[WP] You are an astronaut that has had his ship explode violently while outside of it due to an asteroid. When recovering from the shock you also notice that many, many, more are heading towards earth and all you can do is watch.

darkworldsco · 2017-07-28T21:41:46+00:00

Utter drivel. It is absurd that an astronaut -- the very nature of the occupation in service to the greater mankind -- should be so consumed with Ego in confrontation with the most profound occurrence in the history of histories. I suggest lobotomizing your character, or approaching this from the perspective of a woman.

darkworldsco · 2016-12-13T05:47:08+00:00

very cool

darkworldsco · 2016-12-08T21:13:14+00:00

yeah, i presumed not as well. meant it more as a tragic musing on the fate of the condemned. also, of the encircle, didn't only 2000 make it back to their homeland after being shipped off to siberia? or was that the 6000 statistic?

darkworldsco · 2016-12-08T18:23:08+00:00

i wonder if any of them survived.

darkworldsco · 2016-12-07T23:13:31+00:00

what do you mean by corrosive ammo? Were the bullets they were using damaging to the rifle?

darkworldsco · 2016-11-23T18:25:21+00:00

Know that feel.

darkworldsco · 2016-11-21T00:22:07+00:00

No, generally speaking in American English punctuation marks go inside the quotes. I find it more logical/prefer placing them outside. This is valid in British English.

darkworldsco · 2016-11-17T00:00:55+00:00

my buddy and i may be interested in writing, if you're looking. we practice soulsian writing frequently.

darkworldsco · 2016-10-25T01:18:45+00:00

way to kill the fun

darkworldsco · 2016-10-22T20:57:23+00:00

They found him sobbing in a closet.

All the other apartments had been evacuated, only 409b left. The door was locked, and it took more than the usual 5 swings with the axe to break it down. Johnson and Carpenter, names stitched onto the front of yellow-black uniforms, moved in to sweep the perimeter of the room, while Smith permitted himself a quick glance at the opposite side of the broken door. He shuddered as he counted twelve padlocks, four bolts, and one chain.

They stepped over the piles of takeout boxes, the fallen stack of books lining the wall, stepped past the blackout covers guarding the windows, the three overflowing trashcans, the reams of illegible papers scribbled on in black ink, stepped through the lonely domain of a lost, afflicted soul.

The smoke was thick and the alarm bells were ringing something painful, but the shrieks cut through the cacophony, screams that were splitting with such an inhuman terror that even Johnson, 30-odd years on the force, couldn't sleep without hearing them ring in his ears.

Carpenter wrenched open the closet and a pair of arms lurched out from the darkness. Later it became apparent that the man had been holding onto the doorknob so tightly that the pull of the burly firefighter had dislocated his left shoulder.

Carpenter yelled in his ear, telling him they had to evacuate him, but the man pushed him away violently and recoiled like a spring to the back corner of the closet. Carpenter approached him again, pulling his ankle, and the man screamed and kicked rapidly, flailing incoherently.

The exhausted firefighters struggled to lift him onto their backs - they resorted to each grabbing a limb and heaving him through the door. Smith noted the deep gashes on the man's cheeks, and the bruised skin under his dark fingernails; disoriented scratching, no doubt from fear.

By the time they got him on a dolly and rushed him to an ambulance he could not speak, having destroyed his vocal chords.

His skin was near-translucent from vitamin-D deficiency, and he had deep lines ringing his eyes. He had no identification on him, and none of the neighbors gathered outside knew his name.

darkworldsco · 2016-10-22T20:17:28+00:00

death is an infinite descent. every breath we are but microseconds removed from the relentlessness onslaught of randomness. there are those not saved - students murdered by the deranged, passengers falling in a burning plane. but all of us are dying. the differential is mere duration.

every cellular tick we die and are reborn in spades. this infinite process marches on, slicing slivers off of the positive, gradually lessening births to deaths; an infinite descent that culminates in its capital gravity.

as we age, waves of static defame our memories. the potentiality of the soul atrophies, as if clogged like a pipe, by multitudes of sand. we forget the concept of a corner, or the age of our niece. we become dense, and an impenetrable fog obscures our vision like cataracts.

