Good news, bad news.
Well, I just finished with a nightmare, one of the worst (or at least most memorable)I've had in about a year. But it's given me a formerly-missing piece of a story I've been thinking on for a long time.
The nightmare was simple. It was really nothing. There was no light, no heat, no smell, no walls and no floor. It was just an abysmally dark space. It started out, just me in this void, this complete emptiness. Then I heard a voice, some child's voice, and he was mumbling something I couldn't make out. Then there was another, it sounded like a man's, mumbing something. Then another, an older man, and then a woman. And slowly, more voices came, one at a time, until there were too many to count- it sounded like somewhere between 20 and 50 of them, each mumbling something different. Then, the dischord started to grow, each disembodied voice still uttering nonsense, but they were no longer mumbling, but then whispering, then talking, then announcing, then shouting, until there were dozens of voices in my head, each screaming and demanding dominance. It felt deafening. Then, they all fell silent. The kid from the beginning, he started whispering "Nothing left. Nothing left." The other voices started to come back, adding themselves to the chant. "Nothing left. Nothing left." Until all of them were chanting, getting louder, and louder, and louder, and louder. And then I woke up.
So here I am, sitting up in my bed, face kinda dewey, but then I realize, "Hey, that could be the sleep of the made-from-scratch man."
The made-from-scratch man is a character I've been rolling around in my head for several months. Standard sci-fi/fantasy setting. He's basically a human- he has the architecture, plumbing, and central control of any other human. The strange part about him is in his soul. His body is normal, yes, but a powerful necromancer manufactured his spirit, building it from the ground up- this constructed soul is then placed into a corpse. Serious identity issues ensue.
One of my biggest problems with starting the story was that I didn't have a means of portraying the semi-humanity of the created man. So then, I figure, okay, his body knows it's dead, or used to be- possibly, the made-from-scratch man, rather than sleeping, discorporates himself, floating into what may have been a weird, shit-ass Buddhist-type revelation, but is equally likely to be a vision of hell.
So there you have it. And I leave you with a quote that left me in tears:
Leela- "Remember, Professor, we're in the 20th century."
Professor- "Oh, then I'll take the Croquet Franciose, the paella, two mutton pills, and a stein of mead."
The nightmare was simple. It was really nothing. There was no light, no heat, no smell, no walls and no floor. It was just an abysmally dark space. It started out, just me in this void, this complete emptiness. Then I heard a voice, some child's voice, and he was mumbling something I couldn't make out. Then there was another, it sounded like a man's, mumbing something. Then another, an older man, and then a woman. And slowly, more voices came, one at a time, until there were too many to count- it sounded like somewhere between 20 and 50 of them, each mumbling something different. Then, the dischord started to grow, each disembodied voice still uttering nonsense, but they were no longer mumbling, but then whispering, then talking, then announcing, then shouting, until there were dozens of voices in my head, each screaming and demanding dominance. It felt deafening. Then, they all fell silent. The kid from the beginning, he started whispering "Nothing left. Nothing left." The other voices started to come back, adding themselves to the chant. "Nothing left. Nothing left." Until all of them were chanting, getting louder, and louder, and louder, and louder. And then I woke up.
So here I am, sitting up in my bed, face kinda dewey, but then I realize, "Hey, that could be the sleep of the made-from-scratch man."
The made-from-scratch man is a character I've been rolling around in my head for several months. Standard sci-fi/fantasy setting. He's basically a human- he has the architecture, plumbing, and central control of any other human. The strange part about him is in his soul. His body is normal, yes, but a powerful necromancer manufactured his spirit, building it from the ground up- this constructed soul is then placed into a corpse. Serious identity issues ensue.
One of my biggest problems with starting the story was that I didn't have a means of portraying the semi-humanity of the created man. So then, I figure, okay, his body knows it's dead, or used to be- possibly, the made-from-scratch man, rather than sleeping, discorporates himself, floating into what may have been a weird, shit-ass Buddhist-type revelation, but is equally likely to be a vision of hell.
So there you have it. And I leave you with a quote that left me in tears:
Leela- "Remember, Professor, we're in the 20th century."
Professor- "Oh, then I'll take the Croquet Franciose, the paella, two mutton pills, and a stein of mead."