Alukard-Abysswalker

The sizzling of barely organic materials, that is synthetic herbs meant to simulate real herbs, along with the warmth of the lighter, made Silena think of those weird ads on fake meditation she kept seeing every time she browsed for some new gear. “Fucking rangers” She was sick and tired of them, pathetic boys born with a real silver spoon in their mouths, calling themselves rangers, like they were some brave adventurers heading into the unknown. When all they were doing was invest in failed capital ventures and sinking their tenth company of the year. But never facing any consequences. The new trend was meditation. That is, pretending to “commute with the universe” using their overprized V.R. headsets while you listen to the most ridiculous, bastardized lines from books the creators never read in a clearly racist accent. Because god forbid they hire the right person for the job, instead of the cheapest. She took a long, deep breath. Drinking in the smoke. Fuck, it was bad for her but ...

So!   Hello everyone! I wanted to give an update for what I'll be posting these next few weeks.   Since I will be participating in a (spanish only) writing competition that will require a whole book to be written, I'll be dedicating most of my energy into that. Instead here I'll be sharing some short stories I'll write that require less effort and will (hopefully) allow me to have a rest from the main work. Not much else to add. Wish me luck and I hope you keep following me on this journey.   Safe travels and take care, my friend.

  Marlene - TMA Hunt Avatar OC       GERRY: Alright, well, let me explain how this works.     GERALDINE: Don’t worry sweetheart, I know what you’re looking for. Some scary stories from my hometown.     GERRY: Well, one specifically-     GERALDINE: So, when do we start?!     GERRY: Uh well…statement of Geraldine Napier, on the sightings of a possible lycanthrope around her residence. GERALDINE: A what? Oh, nevermind, keep going.     GERRY: Statement given the 22nd of January, 2009. Recorded by Gerard Delano, archival assistant of The Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.     GERALDINE: I was having a cup of tea with my friend Marlene. Oh she's the sweetest woman you've ever seen, a heart of gold with an unfortunate bad taste in men. I've only known her for a few years now, but I can tell you, she simply does not know how to choose them! And we call her out on it! Every time she gets her pure little hear...

Log of Diana Iglesias T3-22. Night: Test. Test. I hope this is working, Brian says I should record my logs but this is more comfortable to me. I'm not too confident in my voice yet so I'd rather have it written. Alright check, check. Yeah, it's working. So! As it says on the tin my name is Diana, I am part of the Waste Removal team working for Utopic Corp. A company specialized in Bioengineering for the future! As their tagline reads. I'm a cadet, your run of the mill garbage girl (heh) helping get rid of everything that gets dumped around the galaxy. That makes it sound way more adventurous than it is. Brian and I, he operates the machinery, are on an abandoned research and development station at the far edge of the ouroboros asteroid belt. Not the fanciest of places but we get by, it's an easy job to do and the pay is…well, it's enough, hopefully.  We move waste around. Wires, scrap of all varieties, lost or abandoned tools. It can be dangerous if you're n...

  The low buzz of static is palpable. The air feels thick with it, as if in a perpetual humid summer. But instead of difficulty breathing, one can feel the vibrations go through their ears, and if you close your eyes, it can be felt  reverberating within your ribcage. I take a deep breath, I don't smell but taste it, like a fizzy drink on my tongue but flavorless. When I open my eyes again I see what I have seen for so long. Darkness above, fading into a blue, then purple hue, with pink undertones beneath. I can't tell if the pristine carpet is pink or if that’s just the way the lights make it seem. This half-a-rainbow is cut off by the source of the ever present static, the old CRT television monitors that plague the walls . Limited controls stick out of the panels beneath them. Some buttons and knobs, and the hungry VCR mouth eager to swallow whatever I put forth. And I have food aplenty for it. Shelves filled to the brim with VHS tapes, all neatly put in place, carefully or...

I've always felt comfortable backstage, it was a place I could call home. The creak of the floorboards is almost musical after a while. It feels like stepping into a different world, stage and backstage separated by a game. A game to see how long someone can maintain audience immersion, while the magic happens behind the curtains.  Hundreds of smells ranging from varnish and dust, to the stage make-up and aged paint. Even the humid air becomes  part of it all, in a poetically, dirty way. I feel really at home backstage, feeling the curtains, touching the cloth, the wood, the cold stone in winter and warm bricks in summer. Those who haven't done theater before have no idea how truly mundane, even oppressive the backstage is, so of course you have to make it your own. Perhaps on Broadway there's more glamour, but all the local theaters I've been to have these small, tight spaces us cast members have to sneak around in during a play. A form of camaraderie grows when we are...

There's a certain calm that comes when working with corpses. It is difficult to tell if I sound strange when I talk about the peace it brings me, to be around them. Which is a real shame, people have been taught to be terrified of anything related to the dead and their remains, but at the end of the day it is just flesh unmoving. We can give meaning to a corpse, as we do with colors, music, even a smile. This is how we see it, but it is not inherent to it. Blue is not inherently sad, it's the meaning we ascribe to it. Corpses I find relaxing to look at, to cut on the flesh, treat it with professional courtesy. If I can give it any meaning then I can re-personify it. They may not be the people they used to be, but I can speak to them like a friend. And to be fair, I do that with my tools too. On this particular night my computer informs me of our new guest: “A man of apparent Caucasian descent, short cropped black hair, chipped nails, still yet to be identified by the police. Th...

Hello everyone.    First of all: WOW, ONE OF MY SUBMISSIONS WON THE RUSTY FEARS COMPETITION!!!   I can't tell you how happy I am about this, to know that a story I wrote will be produced and voiced by the RQ team? And be featured in The Magnus Archives feed ? Unreal.   In celebration of this, I will be posting the other three submissions I sent in + another one I unfortunately didn’t manage to send back then (which might be to the benefit of the story, since I needed more than 2500 words for that one haha) And I figured it would be nice to give it a thematic name, so to follow on the inside joke set up by the RQ some time ago (that persists to this day) I’ve decided to call it Moldy Frights! To be clear, I am in no way associated to Rusty Quill (other than my work that was picked as winner) and this will be my own, personal work. So in the coming days expect to find some already polished horror stories in this blog. And you won’t have to wait long since I’m posting ...

I will look for you, Pelides I will look for you in the ash trees  From where Menoitiades made you Carved you out with gentle hands Playing your lyre and singing to the sun Like a young Apollo, a living star I will look for you in the ripe figs of spring That Patroclus ( Pa-tro-clus ) That he fed you with love and youthful joy I will look for you in the clearing where we ate Shared stories, shared gifts, shared laughter Where we never, ever trained  I will look for you in the songs Of those that visit Pelion  The birds, the wind, the men Playing their songs for us to hear As you did, every day I will look for you in the eyes of the fish Swimming through the river Twinkling with your mischief  I will look for you, Achilles I will look for you, Patroclus  ( Pa-tro-clus ) Not in their stories, for I care not for them I care not to hear of your feats Of the men you killed Of the blood you spilt I will look for you instead I will wait, and wait I will wait for you tw...

One step, two steps. That's how it goes. Three steps, four steps. I can feel the earth packing beneath its feet. Well, I can't literally feel it, but the way it sinks in, the sound of the soil pushing away, then compacting under the mechanical boots. It is difficult not to feel like Booster is an extension of me. The drill Sergeant said, counter intuitively, that it isn't a good idea to imagine your mech as such. “Makes you too careful” he would say, “You have to remember it is just a machine” I can't do that. What's the point of riding a mech to battle if you don't get attached to it? He knew it was a moot point, everyone gets fond of their mech. But I suppose caring for this enormous piece of battle-ready suit, and feeling like it's a part of you, are not the same thing. Still, I enjoy piloting Booster this way. One step, two steps. The plains we're riding through are vast. An extended field of grass, buzzing insects and warm spring sunlight. Lieutenan...