Archive for August, 2009

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Piracy

Posted in Fantasy, Fiction with tags on August 17, 2009 by GuNNhead

“Yarrrrrrrrr,” said the pirate, counting doubloons.
“Yaaaaar,” said the captain, observing him carefully with his one eye, “Ye best count it well, y’ain’t the only one o’ me crew who can count, so don’t be thinkin’ fer a second that yee can pull a fast one on me, the great Captain Mayhem Paddock III, I’ll cut yer head clean off and feed it to the sharks.”
“aye aye, cap’m”

This is what I conceptualize to be a common dialogue on their ship, The Euphonia. It has been at sea for a few short weeks now, after a stop on land to pick up supplies, and to pirate the most precious jewels that this ship in particular seeks. This disembarkment had gone particularly well, and their findings continue to be enjoyed by all the crew aboard, and perhaps many of the accursed crowd they will encounter to pilfer from in the future. This crew does not plunder in the traditional sense, there are no reported murders, and no jewels, gold, or chastity are reported to have been taken unwillingly.

This ship, full of the vilest and most reprehensible riff-raff on the seven seas, pirates music. Murderers, rapists, and felons are nearly unheard of on this crew. These men all work together in a rum soaked ship to perform the most dastardly deeds the world has ever seen. They flow into town, and take in the local shows, orchestras, musicians, soloist virtuosos, minstrels, bards, and even yodelers; nothing is off limits to this pirate crew. They use special recording devices conceived by Captain Mayhem Paddock III himself, record the songs, and play them at future times for money and profit. Other times, this crew listens, remembers, and, taking instruments of their own, reperform the very same songs to others around the world. They truly are the most contemptible and underhanded of pirates.

The music that they abducted from the very air emanating from the original artist can now be heard around the world, for while these pirates are the best at what they do, and the most world-renowned, they are not alone in their depraved ways. There are other crews, who commit equally, if not worse atrocities upon the culture of mankind. These performances are no longer kept to a small and privileged few who can afford them, these pirates are spreading culture around as if it some sort of disease.

The Euphonia and Captain Mayhem Paddock III care not for culture or preserving neither the artist nor his managers, they only care to bring music across the seven seas, to those who have never heard it before, or anything like it. Those who have no right to listen to it, for they can neither afford it, nor do they deserve what is not native to their lands. They only see music as a means to join the world to their degenerate ways. I, Captain Reginald Ignatius Aapoiproire seek to bring every last one of these miscreants to justice. I have been tracking them for years, I cannot quit now without looking like a fool to my King and his entire court. I will see that the crew of the Euphonia hang for their crimes, especially that nigh-untraceable Captain Mayhem Paddock III. If only I could control or destroy him, could I see that this madness comes to an immediate end.

