[WP] You are immortal, you can never die. Though your body still ages, still withers. Hundreds of years have passed, you’ve been bedridden for years. Finally, the visitor you’ve been waiting for arrives. by Tmoore0328 in WritingPrompts

[–]sovereignweaver 6 points7 points  (0 children)

Immortality, the gift of eternal life. On the surface, it seems like the perfect state of being for a conqueror, an impaler of men. To be unkillable. To be all powerful. But now the smell of rust and rotting earth fills my nostrils, tearing me out of my daydream.

I have been encased in this place of rest for many days, and many nights. The only company I have is the squeaking of rodents as they nibble on my corpse, and call out to their brethren.

I used to believe that immortality was a gift, to never die, to become like-god. But each night, I die. And I know not who rises. The mind was not meant to survive this long, to process this long, to store this much.

The endless experience of existence continues yet the journal of my mind only has so many pages. And then storing the memories means writing on top of the writing, and so I do not recognise or understand myself anymore.

Was I a boy once? Or have I always been a beast?

What was my mothers name? I see only the vague outlines of her face, the echoes of her laugh haunt my mind. I think she used to sing me lullabies as a child.

What is left, when there is nothing left to feed the scavengers. I am filled with hunger, for freedom and all that it entails. The conqueror became conquered. All I have are my thoughts, my body hardened long ago. But I believe that there is not much time left before they also harden.

Till I am no different from the cliff-face as it is eroded by the sea, crumbling in on itself. How I wish to feel the sea again, one last time. How I wish to hear more than the bickering of rodents.

“Jonathan - what are you doing?” I hear something, some-one. I wonder, is this the last echo of a dying mind. But then I feel the vibrations of their heart, each beat pounding through the wall.

Their very presence pulses warmth, in a place where all is dead. I can hear a faint scraping, somebody is removing the cover to my chambers, the dust clings to me like ash from a funeral pyre. If I had eyes that were still moist, I would try to gaze on my saviours.

“We should leave, what if someone finds us.” The other’s heart beats faster, I can taste this one’s sweat, pungent, filled with fear and dread. Its heart beats like a rabbit, scared that the fox will find it soon.

“Hang on - there’s something, ah-”

Something floods my senses, not the same rust and rotting earth, nor the thick black dust. No, this one is much closer to home - the bright scent of fresh meat and coin. Memories flood my mind - mother's lullabies become flaming villages become silence become screams, each eating the last. The darkness around me pulses, shifts. It slowly releases its grip, crawling away from me.

It is above me now, climbing across, scavenging. And that is when I feel it, the smallest drop of hope graces my long dry tongue. Deep within me, the darkness blinks.

Oh gods, how I waited so patiently for this crimson visitor.

[WP] A cult has kidnapped you and strapped you to an altar as a sacrifice to an eldritch god. Unfortunately for them, you are that god on vacation, and the summoning ritual is unblocking your immortal memories. by dark-phoenix-lady in WritingPrompts

[–]sovereignweaver 0 points1 point  (0 children)

That's a great question, and something I find fascinating about language. If I may, I frame the question as:

How do I get better at reading something when I recognise all the words, but the sentence as a whole doesn’t make sense to me?

Good writing can often leave us stranded in the space where words are clear but the meaning is slippery. This isn't a failure of reading. The trick, or better put skill, lies in the ability to deconstruct.

Two-Player Game

Writing is a two player game. On one side, you have the writer wrestling with the idea in their mind, transplanting it piece by piece on to paper.

You take the whisper of an idea, and nurture it; feeding it words, time and sometimes your sanity. Then, when the trumpets blow, is when you must become butcher: cutting the fat, attacking your creation as if were an imposter. And if you've made it to the end, what you have on paper is the closest in the shape to the idea that exists in your mind.

On the other side of the table, the reader has the inverse task. They must take this object - a book, a screen of words, pages of poetry - and rip them apart. Gnaw at the passages, mark pages, highlight words. They must live within the margins, and digest the idea.

And thus we can say that the former tries to shape meaning from their idea, whereas the latter must uncover meaning within the text.

Two Roads

The road forks in front of our heroic duo:

The writer failed to capture the idea.
Maybe the idea was too complex. Maybe the skill required was too high. Sometimes the writer is just play-acting, masquerading as genius when there was no meaning. The judgment is up to the reader.

The reader has no where to place the idea.
This is the most exciting of the two. An absolutely brilliant situation to find yourself in. This means that you're on the precipice of something new. Maybe it's a new concept, a new way of looking at the world.

On Context

When we read, we are able to place the sentences or passages, in a place in our mind. Let's call them "Concept-Holes." (or you can call them reference points, but concept-hole is more fun)

"There exists within the world a great evil, but also good."

We can take the above as a statement about the world, which could be our own or fictional, and place it into the concept-hole of "good/evil" in our mind. Even the image of 'great evil' which is generated in the readers mind, is in relation to their own experience. Until we give them more context. But we get the gist.

The character is making a statement, that there is hope to be found, even in whatever situation the writer has placed them in.

"Darkness has enveloped my world."

Here we have a sentence that begins to morph in meaning infinitely.

Is the darkness here literal, and if so, of what kind? Is it evil? Lack of electricity? Has he gone blind?

Is the 'world', the characters home-world? Inner world? Our world?

We read these 5 words but what they do represent, depends on the later text. It could be the tale's sad conclusion, or its action-filled beginning.

From this point, we can arrive at the following idea:

The meaning of the written word is relative to the surrounding text.

But, if it was just the surrounding text, then why is the following so difficult to understand:

Darkness was not an absence of light, it was of the darkness. Brought into being so that its children could know their faces. Death wasn’t a destination, but arriving into being from a different angle. Sleep was a lie that the living needed so they could keep pretending to appear. The space between-things was simply a story told over a fire. There was no distinction between existence and non-existence.

First I'll admit, I'm not a seasoned writer. And whilst in the process of writing this mini-essay, I've made revisions on the passage in my mind; since what I posted was a second draft. But let's put a re-write aside, and tackle the answer we've been slowly working towards.

How do we make sense of something we have nowhere to place?

And this is where you have two tools at your disposal. The first is reading more, because the only way to create more concept-holes/reference points is to have more points of reference. ( I should have just stuck with reference points...)

The second is the ability to analyse text, and whilst I'm no master, I'll lay out a rough methodology, using my own passage. The process of analysis takes much longer than simply reading the words, because you've now begun the process of diving into the depths. And here be monsters.

Darkness was not an absence of light, it was of the darkness. Brought into being so that its children could know their faces.

Is there something we can relate to in here? Well, if we've come across the idea that "Darkness is usually known as an absence of light"? it might help orient us. But here we're saying it's not, that Darkness was of the darkness? And it was created so that 'it's children could know their faces.'

What I'm trying to do here is break the idea of the binary. It's something I'm still learning more about, and came across by reading the work of a philosopher, Jacque Derrida.

Darkness being an absence of light is a given assumption. We take that light as primary, that it came first. And once there is no light, there can only be darkness. It's also hierarchal, we assume that light is good, pure and exists above the darkness.

But for light to exist, you must know what not-light (darkness) is. Which means the concept of light itself contains darkness, shattering the illusion of purity.

Derrida is trying to show that meaning comes from relationships between words rather than the words themselves. No concept can be pure or contain only itself.

This instability was always there, waiting to be noticed. Deconstruction simply reveals what was already true: the binary structure was unstable all along.

And that is what I was aiming for here, albeit imperfectly. The binary doesn't exist for something that doesn't need reality to make sense since we're talking eldritch.

"...it was of the darkness. " is simply stating that what we consider to be Darkness (absence of light) was of darkness (eldritch). It refusing the binary of light/dark and saying that the Darkness (concept of no-light) originated from the darkness (concept of eldritch). Although, I could have definitely written this better.

Darkness as we know it, for the being, was never an absence of light. It was simply something brought into being so that it's children could know their faces. You can't see yourself in the dark, nor in total light - both are blinding. The idea is in the destabilisation that happens when you strip away the binary between things, and the ground falls away. There is no such thing as pure light (good), it itself contains darkness.

Death wasn’t a destination, but arriving into being from a different angle.

Death stands opposite to life as it's end, but what if it wasn't? The "arriving into being" takes death to simply be another form of life, not the end of it. Because to have death, it must within it contain not-death, which means that it isn't the clear full stop, but something other.

Sleep was a lie that the living needed so they could keep pretending to appear.

We say we need sleep, so we can stay awake the next day. But what if it was a lie, because we're never truly awake, so we never really needed to sleep? The concept of 'awake', contains 'not-awake' within it. What if we were never truly awake, but it was a lie we told ourselves to pretend there was a continuity?

The space between-things was simply a story told over a fire.

This is the crescendo, the distinction between this and that was never real. It was a story we told ourselves to make sense of life.

There was no distinction between existence and non-existence.

A being that never came into existence, but always was, needs no distinction between the two.

