Lost Hand: What They Found
Note: ARRRRRG this is so damn short and it took me for EVAR to write and I can't write anymore until I work out some things about how this world stuff works in detail and how exactly I want to go about writing it and jklafsd;. stories are hard. especially when one is excruciatingly picky about How To Fiction and leaning towards disenchanted about one's skill level in How To Prose.
Nature of the Piece: fictional prose
Characters: Master
Universe: the metaverse
World: Master's home-world
Context: Master here is ~13 years old. A few years ago, he invented a means of summoning his oldest and most peculiar imaginary friend (Hand) at will, by carving a circular symbol into the earth, which becomes a kind of door through which he could invite it out into the world. The establishment of this symbol as a means of summons also had the effect of binding Hand to him as a servant of sorts. The Hand assisted its master in various adventures with its special skills in 'building' and `tunneling', processes through which it was able to either to build incorporeally upon the corporeal world, or else 'tunnel' into pre-existing incorporeal dimensions. These activities ultimately culminated in Master incurring a very traumatic figurative burn, whereupon Hand vanished and all the fun stopped.
~'.'~|=|:~O~:|=|~'.'~
At first they thought it was a music box, but when they checked there was nothing inside to make it play.
The box was open, and the child asleep beside it. He clutched a shard of glass in his right hand, and a feather in his left. These instruments were bound to him by blood: a weapon that cut as it cut --- the double-edged kiss --- and a feather that burned. Both lay dormant now, ensconced in their beds of flesh.
Aside from this, the room was empty: no desk, no bed, no trappings of life impinged on the impeccable vacancy. There was a smell, however (an acrid leak, and those shadows made a chaos of the walls) on account of which no one cared to linger there for long.
A later, more careful examination would detect the contaminant: the space, it seemed, had been dislocated --- ripped clean out --- and then thrust unceremoniously back. The walls, crudely sutured, still reeked of the other side.
The work of a Hand, then. But whose?
~'.'~|=|:~O~:|=|~'.'~
Nature of the Piece: fictional prose
Characters: Master
Universe: the metaverse
World: Master's home-world
Context: Master here is ~13 years old. A few years ago, he invented a means of summoning his oldest and most peculiar imaginary friend (Hand) at will, by carving a circular symbol into the earth, which becomes a kind of door through which he could invite it out into the world. The establishment of this symbol as a means of summons also had the effect of binding Hand to him as a servant of sorts. The Hand assisted its master in various adventures with its special skills in 'building' and `tunneling', processes through which it was able to either to build incorporeally upon the corporeal world, or else 'tunnel' into pre-existing incorporeal dimensions. These activities ultimately culminated in Master incurring a very traumatic figurative burn, whereupon Hand vanished and all the fun stopped.
~'.'~|=|:~O~:|=|~'.'~
At first they thought it was a music box, but when they checked there was nothing inside to make it play.
The box was open, and the child asleep beside it. He clutched a shard of glass in his right hand, and a feather in his left. These instruments were bound to him by blood: a weapon that cut as it cut --- the double-edged kiss --- and a feather that burned. Both lay dormant now, ensconced in their beds of flesh.
Aside from this, the room was empty: no desk, no bed, no trappings of life impinged on the impeccable vacancy. There was a smell, however (an acrid leak, and those shadows made a chaos of the walls) on account of which no one cared to linger there for long.
A later, more careful examination would detect the contaminant: the space, it seemed, had been dislocated --- ripped clean out --- and then thrust unceremoniously back. The walls, crudely sutured, still reeked of the other side.
The work of a Hand, then. But whose?
~'.'~|=|:~O~:|=|~'.'~