The Speculative Movement

The Sci-Fi/ Fantasy multi-media creative group of Missoula.
HomeCalendarFAQSearchMemberlistUsergroupsRegisterLog in

Share | 

 These are all quick and written within the past week...

Go down 
Supreme Commander
Supreme Commander

Posts : 63
Join date : 2010-10-23
Age : 39
Location : Missoula

PostSubject: These are all quick and written within the past week...   Tue Jan 10, 2012 4:59 pm


Two men stare at each other, their differences as great as their distance. Separated by a coffee table, and a slumped corpse, and her slight body lies on its side, with her long red hair covering the gash at the top of her head.

One seems to have everything: looks, wealth, a healthy family. He accentuates this with wearing an expensive, top-of-the-line Armani suit. He takes a step towards the man opposite him, and a challenging smirk is on his face. “So here we are. Did you honestly expect anything else?”

In contrast, the other man wears a long, black leather trenchcoat. There are three scars across his face: one across his eyebrows, one on his left cheek, and one on his chin. Cumulatively, their only real significance is from years of street-fighting, and one incident in particular. Energy radiates from his body, visibly. His eyes no longer look human. They appear as lenses, indeed mirrors to loss and pain. He hisses one phrase, then advances. “Expect? I expect you to bleed.”

One Year Earlier

She walks into the emergency room, her heart palpitating. She's never seen someone beaten so badly and survive. “You poor dear. Who in the world did you piss off?” She rushes to their side, places her hand on his chest, trying to feel a pulse. She steps back, startled at his response.

His mangled face spits out blood, then gargles it. “Not important. They angered me.”

Three years prior to that:

“We here at GBS would like to extend our sincerest condolences to the family of James, Senior and Mary Montressor. They leave behind James, Junior, their only son and heir. Their lives were claimed tonight in a tragic airplane accident...” In response, a teenager mentally blocks out the rest of the broadcast. It's the only light and sound in the room, at least, until he breaks down emotionally. His crying, and bawling, soon block out the sound. He cries into his hands, scared, alone, and inconsolable.

Three years forward:

Her long, red hair bounces in step with her gait, and she walks hand in hand with the man she found in the ER just six months ago. She looks at him, ignoring his scars. “You've come a long way, baby.” She sticks her tongue out at him, playfully.

He grunts an acknowledgement. “I've had worse. It tickled, really.” He rubs his free hand over his scars, and smirks. The green light at the stop sign ahead of the young couple turns red, and the ensuing traffic breaks his reverie.

Modern Day

James, Jr.'s eyes haven't closed. They're locked in on his foe, who can't move. “You forgot to blink. Let me help you blink.” James crosses his hands together, like a prayer. Perhaps his enemy should be.

A concave energy ball, much like a larger lens, forms in this grasp. Blinking, seemingly like a epileptic strobe light strikes his opponent in the chest. Too stunned to gasp, to breathe, he slams into the wall behind him. “Did that hurt? Not as much as she did. Not as much as they did. Not as much as I do.”

In response, the businessman wheezes a retort, then begins slumping over. “Your whore...wanted...more.”

James' response is another energy bolt (or psionic mirror). He grabs him by the neck, with both hands, and focuses four years of torture like a maced ball. “Not as much as you'll love this.” Energy pours out of James Montressor, Jr's eyes into his prey's, and the near corpse shakes, and seizures, and screams out as if all the air in his lungs was being expunged by an invisible python.

Three years previous:

James is on top of Sharon, the redhead. He's enjoying her supple curves, gently, passionately making love. His gift gives him the special advantage of being able to make love to a woman in her soul, something other men can't even dream of. She moans, and writhes in appreciation. Her eyes are rolled into the back of her head. “I love you, Sharon”, he exclaims as he orgasms.

Modern Day

James' teeth are bared in a feral grimace. He's coated in bodily fluids, and shaking. His eyes are closed. He's gone to better times. “I love you, Sharon.”
The energy mirror wraps James' body.

Three years earlier:

“You saved me. I hope you know that.” Sharon's scarred warrior is on his knee, in the classiest restaurant in town. They couldn't afford it, and neither care. The most beautiful diamond ring she's ever seen is presented to her.

In response, she leaps from her chair. She hugs him. “Oh, James. You're so sweet.” She's giddy. She's inarticulate. His lean, muscular body and her petite, curvy frame press against each other, and their bemused counterparts in the restaurant have a pretty good idea what's to come in the next couple hours.

“Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!” Sharon spends the next few hours re-affirming both her answer and their deduction. Her red dress and pear necklace—both designed for maximum cleavage exposure and succeeding—are both long-ago placed on the floor. As she comes up for air, she whispers in his ear: “Let's make lots of babies.”

Modern Day
The businessman's office-room is dark, and silent, and smells of waste and death. Where its owner fell is a message on the wall. It's written—no, inscribed—in his own blood. “I want to share forever with you.” Where once there was noise, and love, and conflict, and the future of a young couple, there is now only broken dreams and silence.

A Distant Signal.

