Original Fiction: The Protection of Stone
Sort of a twitchy, mildly morbid thing. It's not really intended to flow nicely from one idea to the next, and is written in a perspective I'm not used to. You have no idea how many times I had to go back and change verb tenses.
This is really the hours before the Horrible Transformation the character goes through that involves being dead for a while. (When in doubt, murder your characters!)
And the, uh, worms on the described planet? Are not something you'd take home to show to daddy and put in a cute jug with holes in the lid, let's just say. You also might not want to find them in a petting zoo.
Excerpt:
A freezing planet is not terribly warm, yet there are thousands that live openly on its surface. A stone never bigger than a fingernail implanted in your skin could keep the frost out of your tendons indefinitely.
The Protection of Stone
Or have we eaten on the insane root
That takes the reason prisoner?
Macbeth, 1. 3
A freezing planet is not terribly warm, yet there are thousands that live openly on its surface. A stone never bigger than a fingernail implanted in your skin could keep the frost out of your tendons indefinitely.
Meat. It is always frozen on this planet. Things die and rot and when the part with the stone on it breaks away the rest of it turns to scummy ice and the worms come and drag it away.
He has a stone in the center of his stomach but it doesn't keep away the cold. No matter how many times he goes into the desert, the worms never come. Is he so distasteful that even the hidden monsters do not want him? Sometimes he contemplates finding a tunnel and going into the earth. Maybe a place of worms and maybe a place of the ghostly people that hide from the suns. Maybe the warmth of the deep earth paired with the heat of his stone will be fatal.
He's indifferent, in any case. Dulled in many ways, but there are times when his moods become wild and violent. He likes to swear in a paisley-coated display of strength. He isn't really strong. He knows strength is control, but control is globe-leaf slippery and always bobbing away.
When there is nothing but black to see, he knows there might be control. It might be death, dreaming. More importantly, it might be the drugs or simply unconsciousness. These things he has mastery over in a way. He is emaciated, but the fainting spells are a measure of success.
He often wakes up sweating, heart erratic, wondering if this is the attack that will kill him. It never is, and he goes back to muteness. Sleep is hard, elusive. The worms are always waiting.
He drinks painful amounts of water to clean out his blood for the next dosage. It is a fine sort of needle, copper-bright. It fills out what's left of him like a quilt worn on the inside. A drug that fools the eye, rather than the mind. It has a funny sort of twinge when it goes in. He goes to lie down carefully and wait. It doesn't take long.
The familiar swim of tiny lights in the corners of his eyes start up. They are welcome, a sign of control. That the dosage level doesn't need to be raised yet. His mind wanders, can't remember the time, whether he had taken his water yet. Memory is an ephemeral thing, soft stone that weathers away in a moment.
Is it time for the unwelcome touch of others? He vaguely remembers a time when he sought it willingly, frequently. He needs pills for that now, a hopeless sort of whore.
Or is it a day of resting? A day of painful dizziness, typically. He used to read on these days. Voraciously and intelligently. Now he can't even pick the books off the floor. They're dusty, perhaps. He can't be bothered to look. Can't remember the titles of his favourites.
He expects he will die like this. He cares for a moment, panic suddenly rising and his blood running quick and cold. It subsides, and then he doesn't care.
The worms eat the panic, as they will eat everything in time. He rolls off the bed and moves to the door, feeling them under his skin, his feet, and his mind. Something diseased has mastery over him. From within; from without-it doesn't matter if it is the dark mage that owns him or his own weakness. He trips over every skin they shed and every bone they leave behind.
Meat that will freeze and flake, half-buried in sand.
This is really the hours before the Horrible Transformation the character goes through that involves being dead for a while. (When in doubt, murder your characters!)
And the, uh, worms on the described planet? Are not something you'd take home to show to daddy and put in a cute jug with holes in the lid, let's just say. You also might not want to find them in a petting zoo.
Excerpt:
A freezing planet is not terribly warm, yet there are thousands that live openly on its surface. A stone never bigger than a fingernail implanted in your skin could keep the frost out of your tendons indefinitely.
The Protection of Stone
Or have we eaten on the insane root
That takes the reason prisoner?
Macbeth, 1. 3
A freezing planet is not terribly warm, yet there are thousands that live openly on its surface. A stone never bigger than a fingernail implanted in your skin could keep the frost out of your tendons indefinitely.
Meat. It is always frozen on this planet. Things die and rot and when the part with the stone on it breaks away the rest of it turns to scummy ice and the worms come and drag it away.
He has a stone in the center of his stomach but it doesn't keep away the cold. No matter how many times he goes into the desert, the worms never come. Is he so distasteful that even the hidden monsters do not want him? Sometimes he contemplates finding a tunnel and going into the earth. Maybe a place of worms and maybe a place of the ghostly people that hide from the suns. Maybe the warmth of the deep earth paired with the heat of his stone will be fatal.
He's indifferent, in any case. Dulled in many ways, but there are times when his moods become wild and violent. He likes to swear in a paisley-coated display of strength. He isn't really strong. He knows strength is control, but control is globe-leaf slippery and always bobbing away.
When there is nothing but black to see, he knows there might be control. It might be death, dreaming. More importantly, it might be the drugs or simply unconsciousness. These things he has mastery over in a way. He is emaciated, but the fainting spells are a measure of success.
He often wakes up sweating, heart erratic, wondering if this is the attack that will kill him. It never is, and he goes back to muteness. Sleep is hard, elusive. The worms are always waiting.
He drinks painful amounts of water to clean out his blood for the next dosage. It is a fine sort of needle, copper-bright. It fills out what's left of him like a quilt worn on the inside. A drug that fools the eye, rather than the mind. It has a funny sort of twinge when it goes in. He goes to lie down carefully and wait. It doesn't take long.
The familiar swim of tiny lights in the corners of his eyes start up. They are welcome, a sign of control. That the dosage level doesn't need to be raised yet. His mind wanders, can't remember the time, whether he had taken his water yet. Memory is an ephemeral thing, soft stone that weathers away in a moment.
Is it time for the unwelcome touch of others? He vaguely remembers a time when he sought it willingly, frequently. He needs pills for that now, a hopeless sort of whore.
Or is it a day of resting? A day of painful dizziness, typically. He used to read on these days. Voraciously and intelligently. Now he can't even pick the books off the floor. They're dusty, perhaps. He can't be bothered to look. Can't remember the titles of his favourites.
He expects he will die like this. He cares for a moment, panic suddenly rising and his blood running quick and cold. It subsides, and then he doesn't care.
The worms eat the panic, as they will eat everything in time. He rolls off the bed and moves to the door, feeling them under his skin, his feet, and his mind. Something diseased has mastery over him. From within; from without-it doesn't matter if it is the dark mage that owns him or his own weakness. He trips over every skin they shed and every bone they leave behind.
Meat that will freeze and flake, half-buried in sand.