On the Conspiracy →


Apparently we have been hacked and silenced. Or more appropriately someone managed to guess our 8 character alpha numeric password. We have taken step to beef up security and will engage with Indiegogo to repair our service. I can not be sure that records have been properly kept for everyone…

This is wonderful, hilarious, and important. Spread the word! Also, will be eager to buy the Vivian James T-shirt.

I was shopping my sister and her family the other day and I suddenly remembered a feeling. It’s hard to describe and even harder to name, but it’s that mixture of excitement and fear as you high dive into the ocean slowed down so that those final moments where your feet are about to leave the ground are stretched on forever to the point that fear and excitement mix together into something. It’s that feeling, or the lack of it. I realized that it’s been a while since I felt like I was metaphorically jumping off a cliff. It’s an emptiness I didn’t really know I felt, and it’s gnawing at me now. This song encapsulates that, and its been on loop for a while.

My mouth hasn’t shut up about you since you kissed it. The idea that you may kiss it again is stuck in my brain, which hasn’t stopped thinking about you since well before any kiss

— Alex Turner to Alexa Chung (via prck)

(Source: crunchier)


You sit in front of me with your stupidly perfect hair flowing in the wind while you stare at your computer screen, throwing a smile or two at the passing thought of one of your men, or something like that. And occasionally, just occasionally, you look towards me and give a wink while you tug on the invisible puppet strings that I have willingly swallowed. The hooks drive into my flesh at the merest mention of your latest squeeze (which you like to discuss often, with all the rending details) and I find my soul gnarled, and old, and blacked by soot, as my own body fuels the hellfire. I am the avatar of lust and rage who basks in the pits my own jealousy has dug for me. And with each passing day the horns on my head grow longer. I can barely finish this now, but I must, somehow. My hands darts like a demon possessed (which isn’t really that hard to believe coming from this broken shell of a man). But I am happy. Yes, happy. Happy on the shore as the longboats burn on the beaches where my blood mixes in with all the others, as my sword-arm lays tired, as the arrows in my chest make it difficult to breathe, as I lay frozen in death. You, my Valkyrie, my bewitcher, the owner of whatever love this wretched husk can give, comes down to kiss me ever so softly, until I am alone again.

following as best you can, almost blindly, the path traced by your restless footsteps: the objective of countless solitary walks, in search of the excitement surrounding my street exhibitions or the delicious surfeit of a sleepless night: attracted, as you know, by the mysterious silhouette bending over one of the tombs, apparently absorbed in some sort of arduous exercise in meditation: a woman or a damsel clad in a sumptuous embroidered caftan, her head covered with a silk kerchief, and carrying an exquisite Hermes bag open to the gullet, whose miscellaneous treasures she is indiscreetly inventorying: lipsticks, face creams, eyeliner, vials of perfume, foundation makeup: balls of cotton, an ostentatious jar of Vaseline, mint-scented paper hand kerchiefs, a package of sanitary napkins: frontal hemispheres hinting a tumescence, provocative, erectile nipples, a deep, disturbingly available hollow below her belly: the greedy fullness of her lips shows through her veil, her eyes drill into you like point-blank
pistol shots: eyelashes loaded with mascara, a simple beauty mark on her cheekbone, a stirring throaty voice, a romantic interpretation of Morocco you’re here at last, I’ve been waiting for you for a long time, hours days weeks months years, I knew you’d make your way here, come back to me, to the exact spot where we first met, let us make love to each other as though we were possessed, it doesn’t matter that others are looking, we will warm the bones in the tombs, we will make them die of sheer envy, the entire makbara is ours, we will set it on fire, it will burn with us, it will perish, we will perish, convulsed, consumed

— Juan Goytisolo, Makbara

Planet Painful

Written for Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge. This week it was: roll for conflict! And I got “The Apocalypse has arrived.” This might count as cheating, but whatever. Enjoy!


There were stars out that night and was amongst them; crashing rocks that burned as they hit the planet’s atmosphere. He tumbled amongst them, encased in the exosuit he managed to put on just in time. “It’s always funny how space always seems so loud but I can’t hear a thing,” he said to himself.

“ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR” nagged his suit.

“Right, aside from you that is. Computer! Disengaged emergency notifications! Command code double-zeta, double zeta!”

That was a trick he had picked up in his youth; consequently, it was also his first time in the drunk tank. Some friendly policemen caught him trying to pry bills out of an ATM and after they lightly beat him black-and-blue they dunked him in a 4x4 cell. There were two other men in the cell with him, both of them hobos-no hiding that. He never caught the name of the man that taught him how to hack, he just said: “You got caught hackin’? Well, what’d ya doo? What? Brunt force-son, you ain’t even gonna open yer sweetheart’s diary with brunt force. You gotta play them defaults! Now tell me, what’s the brand of that there police lock?”

He examined the lock but it bore no markings or symbols of the manufacturer.

“No problems. The government thinks it can get away from that whole password crap but them’s still humans like us. Meaning that eventually someone’s going to forget their password, know what I’m sayin’? So they install override codes instead of them defaults and 1234s, but there ain’t no difference really. Say this kid: Double Zeta-Double Zeta”

He did, and the lock clicked open and made him a free man. But he didn’t take it, making the hobo speak up to him again: “Go on! Git! And don’t forget them magic words boy! Double zeta, double zeta!” He really accumulated a lot of records that day, or he would have, had he not deleted the precinct’s entire database. Turns out no one really cares about changing default passwords. Something he learned that he’d carry with him for years.

But he was falling through the stars now. Stars, that he just realized, that were probably the remains of his ship, the Fist of Endeavor. He tried to fly himself-steer himself behind one of the larger pieces of debris. Movies always make it looks so easy, but his suit didn’t have any sort of flight-maneuvering applications to speak of-unless. He quickly put his head to his should and started reaching out with his tongue. Lucky for him the suit he managed to slip into was built like comfortable coffin, all snug and encasing, so he had easy access to his neck; as well as a really long tongue. He snagged the leather strap of his necklace and ate it until he thumbdrive he hung as a pendant. He placed it between his teeth and quickly smashed it into the emergency slot at the base of his helmet interior.

                It had become standard protocols for marines to carry their own thumbdrives on their person ever since command got sick and tired of having to wipe suits’ databases after they would get mixed up and sent to the wrong marine or squad, or regiment. So just like any other good marine, he always kept his thumbdrive, with all its data, on his person. He remembered the first time he booted his custom-OS overlay from his thumbdrive. The other members of his team, Randy and Jones, were already moving about in their suits. It was the first time they had actually suited up and you nothing really prepares you for the moment where you cease being a man and become a 12-foot tall killing machine of blood and circuitry.

“Yo man!” Randy called, “What’s taking you so long, man? Get in that suit already!”

“Leave him be, Randy. He’s got some custom OS running; caught a glimpse of it too. It’s filled with pictures of his wife and kids or something” Jones but in.

“Family, man. I gotta respect that. Tell your honey not to worry! Jones and I will keep you safe. But hurry up and get your ass out here! We’re gonna be the last squad out at this rate!”

He waved them off before pulling down the hatch of his suit and booted up his OS. A red-haired vixen suddenly appeared on his display and thrust her breasts at his face, “Welcome to Roxxy Galaxy’s Interactive Porno Interface! How may I please you, sir?”

But he was falling through the stars now, and Roxxy wasn’t there to greet him. He thrust the thumbdrive into the emergency slot again and again but Roxxy didn’t show.

He tried something else: “Computer! Manual install rxyglxy2137.exe!”

“Installing: Time until completion one minute and fifty-five seconds. Do you want to conti-“

“Yes! Yes! Damn!” he curled his legs back just in time to dodge the burning jet of plasma that shot past.

                “Computer! Run flightsim.exe!”

                Immediately his display changed to reflect this: altimeters and tacometers popped up, although they did little good as were meant to work with gravity. But the program also came with a built in guidance system for landings, as well as a score counter. He was starting to sweat now; the meter on his display gave him around two minute before he burned up and died. He looked around himself for anything and then he saw it. Maybe the ship hated him and was trying to kill him again; maybe it loved him enough to keep its ass-ends together, but there it was: The main bulkhead of the engineering section, all 24-glorious-inches of plasteel and neo-metal intact and heading his way.

                He set the simulator for an intercept course and told him he had to move three meters if he wanted to reach the bulkhead in time, and 1000 more points to his score. And he moved, commanding the suit to vent his oxygen as he flew. Thirty seconds before shield failure.

                He thought, briefly, how funny it must’ve as he tried to swim through space.

                Suddenly, the suit’s hand grabbed onto something secure: a handle. He pulled himself in and placed the bulkhead between him and the approaching planet.

                “This is probably as secure as it’s going to get: Computer! Lock in and brace for impact.”

                “Error,” the computer said once more, “rxyglxy2137.exe requires interface restart to fully install, would you like to restart interface now?”

                “Go ahead. Restart.”

                The displayed dimmed until it died out completely. He sat there in the darkness and waited. Listening to the burning of space around him, that gradually died away to the whistling of wind.

                “Wait, computer? How much longer until impact?”

                “Three seconds.”


                He heard a purr call him out from the darkness

“Wake up, Gilligan,” it was Roxxy.

“Hey Roxxy, where am I?”

“Oh Gilligan! I don’t know!” she teased at him.

He pulled up a hardware check and tried not to look at Roxxy and she crawled all over his display. The suit torn here and there but otherwise she was ok. He moved his legs and felt the stressed servos groan in movement.

“Alright sweetie, turn on the audio and video feed.”

The world around Gilligan screamed. Roxxy, suddenly leaped from his view, as if to hide. He jerked upwards and recoiled as he found himself surrounded in flames. Remembering about the shielding he had, he walked past them and saw the destruction he had wrought. The Fist of Endeavor, true to her name, was falling onto a city made of glass and crystal. He saw a larger section of the ship crash into the distance and shatter it.

“Gilligan! Look out!” Roxxy screamed!

That was her proximity alert! He rolled and brace for an attack but non-came from the small creature. It was barely a foot tall with stalky-eye like a slug, and was bleeding a purple ooze. Gilligan picked it up in his massive palm as it collapsed. It spoke, or at least, he thought it did.

Roxxy, what’s he saying.”

“Examining datasbase, tee hee,” she replied and translated it for him.

“Paaaainful. Paaaaiinful.” The creature spoke once more.

“What’s this planet called!” Gilligan spoke at it in the creature’s tongue.

“Planet… ughh…. Paaaainful,” it said, and died.

“Did he say Planet Painful?” He wondered, but the computer (not Roxxy) disrupted his thoughts.

“Emergency code: 1184 enacted. Unknown Planet #47 hereby named: Painful by Marine Gilligan, remaining command on ship, Fist of Endeavor.”

He’s never heard that before, that’s for sure. He must not have programmed Roxxy for it.

“Gilligan, I’m scared. Can’t we just go somewhere and play?” Roxxy teased.

Gilligan looked at the burning city of glass, “You know what baby, I think we should do nothing else for a while,” to which Roxxy squeed at, and hugged him, sort of.

Flash Fiction Challenge: Random Story Title Generator

This was made for Chuck Wendig’s Weekly Flash Fiction Challenge (at least, I think it’s weekly. It’s my first time). Anyway, the rules are simple: use this to generate story titles, pick one, and write a thousand word (give or take) story on it. Got it? Yep.


The Adventure after the Great Getaway

                The lake was the farthest Eric had ever been away from home. It was so far that when he climbed the smallest mango tree around, his town was only a bright speck in the sunlight. It was so far away that plants and trees could grow thrice the size of Eric’s home, unafraid of humans chopping them down. Even the soil was different, it was moist and crumbly and it seemed to try and root you in when you stepped into it.

“Maybe the soil thinks we’re trees trying to get away,” Eric said to his father when they had to abandon their jeep a good mile away from the lake because the road was to steep to drive in.