What SETI couldn't, I did. It arrived not with a whimper, not with a bang, but with an SOS. I tracked it not with light, not with sound, not with my eyes, but with my brain. When the transmission was finally decoded, two things were clear. No longer could humanity claim to be alone, and our role in the multiverse forever changed. Worst of all, I couldn't tell anyone of my discovery. My personal and academic lives were eventually ruined, and my credibility evaporated years ago. To my orderlies, I was the strange little man with the tinfoil hat and the habit of muttering to myself. To my interstellar friends, who evidently perished just as I received the message, I was the Moses of a new set of gods: one who flew above and around us, in incredible spaceships we could only marvel and gape at.
Really, were it not for the eggshells levitating outside of my “home”, none of you reading this would believe me. Physicists have long contended that time-travel and teleportation, along with jump-drives, are essentially as possible as an omniscient fat man in a red suit or a Jewish carpenter being able to be three entities simultaneously along with having a severe delusion of grandeur. My new friends decided that jump-drives and hyper-space involved splitting the galaxy or universe at too massive a seam. Why fight it at its spine, when you could fight it cellularly? They invoked an old Asimovian principle: to travel inside something large, make yourself something microbial.

To save themselves, they created millions of shell spores. These spores contained their species' DNA strands, encoded with the antidote needed to save them. Their hope was that another species had the technology they lacked. Their hope was for a divine intervention in a Darwinian sense, the haves helping the have-nots from a viral outbreak that was lethal to anyone with an electrical impulse in their body. For whatever reason, these spores were only legible to human poets and madmen.

Still, the lump in my throat grew as I witnessed shell after shell penetrate Earth's atmosphere. They were the last cries, the death gasp of friends I never saw, but gave me a purpose I never would have had without them. All I could do was watch as my own race likely became infected, and unable to understand what they faced.

I looked to the skies and whispered “save us.”

The universe offered no response.

Instead, more and more shells blitzkrieged our atmosphere, and the scene reminded me of the traditional view of Independence Day, as well as the excrecable movie. However, ours would liberate us from life, not freedom. As our society blinked out, individual stars undergoing a muted personal supernova, a society I'll never visit gifted me with decades, maybe centuries' worth of knowledge. (Electrical beings simply do not percieve time the way we do.) My broken mind became a receptacle of a library only I would ever see.

Their generosity was so wonderful that it blinded me. My mind splintered, cracked, transformed into a kaleidoscope of overloaded synapses and conceptually transmitted disease. A language I'll never speak, operas I'll never hear, immunology and parasitology lessons that could have extinguished AIDS and Parkinsons' all are extinguished within the blink of an eye. Mine.


The icycles of rejection and regret alternate their way through your skin and your heart. The sidewalk you've chosen to aimlessly wander down is abandoned, dimly lit, and the Missoula air pierces you you like a butcher's knife through tinfoil. This is where you thrive. You tried family, warmth, love, and the happiness on her face, in her eyes. You listened to your longing, instead. The lust for more instead of accepting her.

Honestly, you never noticed when it happened. Already too far gone, your dual life between flesh and concept ended as surely and as quickly as you should've at birth. Staccato, abrupt, and difficult to percieve: that's what you've always been. The tranformation just made it a universal acknowledgement of your soul's exit wound. If God has a perfect image for this despicable evolutionary dead-end that we call homo sapien, then you were his spare-parts rush job.

An afterthought by the omniscient ever-father. The eternal benefactor of second chances didn't even give you a first. Small wonder you grew to learn to shut everyone out. People assumed the worst about you; that was fine. You fed off of the assumptions in a densely populated forest, letting them think whatever they wished. Your aloofness, cynicism, and paranoia led you on a pariah's path. Not everyone avoided you; sometimes, humanity's kindness manifests itself in random alterations, like mutations of the mind, soul, or emotion. Those perceptive enough were drawn to he obsidian blemishes of your spirit.

Any attempted dalliances soon doomed both of you. Your intimate inexperience and their dearth of dalliance with your special brand of rotting moral depravity drove you as quickly apart as it joined you together.

Still, you had a microcosm of hope. Just one woman gives you a chance. You'd eschew your social exile for that, someone who cared enough to understand your healthy and unhealthy sides.

The blood on the floor, the torso-length wounds in her petite, almost emaciated frame, the shock on her face as preserved as it would be in amber. Her eyes, their tears, lubircated her soul's journey into the afterlife.

Her only crime was believing too much that you could be redeemed, and not enough that even you didn't believe that what was left could claw past your internal hades.

The anguish, yours and hers, are arterial pictographs all over these walls. Silly CSI scientists: looking only for arterial blood. Simply because something can't be seen doesn't mean it doesn't have blood. The urban legend of Jagged spreads—the misanthrope who's so love-starved and isolated that they feed upon those fool-hardy to offer both like feeder-guppy parasites from Satan's fishbowl.

“Don't go North unless you want to go South”, children are told when they misbehave. Young Missoulians' petrified eyes try to imagine meeting the man with little body and less soul...and they pull the bedcovers over their heads, trying to forget that image. “Beware of Jagged. He'll suck your soul from your bones.”

When they close their eyes, they can hear your breath trying to vaccum warmth back into your own bones. Sadly, that's the only time anyone notices you, when they're halfway between slumber and fear. Still, to be forever alone: for a time, it's all you wanted. Forever, it's all you'll get.

Back to top Go down
These are all quick and written within the past week...
Back to top 
Page 1 of 1
 Similar topics
» "Big Red" poem written by Blood Horse editor, you gotta read it! Commit if you want:)
» One "Quick on her feet" woman
» Quick Links v2
» Quick Guide to Supernatural Powers, Items, and more
» Quick question about summons

Permissions in this forum:You cannot reply to topics in this forum
The Speculative Movement :: Stories for Critiquing-
Jump to: