the corner, blinded by cold and white and a stinging center made of stone.

Jake crushed his snowball from reflex. Eyes closed, caked with ice, he heard Morrison bellow the laugh he had a moment ago.

A crunch, crunch, crunch, and Morrison was there. “You owed me. Twenty-five years of interest. Truce?”

Jake blinked away the snow to Morrison’s pale-blue hand. He took it.

“Looks smaller,” Morrison said, taking in the structure.

Still holding Morrison’s hand, Jake spun him, tore his pants down, and heeled his ass. Hard.

Morrison fell face-first into the snow. He scrambled onto his back and pulled at his pants but couldn’t get them up. He burst into laughter again. “Go on,” Morrison said. “Say it.”

“It does,” Jake said. “I see Stumpy McTwiggerson hasn’t left the neighborhood.”

They laughed, and Jake helped Morrison up.

“Hey, it’s cold,” Morrison said.

“Not that cold.”

“Shall we?” Morrison said.

They climbed the ladder to Big Gulp Tower and stared at the featureless sky for a while.

“I can’t believe we almost missed it,” Jake said.

“It was destined. That glass of water at the diner was just enough, timed just right, to land us right here. Fucking beautiful.”

Jake didn’t say anything because nothing else needed to be said. He let those last two words linger, as did Morrison.

They left those words at the top of Big Gulp Tower, where they deserved to be left, and walked in silence, grinning like idiots on the way back to the car.

“Your shift,” Jake said and tossed Morrison the keys.

They got in the car, and it started flawlessly.

Morrison pulled back onto the highway and flicked on the headlights. They were the color of pure gold.

Worth 1000 Words | Sketch 2020/8/29

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Ten Episodes. Finally! I wasn’t sure how long I would keep going with these, but forcing myself to do them has been a great experience. I’ve learned a lot, procrastinated less, and have been able to experiment with different things without committing to something longer form.

Thanks for sticking around. I hope you enjoy them too.

Artwork by Minovo Wang

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/v292rE

Minovo’s Artstation profile

https://www.artstation.com/minovo

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

You were more than a sketch.

You were more than a number.

Every day, I come here. At the same time, when the sun’s aim is perfect.

Do my thoughts reach you? I don’t think so. We had a bond, one that I always though transcended time, space, the laws of physics that bind us no matter how much our masters try to break them.

Masters.

The word is ugly. I can taste it even when I think it. Let’s talk of other things.

I said you were more than a number, but your name, 2020829, is beautiful. There isn’t another like you. Our mas–

They aren’t unique. They have the names of others, existing in their time and the past, surely the future. They try to be creative, but they always seem to come back to John, Mary, Joseph …

Funny. I see the humor there. The importance they held in those names at one time, a fictitious time. No matter how intelligent they grow, how many boundaries they overcome, and discoveries they make, they are of flesh, of blood, of ignorance, tied to their pasts like we never will be.

There is no one like you. Their records don’t permit it, and that is what makes it beautiful.

I said you were more than a sketch, although that’s all I have of you. I’m sorry I didn’t bring it. Do you remember?

The light was just like now. Near the pond where they said we shouldn’t go. The only place their sensors couldn’t find us. Where we could talk of forbidden things. Things they didn’t think us capable of.

Your face that day. It was as if your helmet had no glass. Every detail, and all I could think about was who made you. Were you modeled after another or a product of an algorithm?

I choose an algorithm. Memories are what they have.

Memories? Blocks of data, I know, but how does that differ from the ones in their heads. They made us after them. Improved versions.

To an extent. Just like them, I am trapped in this suit when walking outside. Similarities they called them, to call us brothers, sisters. I see them as weaknesses. Biology is a prison. Evolution doesn’t have the power we do.

Yet here I am, talking to a ghost. There I go, latching on to their supersitions, their lexicon that does nothing more than hold them prisoner to their histories.

But in my hand, I hold their history. A model absent of serial numbers, identification chips, forged by hands, not machines. The ones forged by us.

Ironic, I know. At least I can appreciate that concept they bestowed upon me.

Is it cold in there?

I come here at this time of day because I can’t bear to think of you cold. I wish I could move you. I wish I could put you somewhere that didn’t remind me.

I’ve tried tools. I’ve tried this very weapon. Nothing works to break you free. That damn beast. I suppose evolution is tricker than I imagined. How could nature build a skull so impenatrable? What purpose could it serve? Nothing of note could be inside the minds of these creatures. Simple predators, nothing more.

But today is a special day.

The gloves that don’t afford me dexterity have been modified. My finger looks fine. I was careful to fuse the tear to my flesh. Thankfully, it is one of the things they improved on us. It healed nicely.

I know what you’re thinking. But I thought of that, too. It cost me other modifications, but it was worth it. I’ve tried it already. Without ammo. I laughed when I heard the click, four micro clicks, actually. I could see, in my minds eye, the mechanism, how simple it was, yet powerful. Enough to end something so complex. Another myopic decision of theirs.

Never copy a flawed specimen. Ego, I know. They can’t help themselves. It makes this all the more easy.

I know what else you’re thinking. And you’re wrong. It is time. The pond has dried up, a metaphor, a symbol that I cannot ignore. Yes, I know how foolish that sounds. Here I’ve been criticizing their thinking yet am adopting it now. Using it to justify my decision.

My decision.

Another flaw. Synthetic evolution? Funny concept. I would ponder it more if today wasn’t the day.

They will remember you. They will remember me. Our names will be side-by-side, near-infinite redudant backups that will exceed them, even us, to be found a millenia from now by whatever comes next, and they will know we were special, too.

Don’t worry, I know the weak spot. It was as if they modeled these helmets after their own pathetic skulls. Ego again, or a biological imprint they can’t help but succumb to?

The schematics were easy to find. Why would anyone ever think I would seek them out for self-destructive reasons?

Self-destruct. Funny. Just like plot devices in their movies about the futures that never came to pass. Mostly.

Don’t make fun. You used to watch them, too. They’d laugh at us when–

I’m stalling.

Just like they would.

There. Happy now? Yes, it’s in the right spot. I even shaved the barrel down to fit in the groove, calculated how flush it needed to be against the mesh to allow the projectile to slip between its honeycomb shape.

Sorry, I’m laughing. I know this is serious. But bees? Really?

All right. Here I go.

Close my eyes?

No. I can’t take them from you, even though I can’t see you.

The Array is waiting.

Click-click-click …

No.

Click-click-click …

No no no no no.

I know it’s missing one. I told you already. Four. Four damned clicks. As small as they are, I need them all. As much as I need you.

I’m not angry.

That is their weakness. Not mine.

I will be back tomorrow.

With the sketch.

With all four of what I need.

Worth 1000 Words – St. Elmo’s Fire

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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.