“Don’t be silly, the soil is smarter than that,” he father replied, “but the trees aren’t and if you walk under the really big ones they swoop you up with their vines and eat you!” His father made a whooping noise as he swooped Eric’s little sister, Kyla, into his arms like a big tree, “because they mistake kids like you for the little froggies that they eat.”

Eric’s mother nudged him forward. “Don’t listen to him, if trees really did eat frogs then why do their fruits taste so good?”

“Well, that’s because the insides of the tree are full of tasty honey-“ his father began but his mother just rolled her eyes which made Eric’s father just give up and laugh. “But all the same, you shouldn’t go playing under the big trees, you could get lost,” and she added, with a sinister smile, “And that’s when the Panther jumps out and eats you!” To which his father and mother both ended up laughing.

Eric wasn’t sure if his parents were telling the truth, but he forgot all about it when he saw the lake. It stretched longer than Eric’s town, and shined like a pit of sapphires in the sun. Eric’s father even told him, as they were unpacking their belonging by their cottage, that “there used to be more cottages nearer to the edge but the lake grew 20 feet deeper during the lasts rainy season and it just swallowed them up like Atlantis.”

This just made Eric want to jump into it even more, so as soon as his parents weren’t looking he threw off his shirt and ran out of the cottage, across the shore, onto a fallen log, and leaped. The water was cool and it swallowed him whole. He opened his eyes and it was so clear that he could even make out the tiny fish that swam in front of him. He gazed at the sun which shined like a brilliant diamond through the water and wished that he could stay there forever. But eventually his lungs gave way and he had to come up for air. He broke the surface with a splash and tasted the fresh water on his lips. It was good, so good that he almost didn’t hear his mother grumble or his father cannonball into the water with him.

Eric spent the next two days almost completely in the water. When he wasn’t swimming or diving, he was being thrown into it by his father as they wrestled on top of the fallen log, or wading his legs by the water’s edge with his sister; letting the tiny fish nibble on his legs and toes as they sucked on lollipops. But by the third day Eric was bored of the lake, and his mind began to wander on the trees his parents told him not to approach. That day, he told his parents he was tired and just wanted to rest at the cottage so they told him to watch over his sister as they walked hand-in-hand along the shore of the lake.

Kyla was small enough to carry but was big enough to walk on her own.  So once his parents were out of sight Eric led his sister towards the trees. With every step they took they rose up higher all around them and soon enough their cottage was barely visible between branches and leaves. As Eric took another step and felt something sharp pierce his toe. He jumped back in surprise, but then he saw something glimmer, just barely, in the wet mud. He brushed off the mud and felt cold metal beneath his fingertips and pulled out half a star. It was sharp on the edges and had deep grooves and patterns on it. Then he heard Kyla shout off in the distance, “Toy! Toy!” She had wandered off and was playing with something on a tree stump. “Kyla! Come bac-“ Eric began to shout until he felt the metal star grow warmer. The grooves began to glow deep blue and on the tips of its arms shined like fireflies. And then Eric heard the Panther.

Thunder cracked and shadows swirled as the impossibly black panther stepped out of a tree. It licked it’s lips as it gazed at Kyla but she didn’t seem to see it; even when it padded towards her and began to sniff her hair. “Kyylaaa!” Eric screamed and ran towards her. The panther looked at him, its deep yellow eyes reflecting with hunger, and before Eric could hit it with the star it became smoke and was carried off by the wind. “Ric! Toy! Look toy!” Kyla said as she held up something for him. But he took her free hand, “Not now, Ky. Just walk fast, ok?” and led them toward their cottage all the while he could hear thunder crackling behind him or see the Panther between the trees, chasing them.

His parents were waiting for him at the edge of the treeline. He had never seen them this angry before, but he could feel it now as they each gave him a strong slap across the cheek. He tried to protest, and tried to tell them of the forest, the panther; but even as he showed them the star it only fueled their anger. In his fear he had gripped the star wrong and too tight; his palm and two fingers were slashed and fresh blood began to drip down his forearm.  His father, in his anger, took the star and threw it into the lake and Kyla, innocent to all of this, just went “Toy! Toy!” and held up stone statuette of a panther.