I made a mask out of walnut shells and glue and two gloves and whole box of paperclips and when I wear it I am invisible and nobody can hurt me or anyone I care about and if they try I come out of the clouds like a peal of thunder and knock them down even if their tray is full and the milk goes all over the floor and they won't even get a new plate because I will holler so loud that they will close the shutter down over the lunch line and everyone will know that I am cross and that what they did was bad and that's why they got what they deserved and if they try it again I will close my fist and punch them in the stomach and not care if I get in trouble and if they still don't stop then I furrow my brow and give them such a powerblast with all of my anger and sadness and fear and the thought of everyone's mother choking on the breathing tube and turning blue and then they're just a wet shadow in the sand and I'm holding their empty coat with a Matchbox in the pocket that's not theirs anymore.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
Friday, March 21, 2014
Friday, March 14, 2014
These jokes have been culled from the smartest corners of the internet, as well as MIT and Harvard Science forums. Only the brightest will get them, so if you’re not amused, it’s probably because you’re fucking retarded.
An intellectual’s wife tells him: “Run to the store and pick up a loaf of bread. If they have eggs, get a dozen.” He goes out, gets drunk, and fucks a prostitute.
Q: How many intellectuals does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: Photons or something.
Three intellectuals walk into a bar. Bartender says do you all want a drink? They’re like “fucking of course, we just walked into a bar.”
A Buddhist monk approaches a hotdog stand and says “Are you a Hindu? I fucking hate Hindus.”
An intellectual was fucking a cat in the middle of the street. When people noticed him, he said, “Hey! I’m fucking Schrodinger’s cat! Or AM I?”
An engineer, a chemist, and an economist are fucking this whore. The Engineer says “I’ll fuck her in the ass. The chemist says “I’ll fuck her in the mouth.” The economist says “Let’s slit her throat.”
Two intellectuals walk into a bar. One says “I bet I can take a crap on the bar and the bartender will just laugh!” The other says “You’re on!” so the first intellectual jumps up on a stool and takes a huge dump on the bar. The bartender says “What the fuck!” and grabs a bat and comes for him. As they’re running away, the first intellectual says “Well I thought it was funny!”
Thursday, March 6, 2014
The training of a Grelladin swordsman traditionally includes the use of sloar-beast bladders, of which only the seventh and ninth are used. The others are too small* or, in the case of the fifth, sacred and as such reserved for the High Rituals.
The bladders are carefully extracted and sealed shut with a small morsel of turtle flesh within them. As the flesh rots it releases various gases which fill the bladder and inflate it to several times its normal size. These gases are lighter than air, causing the bladder to float. Depending on the age, diet, and health of the sloar-beast from which the bladders are harvested, the inflated organ will exhibit various hues – purple, red, yellow, even blue or green.
The bladders are tethered to weights which secure them to the training floor so they are not carried away into the sky. Trainees then strike the bladders with their blades. The tethers are flexible enough and the bladders tough enough that a glancing blow will merely push them aside, bringing great shame to the trainee.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Gurran's hammer crushed helmet and skull, forcing decayed brain out of the nostrils and mouth of the Damned One. Rutter called out to watch his left side. He swung blindly, battering aside a long-rotted shambler, feeling the wet crack of breaking ribs through the haft of his weapon. It wasn't a killing blow, but the creature would stay down for the short term.
Gurran advanced on a cluster of the Damned that were pulling apart Carlan. Carlan had hooked his thumbs into a pair of moldering eyesockets and gouged the thing into true death even as his innards were pulled from him. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he sighed, "Die, fucker!" and then died himself. Rutter waded in, cleaving skulls with his axe. Gurran pulverized head after head until all they were faced with was the ravaged head and torso of Carlan. "Do it," said Rutter, breathing heavy from the work.
Gurran brought the hammer down on Carlan's forehead before he became another of the Damned. "Finishing crew!" he yelled, loosening the strap of his helmet. A few skinny recruits scrambled forward with pikes to kill off the wounded. They'd need to march a good half-day before setting up camp; the stench of the battlefield was already rising with the suns.
He looked north toward the Slatefall. When the company had set out they'd been twenty men with twice that many retainers. Now there was just Rutter and him along with Aubroan and Farley, both on litters with pissblood fever. They'd either make it or be twice dead in a day or two, but neither would be in fighting shape for a week at least. Of the dozen henchmen left one was always posted over the sick men, just in case.
Rutter shielded his eyes and followed Gurran's gaze. "The Slatefall in winter. Perfect timing."
"It's that or the grave in spring," said Gurran, wiping clotted gore from the head of his hammer. "Should we give the men a choice?"
"Or have them desert on the slopes? They'd die on the way back down. I suppose we should."
So they pressed on and called the men together around that night's cookfire. Only five took their pay and headed west. Aubroan woke for a moment and croaked out, "No shame . . . in shitting yourself," before making his own retreat into delirium.
Monday, January 13, 2014
Some left the comfort and warmth of their stars and ventured out onto the pale strands that link the constellations. Dwelling out there they forgot their origins, and gradually made the necessary modifications to their bodies so that they could survive the interstellar chill. In so doing they merged with the filaments on which they dwelled, growing in length while decreasing in corporeality, so that to later generations of observers it appeared as if those lines were never there at all. They attributed accounts of the lines to the fanciful imaginations of their ancestors.
But these great strings exist. And, as the sky wheels about in its aching progression, they quiver and resonate in wavelengths measured in parsecs – not the tinny music of the spheres, but a huge thrumming bass solo that sunders black holes and births quasars with its rhythms.
BARROOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM HOOOOOOOOOUUUUMMMMMMMMMMMM BARRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM.
Regarding the Dawn of Language and thus the Dawn of History as a Continuous Narrative of Events, Places, People, and Things
Friday, December 6, 2013
Ambrose looked past his bare and sunburned feet straight down into the sea. The mast to which he clung was nearly horizontal at the extreme end of each roll that threatened to send the boat to the bottom. As the vessel heeled back upright he was carried up over the deck and then off the port side, riding an inverted pendulum. His hands were riddled with splinters, one of which had gone clear through the meat between his thumb and forefinger. The muscles of his forearms were so cramped that he did not think he could un-hook his arms from around the pine.
Not that he would want to. The creature was still on deck, arranging pieces of the slaughtered crew into perverse constructions, knitting the flesh together with gobs of caustic saliva that sputtered and smoked in the howling wind. Legs and arms ringed clusters of merged ribcages and jawbones, forming grisly anemones that muttered and moaned long past the point when the sailors should have died. Had the Captain not been disemboweled and made part of that horrible work he would no doubt have steered clear of the heavy weather.
And Ambrose would not then have been at the top of the mast, debating whether history would blame him for activating the distress beacon.