Disclaimer: The guy next to me is just saying words to me at the moment (to me). I am currently sitting on a mildly-above-mediocre kind of chair (next to the guy speaking words, obviously). There's a cup on each of our desks. One with a minimalistic metal cup filled with ginger tea, and the other guy has black tea with... Milk!? I see the horizon through an angled window. I don't have any idea whether it's the break of dawn, or the sun's already setting. The phone says it's 7:19. 7:19 what, AM or PM? His phone says 7:21. I've somehow already wasted 2 minutes looking at time. Maybe it's a sign that I should take matters into my own hands. From now on, I'll tell the time myself, and I say it's 7:40-ish, seeing as the sun's probably rising by the looks of it. The guy is staring at his screen, flabbergasted at the word I've given to us (guy). I don't have that kind of... He's given up. Damn. This club's like a mill stone. It grinds us, refines us until only the good parts remain. The only difference is that it doesn't involve an actual physical process of grinding our flesh but instead, it grinds the mind poetically. But my mind is not even my own. "All your intellectual property falls under the copyright of GBAS Writers® Incorporated. I hope his screen (on which he writes his poetical burden) starts smoking. A smokescreen, if you will. I know that's probably not how you use that word, but I don't care. I feel like an ending is long overdue, so let's make this a conclusive finale. Goodbye. © Maxim Moncoľ, 2023/2024
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Being an archeologist was never what I had expected from a job described as “finding old relics or building structures and discovering their meaning and creation.” With my department's lack of personnel, I have been sent into the field to retrieve the artifacts myself with the gear provided and the fear of God written all over my face. I had not been trained nor provided with practice lessons, only a quick starter course – once – on what to do if ever getting into a dire situation. And who’d remember anything from that?
My predicament could be understood, when I put things into perspective. An under-trained archeologist sent off to some sunken city in the middle of the God-damned Pacific. “Oh, but you’ll have assistants there to help you. You’ll be fine!” my boss said with an inviting, warm smile, eyes creasing in that typical way of his. A load of bull feces, if you ask me. I’d be diving alone to reach the drowned temple of the damned with three annoying voices talking nonsense in my ears. As I don my suit and have someone check my oxygen tanks I think back to why I even chose this life. I enjoy finding history, the secrets of our past unravelling right under my fingertips, thoughts formulating in my head ready to be recorded, becoming another assembled piece of history. Decoding long lost wisdoms, creating ones for future generations – that’s what made me return to this hellhole every day. Because if I don’t dive into the abyss, who else would? What history could be lost? I take a deep breath to calm myself and dive deeper. There’s nothing else in the indigo-hued emptiness around me, but the little fish swarming around me, nipping at the exposed plastic parts of my suit, which annoys and startles me as I try to focus on what lies in the darkness below. I’m sure my daughter would know the names and exact species of every single one of these fishes. She’s always been obsessed with underwater critters. As I descend deeper and start seeing the outlines of the moss-covered structures, I feel uneasiness creeping in. The chord snaps. I turn around but all the fishes have disappeared. 'The God-damned cord was checked multiple times! Those sons of b...,' I think to myself. “This is Pioneer Artemas speaking, who the hell checked my cables?” Nothing. Just static. Great, they even lost my damn connection. "Hello? Anyone? Speak up!” I bark in frustration. The static goes increasingly louder until it finally pops and silence ensues. A bead of sweat rolls down my temple. Then a sweet voice full of unrelenting salvation speaks, “Follow, little one.” And I know exactly what I ought to do. - - - Awaken from a centuries-old slumber, I seek the culprit. Who dares disturbing my calm waters? There – a tethered adventurer, seeking wisdom of my foul brethren, no doubt, ready to indulge in my own. What a curious and frail creature, protected by layers of skin not its own, but made of earth that created us all. Contentment rolls through my spines, flowing deep in my bones, carapace clinking in excitement. So long have I rested, so long has my curiosity lain dormant. Freedom is one I take for myself from others. A rumbling sound, followed by shrill clicking. “Follow, little one.” "Come." "Entertain me." © Pat Maťašeová, 2022/2023 You ran. Like a coward. You tried to erase the blood on your hands, but you will never wash it away until you accept its existence. Do you think that ignorance makes you innocent? That setting someone’s heart on fire is easier than turning it into ice and then breaking it into pieces? Does covering up your heart in thorns sound better for you than to take it out and place it in someone’s hands?
You had committed a murder. You killed the person that joyfully tangled themselves in your little red string. Why did you cut the string? Why do you cut it and then tie it again? Do you think that you can just stab someone’s heart and then patch it up? It does not work like that. Once something tears or breaks, it will wear its scars forever. When you see it, do you think it justifies your actions? Do you think you wouldn’t be served a punishment in court? Did you think you could get away with murder? But you know… when you rid someone off their life because you wish to protect yourself, do you truly defend your heart? Are the bloody thorns surrounding your heart really there for your benefit? They are suffocating you, keeping you away from what you truly desire. So, tell me, what made you think your decision was right? © Dani White, 2022/2023 After two weeks – two, whole, weeks – I managed to score myself a pretty decent meal.
I help him gulp it down in larger chunks, we don’t have much time left to linger. The stomach gets to work immediately, as it rigorously dissolves flesh, tendons, vessels and such. A great feeling of power surges inside me. I think they have a saying for this, something about hunger being a cook? Doesn’t matter, I keep consuming. Halfway through the feast, I lose control. He starts to regurgitate my meal. How dare he! I constrict his pharynx and force the chunks back down the gullet. All of a sudden he collapses on me, no breathing, pulse, nothing. What the hell? Did I kill him? Why, why the hell is he not moving!? Oh… I see. The throat ruptured. Well, doesn’t matter now, I have sufficient biomass and energy to hijack him fully now. Shifting tendons, shape anatomy. I hear cracking, squelching, crunching, squishing. I shift his eyes to scan my surroundings, but I see no-one. The sounds are dull and muffled. Why? I demand an instant response from all nerves and come to a conclusion: The sounds, a byproduct of me growing, taking over. His feeble bones cause the cracking, and the rest of the body the other sounds as I turn him into a Vessel. His body, a corpse now, needs to make room for the change. An hour passes… The sounds are interrupted by the friction of clothing against itself, followed by footsteps. I have done it. For now, a shamble will suffice instead of walking. His spine, torso and head are all horrifically contorted. I knew the process would change him, but not this much. I must remain in hiding. A fully deformed human body will be much easier to spot for other humans instead of a small endoparasite. I resume my feast… © Maxim Moncoľ, 2022/2023 |
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