weirdo writes things

Power, Past, and Pain’s Exsanguination Be still, my friend, And ask to never see your past again. Yet it was the scaffolding for the feet you walk with, But the same thing that tore at your skin. I fear, dear friend, Your growth has yet to complete. But do not plunge the needle into your tender meat. As you kneel, eyes locked with mine, You know you can have a calm end. - But my Queen, my Idol, For all your resilience, you render me annul. No one can beat down what you’ve slain, and, Of every share of the world, you carry them all. You’re the Queen, the Idol. You resemble all, but I’m afraid you are not all. While you walk, I crawl. I have the mind of a man But the hands of a doll.. Tell me, my Queen, my Idol, Will it be worth the nightmare?  

 

Paenitentiae Welded parasites eat from the inside out, as the fruit grows with age. But the iron insect never stops chewing. It is heavy, and gravity is what brings us all below to bone and ash, Constantly pulling down and feeding the ground. Little flies hover around the wretched stink of the infested Sekai Ichi. Flies of action, of relapse. Begging the fruit. The flies turn to swarm, to storm, to the blinding black. The juice squeezed by the gnawing teeth of the creature Trickles into the bleed beneath the knees, a limp showing its signs. Book and Quill, Note and Mind. The limp shows a sign, a message asking for breath, for health. Give it its requests and see the bug, watch it. The horse ignores their flies; they turn their gaze and see forward. They are flies, not stars. See your stars before listening to your flies. It is manipulated metal, it cannot leave without the rotting of the apple. The fruit’s growth is exponential, and the mass of the Lusterless slows its bite. It is heav...

Pen and Brush The gestation of the Pen took thirteen years. Perhaps they were always there, just glistening. Transparent in the ultrasound. The Pen awoke at thirteen years, and aged from there. Weaving stories bright and vibrant, low and sound. The Pen wielded the mind and commanded it through words. The story of the Pen is nothing like the stories of their words. The Pen’s life is linear in physicality, but a spider’s tangled web in the mind. Few grand adventures, many great battles. There’s joy in the journey, but not every battle is won. The Pen is not like its early characters. The Pen has no armor. The Pen has but one bullet in each fight. Their stories grow higher as each fall falls lower. But the pit is too deep. The stories can no longer reach. “The world is lonely by my hands.” With no way up and no way down, the Pen searches left and right. Digging tunnels in the pit of desperation, so many lies are found. But eventually. The Pen will find the Brush. Their tunnels meet. They’...

The Queen of Needles The Queen of Needles sits upon her throne Built upon the skull of her own, Her kingdom is herself and her trial And here she is, with all her bile. She walked her boots through mud, Drug her bloody feet to the water, Cast herself forward Only to falter and falter. Each needle in her side staggered her gait, Pushed her back but always ahead, A head that would not fall After tears began to crawl. She remained alive and it was all that she needed, For with time came death and death came life; Her bruised hand thought twice About plunging that knife. And here she is today, with all her bile, Now she may rest for a while. Her scars healed and screams softened Not for some time will she need that coffin.

Synesthesia Inc. and Sun Inc.’s Co-Department Your low-friction colors, They are not the kind you want? You want no-friction colors, yes? You want flying, frictionless colors? I’m sorry ma’am, we can’t give those for free. High-friction colors are low cost, would you want those? The price is abundant betrayal and wrongdoings! Oh, you’re not a high-friction kinda gal? I’m sorry to hear, that middle-zone must feel like a held-breath. I’m sorry, I know it is hard to deal with a faulty product. We can’t get you a fresh frictionless set as a trade-in, no. What is the price of frictionless colors? Well the first set is free, if you can remember. This is your second set? Ah so you know how it works! Yes, upgrades from friction sets depend on the colors and levels Oh, you’re really low? I’m sorry ma’am, you have to pay the price. Oh right, the price to upgrade is Fix or Refresh. Yes this can happen naturally, but it is riskier. Ah, okay. Good luck! We hope to see you again soon.

Winterfell Winter fell upon Winterfell; Nobody was surprised, but all were disappointed. It gets sooner and sooner each year. The cold burns our hearts away, Leads our freedom of clothing astray. All we have now is coats without snow; Let winter fall away. If only winter would fall in flakes, Then maybe I’d give it gold; With our hills and fields and room for snow, If only… if only. “I won’t believe it!” half of them say. I don’t think their eyes will tell anyway, what’s right before them, it’s so glass-clear; Let winter fall away. Like a reverse strainer, We toss out the good; But us citizens of Winterfell… Well we only get what’s left. Fresh air cut off by frozen-gloom, Let winter fall away.  

The Box of Forgotten Things The Box of Forgotten Things is not real. Neither are the things you left in it; They were memories. They were real, And because of you They aren’t possible. Only Now is real. Then is a possible Now, but only if you leave your Box discarded. Don’t forget. You are the only one to witness Every word you have ever said, but how many can you truly recount? Don’t forget. You witness death at every moment, yet You never realize. You left them all in the Box of Forgotten Things. Leave your Box discarded. Warp your Box of Forgotten Things into an Archive of Many Nows. Preserve your Thens. But… what happens to those dead memories, anyway? What are you? A collection of them? Don’t forget.

When Alex bought their metrocard from the machine, they accepted whatever comes next might change their life. That’s why they came here, after all. The Train of Odd Places was known for being unknown. In all of the newspapers Alex read, they learned that the Train never stays in one city for long, and strange things happen to the few who enter. When it appeared in Alex’s small, uneventful town of 80,000, they took their chance to rid themselves of the dirt of their school “friends”. Nobody else was at the entrance to the station with them. It was quiet. Each step they took deeper into the underground echoed like rumors, somehow getting even louder with every passing second. Alex arrived at the gate and swiped their card. Suddenly, but quietly, all of the shadows around them turned deep red. Like all other colors were just… turned off. Grinning with both excitement and confidence, Alex marched on; sending the supernatural change to the millions of blank filing cabinets in the back o...