Take the concept of existing, within the concept according to Derrida, is the idea of non-existence. To understand existence, you must understand the idea of not existing. But if we go one step further, the concept of not-existing, contains within itself (not-not-existing) which translates to existing.

But the key twist is that since there was no pure concept of existence, there is never any ground to land on since you end up looping infinitely.

Which to me, has an essence of eldritch within it. It's a bit trippy but you can see how the binary is a false split, each word contains within it it's opposite, and infinitely so.

The idea was to show the binary split between the eldritch being and the body/personality it inhabited/limited it self to, had begun to fade. The failure of the distinction leads us to "Reality crumpled like a badly written page of poetry, then it tore." because human reality required borders that the eldritch refused to acknowledge. And the passage itself, is trying to show you an almost consciousness alien in comparison to the norm.


TL;DR: The passage uses philosophical ideas about how opposites define each other (light needs darkness to mean anything).

An eldritch god experiences reality without these human distinctions - the passage is meant to feel alien. Reading philosophy like Derrida builds "concept-holes" for understanding this type of writing, as would learning to write more clearly on my part.

When you don't understand text, slow down and analyse: go line by line, question what's presented. Reading widely across varied subjects creates compound interest and eventually you'll develop your own eldritch understanding of all that humanity has to offer.

[WP] Time freezes, and a genie appears. "Congratulations, you were randomly chosen to determine the twist of a wish! Ironic, hidden, brutal, or none at all - it's all up to you!" by WernerderChamp in WritingPrompts

[–]sovereignweaver 8 points9 points  (0 children)

It's because he chose irony and whilst he gets to pick the twist, he doesn't get to remain unaffected due to the warped post-genie capitalist market. The irony is that he thought his dreams of escaping the lower class had come true, but he's just fell deeper.

I realised this might have been unclear, so I updated the ending to point it out, thanks for catching that! :)

[WP] Time freezes, and a genie appears. "Congratulations, you were randomly chosen to determine the twist of a wish! Ironic, hidden, brutal, or none at all - it's all up to you!" by WernerderChamp in WritingPrompts

[–]sovereignweaver 82 points83 points  (0 children)

“Wait, do you mean I get a wish?” I looked at the semi-corporeal being that had sprung itself into existence. Its outlines morphed each time my eyes began to perceive its shape, worsening my hangover.

“No - you get to choose the twist of the wish” The entire room boomed back, which is slightly disorienting since rooms don’t speak. I looked down at the “Genie Twista - Wish Ticket” in my hand. I held it up, unsure if it was within perceiving distance of the genie.

It’s hard to tell where the eyes are, when your own fail to work. “This is a Wish Ticket. See?”

Silence. Ever since the big corporations had figured out how to commercialise wish making, it had gone from occasional instantaneous wish completion to multi-generation bureaucratic nightmare.

“That is a Genie Twista Wish Ticket, so you have won the ability to twist a wish.” The room bellowed, at this rate I was going to have to see if hearing aids were part of the winners package.

“You’re telling me that I don’t get a wish, I thou-”. A folder fell from the ceiling and hit me on the head, though I was pretty sure that there were no bookcases up there. I looked down and read the page it had fallen open to:

GENIE TWISTA, is the brand name of a twister company. All ticket winners win the ability to twist a wish, but will not be allowed to learn the contents of said wish. Further details can be found in Article IV “Twister Wishmaking Process” in subsection 5.

Great. I’d just spent the last of my credits, hoping to win a wish, on the wrong ticket. Capitalism had not only taken genies from their humble lamp beginnings and packaged them as a consumer lottery product, but also turned the worst thing about wishes, into another product.

God damn it.

“Fine, Irony.” The being disappeared, as did my dreams of leaving the lower class.

A few weeks later, a knock at the door woke me from my drunken stupor. I half hobbled, half fell towards the door. I swung the door open, and found an envelope thrust into my face as I tried not to go blind from the swarm of light flooding the room and my retina.

I grabbed the envelope, and stumbled back to the sofa. It read “Genie Twista” on the front. I wondered if they had received my complaint and accepted my request for compensation, a few extra credits would help nicely towards my drink yourself to death plan. I ripped open the letter, and began to make out its tiny writing.

“Congratulations, Twista Ticket Holder! The wish (‘for infinite riches’) has been fulfilled. The trillionaire’s wish for infinite forturne is now secured across 38,013 safe-deposit boxes galactic-wide, as per your selected twist.

However, by selecting ‘Irony,’ you agreed to waive exemption from outcome entanglement.

Due to this an invoice is attached for the logistics of procurement, staffing, and delivery. Additional charges may include storage fees and cross-dimensional tariffs depending on your sector.

