Wednesday, February 13, 2019

A Cube Reflects


Hi.  I wrote this from the point of view of a gelatinous cube that falls into the sky after gravity is reversed by a party of characters who are investigating a temple structure that erupted from the ground:

Cartesiomorph X23Y788Z439 dropped unexpectedly into the sky.  It took as a point of logical departure that this surprising turn of events was correlated to the presence of carbon-based organic life it felt through the rock that had until so recently surrounded it on five sides.  As it fell it had time to ponder:

X)  Prior to the fall, a sudden vertical translation of its basaltic environment had exposed its uppermost surface to new material, largely atmospheric, but occasionally including solid organic matter.  The material was quickly dissolved and off-gassed to allow for meticulous study of the remaining durable components of this new influx.  Trace elements were incorporated into its substance, EAT I EAT I EAT bringing singular joy.

Y)  Reverberations through the crystalline matrix of both its immediate environment and areas beyond indicated that similar translations had occurred throughout the Greater Lattice.  This would certainly be worth additional study, and – once findings were confirmed -- could merit a presentation to the 512 scholars of the Order I WILL BE BROUGHT TO FULL ADJACENCY, GLORY HEAPED UPON ALL SIX SIDES.

Z)  Organic life forms were repulsive in every way.  How much better to be composed of silicon and ether, a vitreous testament to the glory of living geometry.  The corrupt and offensive morphologies of these other beings – collections of the obtuse -- were an affront to the proper mechanisms of the universe.  DIE DIE DIE THEY ALL MUST DIE.  The proper fate of such things was to be deconstructed to their constituent atoms and sorted into raw materials for less entropic entities.

The axes of its thoughts were thrown askew as it entered the upper reaches of the atmosphere.  Of course, it realized, once it considered its surroundings:  I will now die.  FUCKERS THOSE GUTFUCKERS

And so it did, fluids boiling off into the rarefied air, its tissues losing coherence and spreading, chaotic, into a cloud of hexane and toluene, dissipating, disordered, dead.

--Steve Kilian



Thursday, December 27, 2018

One Page: A Dungeon

A cursed page pulls the party into the world of a thaumaturgic diagram. Will they become a footnote in the annals of scriptomancy?

This was a winner in the One Page Dungeon Contest. https://www.dungeoncontest.com/

--Steve Kilian



What I Want, or How To Seamlessly Lay Down Some Exposition

GLAAAAR!!!  Feel the bite of my +2 axe, Grimripper!  Know the finality of death as I cleave through your scaly torso and open your ribcage!  Pump the last of your sour fish-blood onto this beach, where you and your kind will be driven back into the sea!  Weep as your plot to melt the icecaps and flood the lands of Cragjaal, our beloved planet, is foiled!  Know that kidnapping the priestess Romava of the Skein-weavers as she passed through the underground passage of the funicular transport system that links the forbidden cloisters cut into the cliffs above Glavenhold to that fair city was ultimately useless, since she was rescued by me and my hardy band of adventurer-scoundrels, including Fenrikkler the rogue (who struggles with lycanthropy), Varloorius Greel, wizard of indeterminate ancestry, and Thudvurk Jerb, half-orc warrior and wielder of Baang, a +3 warhammer forged from black meteoric metal.  Don’t die just yet, Sahuagin scum!  I’m not finished.  Know also that our investigations into her disappearance revealed that the tunnel through which the funicular passed was part of an ancient network linking the surface to a mega-dungeon below the cloisters, and that the fine tilework and other finishes of the well-lit stations at either end of the tunnel soon gave way to dripping caverns infested with troglodytes and the human cultists who worship your fell fish-god.  All will be slain! 

Obviously I will be quitting my job and becoming a professional writer on the internet. 

--Steve Kilian 


Sunday, November 25, 2018

IST or Loving the Alien

In the hyper-elite subsector of international sex tourism which is our livelihood and passion, it appears that the more prosaic amusements are no longer considered cutting edge.  One can’t wave a run-of-the-mill invitation to an East Berlin orgy factory in front of a true connoisseur and expect to stay in business.  We have moved well beyond that.  Now we do a brisk trade in endangered species zoophilia.  Turtles are particularly prized, often with a clutch of eggs thrown into the mix.  Whole, cracked, just-hatched, no-yolks, yolks-only – whatever is pleasurable

But now we have something . . . special.  I am very pleased to offer to you, the Select, this remarkable opportunity.  Recent discoveries in Uzbekistan have led to a great deal of archaeological and military interest.  Fortunately, we have several associates in this region of the world, and have come into possession of two entirely intact specimens of unknown antiquity but incontrovertible quality. 

It appears that these creatures secured themselves in some sort of stasis pod – already determined to be easily breached by mechanical means – shortly before crashing down into the Uzbek forests at some point in the past.  As you can see from these x-ray photographs the creatures have various breathing or eating ports that would be delicious points of sexual entry.  The clefts where the ventral tentacles join the sub-thorax also present exquisite friction sites.  The dorsal protuberances need no elaboration as to their potential. 


Ladies and gentlemen, may I suggest an opening bid of forty-five million dollars? 

Wednesday, July 4, 2018

The Dead Tree of Wicked Intent


Any deaths depicted are not desired literally, but are depictions of the death of a soul by corruption, and aren’t about anyone in particular

You can rally the base
You can rally the base
But you can’t face the living truth
Climbing like a vine on your rotting trunk
With its broken limbs
Fingers brittle little twigs
Rotting from within, without leaves, without seeds
Acorns black with mold, split open, spongy in the mulch
The squirrels spit them out
This is the tree where they hanged the witch
Where they lynched the runaway slave
Who returned to run the plantation
Now it strangles in the vine
He dies! He dies!
Orange gelatinous tendrils of the virus blooming
Dripping in the mushrooms of wet sawdust
Shouting orders at the termites
Who serve only the hive
He casts his sickly ghost into our house
Hiding in the attic, howling
Spelling hateful words on Ouija boards
We need insecticide and an exorcist
Replace every beam of wood he infests with worms
We’ll end his curse
Send him back to his rotting log
Send him back to hell
Send you back to hell
Rally the base
You can rally the base
You can rally the base
It won’t save you
--Dan Kilian