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Of Honor and Composure

Posted in Fantasy, Fiction with tags , , , , on August 14, 2009 by GuNNhead

Cherry blossoms fall
Petals descend silently
He hears each last one

A nearby stream soothes
Over time rocks become smooth
By its persistence

Many souls congress
Living, breathing habitat
All in harmony

Insects buzz about
Dragonflies are most graceful
Landing upon reeds

Frogs croak at nothing
To hear themselves, they enjoy
Tonguing any prey

A sword remains sheathed
To expose the blade means death
For the opponent

Up above is blue
Though the sun will be setting
And colors will change

The meadow is green
Lush grass flows far into trees
A distant forest

Calming winds blow soft
Flowing through the scenery
Upon our hero

He sits in mediation
Upon a gentle hillside
His thoughts in focus

A grey kimono
A sign of nobility
From subdued colors

He is deep in thought
Quiet reflection of life
Of what he has learned

Mastery of martial arts
Skill with katana unmatched
A code of Honor

Surpassed his master
And then set out on his own
No more to learn there

Traveling alone
The way of the samurai
It is in his blood

For years he did train
One can never stop learning
Each day, new lessons

Mind is well above
The way that others would think
At one with the world

From the deepest well
Is where he draws capacity
Move beyond action

Sun begins to set
Divine color paints the sky
Breathtaking vision

He senses presence
Emerging from the forest
With sinister plans

A rival appears
To claim the life of this man
Focus singular

The dark to his light
He rushes with blade in hand
Intentions to kill

Light stands to defend
Withdrawing his katana
Swords clash, metals meet

Even in power
Their strength is but one aspect
A battle of skill

Wit vies with cunning
Steel meets steel again and again
Only one will win

Dark has no Honor
Does not abide by the code
An army for hire

No room for light
In the blackest dynasty
His blood must be spilt

An old samurai
That has gained too much repute
As a force of right

Their numbers, endless
He fights with all he has left
It is not enough

Many of theirs, dead
Dark assassin, among them
Light fought with Honor

Battlefield, silent
The sun has set, all is dark
Gentle stream runs red

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Carnivoral

Posted in Fiction, Sci-Fi with tags on August 13, 2009 by GuNNhead

The lumbering beast makes its way down the narrow passage, snarling and drooling. Neon lights line the walls. Vertical yellow and red stripes race by as it moves faster, confused. Entering a clearing, the world seems to calm, but only for a moment. In an instant, strobe lights become the essence of its surroundings. The ground underfoot begins to spin, and all it can hear is laughter. Laughter of all pitches, it cannot discern where exactly it is coming from, as the aural cacophony bombards it from all sides. What manner of creature would be so amused at the mere sight of this large and intimidating Tyrannosaur? Glaring its teeth and releasing a deafening roar, it hears the sounds silence themselves. Feeling more assured of himself, it sends out another terrifying roar into the air, piercing the swirling night sky.

With new confidence upon the shifting ground, the gargantuan struts around the clearing. Colors boil, coil, and roil together; a sense of euphoria fills its subconscious, awakening a new cosmos of stars. History creates a primeval brainstorm of images and ideas; judgement and opinion, premise and prospect. Visions of a concept not yet conceived dance upon its mindwaves, rockets and robots, instruments and inventions. The visions begin to fade, the colors normalize, but the ideas remain. A new form of consciousness is born in the Gorgosaur.

Isn’t it a dream?

It grows accustomed to this new frame, enjoying the change with minimal regret; though, no positive plans to make a singularity permanent. The old ways are so natural, perhaps always the greatest. It does not want to turn this fervor off. The complete switch may be the reasonable choice for one who wants their nights to be full of desperate emotions! However, it thinks. It was born with one way and one way inside only.

It saw what others did, not knowing why itself felt no urge from commencement to correspond in their consumption. Today it chose to create a destiny of its own, defy what it began knowing, and brought up to believe in as a system.
Night fails to make this hunter, killer, irresolute and pitiful. It knows how to avoid this risk! What it had partaken of tonight would not render that the only thing in its existence. It knew of a balance, a balance for need and desire, and of instinct versus assent.

It has become transcended, into the heart and mind of the prey, a noble predator that can not only do what it must. There are no morals in matters such as this, no pity or remorse. This is how it must be, how it was always intended to be. The frivolous choices in the future of enjoyment are merely that, designed to enhance the sentience. It will always imbibe the lifeblood, only now it has reached an awareness of its own, and can luxuriate in that.

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The Key

Posted in Fantasy, Fiction, Sci-Fi, The Key on August 12, 2009 by GuNNhead

The man stealthily jogs down the large corridor with its checker-tiled floor, hair bobbing with every step. He wears a red uniform, adorned with a strikingly large white V upon the chest, ending in a white belt, continuing along his arms, down his sleeves; his pants have two white lines piping down the side of his legs, finding his white boots. Turning a corner into the central hallway, he sees the King and his royal robotic guards exiting into another of the many corridors.
– Not where he’s heading.