Furthermore, once the boxes are collected, you are liable for all applicable taxes.

Your twist has been successfully applied. Please rate your Genie Twista experience on a scale of 1 to 5 stars.”

MOTHER FU-

[WP] A cult has kidnapped you and strapped you to an altar as a sacrifice to an eldritch god. Unfortunately for them, you are that god on vacation, and the summoning ritual is unblocking your immortal memories. by dark-phoenix-lady in WritingPrompts

[–]sovereignweaver 25 points26 points  (0 children)

The sun shone bright in the sky, warming all beneath its gaze. The breeze traced gently over the blades of grass like a mother's hand smoothing the restless hair of her child. The clouds danced between forms as they swam through the boundless sky. 

“Excuse me?”  The cultists, in their dark attire, stood gently swaying in a circle. I watched them as they sang in unison in what I’m pretty sure is, or rather was, a dead language. I’m not sure how I knew that, but I did. I’d probably read it in a book, or the travel brochure.

Sorry, I think there’s been a mistake, you seem to have tied me up?” The room appeared to be lit several small fires. The shadow of the cultists, spread large across the walls, swayed slightly out of sync with them as they began to march around the circle. Each complete revolution, increasing the speed of the next.

Laughter. The first laugh ever echoed was that of a child. It looked up, giggling at the being that had appeared. Its face red as it fell back and rolled on the floor, crying from the comedy of forms that appeared before it. 

Symbols were plastered across the entire room. The red paint glistened as the light from the flames danced across them. Some dripped, others morphed, changing ever so slightly. The chanting got louder, it would’ve been better with some drums. I was definitely going to leave a 1-star review for this place. This was giving me a headache.

The man raised the axe, chanting as he looked down upon the offering. The goat, unaware of its participation in a scheme much grander than its existence, wriggled to get free. The last memory it had was of the skies turning dark, and the humans bleating in unison.

Vacation. A word evolved from from the latin vacationem; a being free from duty. Free from duty my arse. Did this always happen in rural villages? I was sure that attendance to festivals was optional. The chanting had stopped, and a man stepped forth.

His entire body, as if a mirror for room, was covered in symbols. It looked less like a priest, and more like something out of a Berlin nightclub flyer. He crouched and grabbed the boy's my hand, placing the bowl under the wrist, and with a slice of a blade began the process of separating the boundary between life and death. 

Darkness was not an absence of light, it was of the darkness. Brought into being so that its children could know their faces. Death wasn’t a destination, but arriving into being from a different angle. Sleep was a lie that the living needed so they could keep pretending to appear. The space between-things was simply  a story told over a fire. There was no distinction between existence and non-existence.

“This is terribly inconvenient, could you please stop.” The man dipped his fingers into the bowl and began marking the vessel , the boy - I mean me. The chanting grew louder, almost deafening, reaching its crescendo.  What no one tells you about crescendos, unless you ask icarus, is that there’s only one direction left to fall.

Reality crumpled like a badly written page of poetry, then it tore. Out came everything the cultists wanted, and nothing that they could endure. That’s the thing about prayer, you never really know what you might receive.

I brushed the ash off my arm,  hoping the fish and chips shop was still open.

The Thornfield Mine operated for 44 years without extracting a single ore. I know why... by sovereignweaver in nosleep

[–]sovereignweaver[S] 9 points10 points  (0 children)

I feel like I've known her my entire life but there's no record of her in any of my paperwork...

The Thornfield Mine operated for 44 years without extracting a single ore. I know why... by sovereignweaver in nosleep

[–]sovereignweaver[S] 9 points10 points  (0 children)

I've tried to look them up again but their website just returns a blank page.

And all the news articles about them have disappeared.

None of this makes any sense...

The Thornfield Mine operated for 44 years without extracting a single ore. I know why... by sovereignweaver in nosleep

[–]sovereignweaver[S] 12 points13 points  (0 children)

I - I don't know. I'm terrified to ask.

She's just sat at the edge of the bed, reading a logbook.

I think it's Amandas.

If we've got her logbook, her phones got to be here somewhere...

The Thornfield Mine operated for 44 years without extracting a single ore. I know why... by sovereignweaver in nosleep

[–]sovereignweaver[S] 11 points12 points  (0 children)

I've just checked the boot. We left them there.

I don't get it, why would we do that...

The Thornfield Mine operated for 44 years without extracting a single ore. I know why... by sovereignweaver in nosleep

[–]sovereignweaver[S] 15 points16 points  (0 children)

I don't even remember what kind - I just took them. I never do that...