“Lolita!”
“Been there.”
“Fairy Kei!”
“Too fluffy.”
“Guro!”
“Well…”
“What?”
“The hardest part of any fashion, especially when you put it out online, is finding a look you like, and getting enough pieces and practice to make that look your own. By the time you get it right, everyone’s doing something else. I remember spending months building a carousel top-hat, only for everyone think they were passé by the time I was done. So, rather than work on my own image, I thought I’d take one from someone established.”
“How?”
“With a scalpel.”
“Wow. How does she look on you?”
Showing posts with label Horror. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Horror. Show all posts
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Cult Fiction
This is the sort of moment you think only happens in stories.
There's a lame bar on the corner of Milwaukee and Western. The service is unpleasant, the food is overpriced, and it isn't worth thinking about the drinks. There's a room upstairs that's barely lit, with its own bar, and its own music, and everybody there is a wizard.
You think I'm kidding.
There's a guy with scars on his back that looks at stories like a conductor looks at sheet music. He can take it apart, knows how all the elements fall into place, and will look you straight in the eyes and ask you why your life is worth telling.
Another, the dreamer, will kiss his children on the forehead before he drags you screaming into a circus of blood and anguish. Worse, as you're chained into the madness, he'll wonder why you haven't thanked him for the privilege.
There's a sly latin man who has the wisdom of a thousand years of grandmothers, and whose sorrow you just want to kiss. Not to take away, but to steal for yourself.
These are powerful forces, gathered in a secret bar in a secret space, they could recreate the world if they wished.
And last night was open mike night.
The devil's factory was recited. God complained about the 10 plagues he -didn't- impose on the Egyptians. Refined ponies folded lace napkins.
And I was up.
I wasn't auditioning for them. I made my friends and proved myself years ago. I just need to know, as I began my path once more, if I could unlock it in myself.
And the monster came out. Dreaming of murder and torture, and the taste of flesh. Of assault made sacred.
And I came back.
Tuesdays are going to be a lot more fun. I know a place.
There's a lame bar on the corner of Milwaukee and Western. The service is unpleasant, the food is overpriced, and it isn't worth thinking about the drinks. There's a room upstairs that's barely lit, with its own bar, and its own music, and everybody there is a wizard.
You think I'm kidding.
There's a guy with scars on his back that looks at stories like a conductor looks at sheet music. He can take it apart, knows how all the elements fall into place, and will look you straight in the eyes and ask you why your life is worth telling.
Another, the dreamer, will kiss his children on the forehead before he drags you screaming into a circus of blood and anguish. Worse, as you're chained into the madness, he'll wonder why you haven't thanked him for the privilege.
There's a sly latin man who has the wisdom of a thousand years of grandmothers, and whose sorrow you just want to kiss. Not to take away, but to steal for yourself.
These are powerful forces, gathered in a secret bar in a secret space, they could recreate the world if they wished.
And last night was open mike night.
The devil's factory was recited. God complained about the 10 plagues he -didn't- impose on the Egyptians. Refined ponies folded lace napkins.
And I was up.
I wasn't auditioning for them. I made my friends and proved myself years ago. I just need to know, as I began my path once more, if I could unlock it in myself.
And the monster came out. Dreaming of murder and torture, and the taste of flesh. Of assault made sacred.
And I came back.
Tuesdays are going to be a lot more fun. I know a place.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
100/100 -3-
The cyclist gazed up at the bag being attached to the IV, watching the deep dark fill into his arm.
“What’s it this time?”
“Something special. This will do the trick.”
The coach gave him the thumbs up. The cyclist sighed. Transfusions rarely did much, but were illegal enough to get you banned from racing. As he rested, however, his heart picked up speed. The room was so painfully bright, and the blood in the bag…wasn’t nearly enough. He was going to need so much more. The coach smiled, his canines lengthening.
“Thank goodness the race is at night, eh?”
“What’s it this time?”
“Something special. This will do the trick.”
The coach gave him the thumbs up. The cyclist sighed. Transfusions rarely did much, but were illegal enough to get you banned from racing. As he rested, however, his heart picked up speed. The room was so painfully bright, and the blood in the bag…wasn’t nearly enough. He was going to need so much more. The coach smiled, his canines lengthening.
“Thank goodness the race is at night, eh?”
Monday, May 23, 2011
100/100 -1-
“The soul isn’t energy,” said the necromancer as his intern assembled the contents of his instructor’s bag. “It’s kind of a story. You start as a blank slate. And then your senses kick in. You imprint on things. And as you do, a thread forms in your mind that puts those imprints together, and forms a core. Memories make new threads, and it all weaves together, forming…You.” The intern held a box, winding with magnetic tape, affixed to a hose, which the intern forced down the throat of the injured child, strapped to a dirty chair. “Now, what’s your story?”
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