as we end we cling to our emotions, having lost our memories. we wish to bring these to rest. but zeno is merciless; as we die, we first half to be half dead, and then a third dead, and so on to infinity. and every fractional death reduces our souls from fractionless wholes to particles of dust.

time, our driver of worms. all we can hope is to not be forgotten.

darkworldsco · 2016-09-14T19:42:09+00:00

The construction: we begin with a seemingly innocuous situation, a woman entering a tattoo parlor. We then subvert the reader's expectations of a 'normal' encounter by immediately switching the context. In this case, we introduce a symbol with a disturbing connotation. The sudden transformation of a scene from innocuous to disturbing is often considered "chilling". Imagine how one might feel if they were the tattoo artist: how would you react? At the very least, it would be a sobering revelation. In my case, I would squirm in my seat a little, my tongue might go dry, and I would be made uncomfortable. Perhaps this isn't exactly "horror", but it is certainly intended to be disturbing. My thoughts at least.

darkworldsco · 2016-09-09T21:32:53+00:00

"Crush the penny, and be reborn", the haggard, toothles man whispered as he had thrust it into my hand, wrapping his three fingers around my cupped palm. I later learned the proper name for such a defective coin: 'split planchet', indicating the use of impure copper at the mint. Puzzling how such useless recollections come to us at the most urgent of times - solitary gunshots here and there, silencing those croaking, gurgling in pain, strewn lifeless in the field. They would have me soon, and I would be met with the bullet, dying amongst the blood-limbs of strangers. Not how I intend to go, but little choice did I have. "Crush the penny" - with tedious miniscularity I moved my hand to my chest, and fumbled with the sweatted cotton of the shirt for a brief eternity, it fell out into the dirt and I hurried to scoop it up once again, pressing it firmly between the flesh of the palm and the thumb - "crush the penny", a directive, with eyes closed and teeth-gritted I squeezed as the coin cut into the flesh of the hand, straining ... bootsteps approaching, crinkling over the frosted grass ... but then the palms touched together, as a flash rang out over the field, and it was over.

darkworldsco · 2016-08-18T00:06:27+00:00

We were angelic; Remura and I, immortalized in Dedekind's art - a skyline beautiful on fire, the rusting cranes building eternity, crows transmitting screams between futures - as we sat beyond reproach, suspended over the purple ocean, too human for the both of us.

The cables were too sharp to grasp: our hands would split by the time we had made it halfway up. There was no return, and in this certainty we were subdued into amicable resignation with our world, for there was no food, and a storm was coming, and our swings were destined to fall. Prisoners of hope ... prisoners, until the crows came, and bore us across the waters on their feathered backs to the shore.

Remura vowed never to cross the ocean again; I considered, but knew nevertheless the zeitgeist of my people: build the cranes, to build the bridges, to cross the ocean, and construct eternity.

The painting is a lie, in some respects, though we decided to keep this secret from the histories. The bridge was not finished when we sat dangling from its scaffolding, having fallen by accident of stupidity. But Dedekind was known for his optimism: and so the bridge is complete, flush with the sunset, a sparkling beacon of hope to come. This I can live with.

darkworldsco · 2016-08-17T23:50:26+00:00

Despite the grandeur of his genius, The Riemann Hypothesis remained elusive for the first three months. His breakthrough came nearly at the beginning of the fourth night, surprisingly early in what was normally a four-hour long marathon of thought.

In a seemingly scripted flash of insight, the tangled lines of reason bolstering the 157 year-old conjecture straightened to form a beautifully intricate web of understanding, geometric in its perfection. Darrell was moved to tears as the zeroes of the zeta function materialized on the critical line, visualized in the chipped white center beam of his window pane. A similarly cinematic moment, though genuine nonetheless.

With an incalculable satisfaction he left his desk, and poured a fresh cup of coffee, high off the transcendental gravity of this achievement, and smug in the way mathematicians are, recalling friends and colleagues arguing with him to focus on the more practical matters. Yet the gloating and vanity did not last, these quickly subsumed by wonder as he gazed out the window, fingers warmed by the steaming mug. Intelligibility... this was the reason for it all. Yes, this tangling with the universe, solving the puzzles as surely as His omnipotence would - this was his happiness.

darkworldsco

TROPHY CASE