The man positions himself against the wall to wait for the King to have fully left from the main hall before continuing on with his agenda. He enters the second corridor on his right, and heads the second door on his left. As with all doors in this castle, it is large and red, looking almost plush and foam-like to the touch, with a white V ending in two white lines, one on the top, and one on the bottom. The man goes to the right side of the door, and as he pushes on it, the side of the door silently slides open, directly forward, with ease. It is then, in this new corridor, that he notices one of the many patrolling robotic guards, embellished with the same red color and large, white V on their chests; the man exits back into the other hall, but cannot reach the door to close it. He takes cover behind a pedestal, readying his pistol blaster from the holster on the high back side of his right hip. The automaton reaches the open door; it pauses in its rounds, analyzing the door with scrutiny. Its singular red-light-eye scans, back and forth, back and forth, without emotion. Taking another second to calculate action, the machine closes the door, and continues on its rounds.

Hesitating, waiting for the time it would take for the robot to have gone, the man opens the door again, seeing the robot turning to the left, out of the hallway and into another. The man makes his way towards the corridor that the guard turned, passing by the corridor, and entering a large circular room with books lining the walls, and large elegant windows that face a courtyard from five stories above, an enchanted forest off in the distance. He then hears the tank-like treads of another patrolling automaton approaching, following the same set path as the last. Knowing he will be caught if he remains another second, he leaps through the window, shattering it. Once outside, the shards pause in mid-air, and quickly reform the pane.

Falling multiple stories, the man lands haphazardly, but surprisingly lightly, as if on a cushion of air: there are different rules at play here. On the stone surface of the garden terrace of the courtyard, he stands, brushing himself off out of habit. He looks around, examining his surroundings; to his right, he notices a beautiful young woman in a sheer peplos sitting at a stone table, reading, and enjoying the fresh air. She stares at him quizzically. He is not from this land.

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Sam Secours, P.I.

Posted in Detective, Fiction, Horror, Sci-Fi on August 11, 2009 by GuNNhead

A shadowed figure walks slowly down the sidewalk of a narrow street. Clouds hang heavy with awaiting rain overhead as he passes by dim street lamps. The trenched man pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his inner breast pocket, and removes the last one. He places it in his mouth, and returns the pack, composing his lapels in one swift movement. Adjusting the brim of his fedora, he casually lights the cigarette, and extinguishes the flame with a quick breath. Sam Secours, private eye. His thoughts meander around his life and he takes in the inky scenery.

This could very well be the foremost important case I’ve ever taken, which is saying a lot, as only a few short years ago, I didn’t deal with this kind of bats in the belfry-cuckoo stuff. I worked normal cases, missing people, mysteries that the police couldn’t be trusted with. It was just like how you’d expect, dames coming in with more money than they knew what to do with, throwing it at me, sending me on wild goose chases. It was ridiculous, but I loved every smoky, drunken second of it, deep down. I was the best in town, I could solve any case, it was almost too easy, I could just see the clues, read people like words out a book. Until, of course, I took a vacation. That vacation changed everything, I took a boat out to sea, and what I found there was not the peace and quiet I wanted, it was another damned case. Monsters had had their doubloons stolen by pirate ghosts, and, well, haphazardly, I solved that case like all my others. Returning back to my office the following week, I’d found that word had spread to all sorts of phantasmagorical beings. It’s been like that ever since.

37 Orchestra Ave., a small and run-down three story building. The man enters through the dilapidated and creaky door. Starting up the murky stairwell, the door falls flat behind him, shattering what remained of the glass. He continues up to the second floor, and enters the second door on the left; same layout as his office building. A fine mist pools across the floor, and around his feet. He inhales the last of the cigarette, and tosses the butt down, snuffing out the smoking remnants with his shoe, twisting. As the smoldering remains die out, a spectral silhouette appears across the room; its haunting voice emanates, echoing throughout the room.

“So, you decided to take the case, eh, Sam?”
“Could I have not?”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“So, what’ve you got for me?”
“Not much, I’m afraid; the details are murky and ill-defined.”
“They always are; shouldn’t have expected more, even when taking a case from you.”
“You have to find out who killed me, and stop them.”

Light shines in from the streets onto the face of the spectral entity: an ethereal Sam Secours; body riddled with bullet holes.

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