Nanite River

Posted in Fiction on October 12, 2018 by GuNNhead

It springs from a well deep in the ground. Years since the first destruction. A vat, spilled of its contents, entered outward. Now those contents span for countless miles, cutting across what was once a scrapyard; now paints a metallic sheen, reflecting a sun once too blocked by filth and smog. Inhabitable with life, yet one with nature. A caress of sentient chrome, lazily lapping its shores. A steady churn of countless innumerables of individuals working as one, a simple force of nature. Carving a path within the landscape, creating bifurcations and minor branching veins towards growth. Once a source is found, the stream no longer trickles, but expands and becomes another main tendril of the source, spreading its influence. Beaches of glass and rot betray the glory of the sight of it.

There were sightings of divergent formations within the chrome movement. Colors, movements, shapes against the current. As if it were its own ecosystem, creating alternating mimics of what it has replaced. All of this spawning, from differing interpretations of the structures of the metal compounds it adsorbs on its flood across the world. Never-ending reproduction and expansion, improvements. Skyscrapers lay about, half-digested. It only crept for the metal. Golden are the bottom-feeders, as the saying goes.

Shining radiance glows across the sky at night’s moon from its polished waves. Tidal, they may be. Mesoscopic ebbs and flows, all calculated, all accounted for. More miles wide than can be crossed some day. It has drifted, and broken more dreams that it could ever make, it does not think as they used to, it is within itself, carving a path outwards and downwards. It has taken so much from life that was, and returned it into itself. It has seen them off of their world they knew, and driven to the outskirts beyond the bend.

A death of life, within a new breadth of existence. Crafted for their life extensions, now drifting out into the world. There’s such a lot of world to see, and after long they will no longer be there to see it. The river is now beyond their scope, where ever it’s going, it’s not going to work out for the pocketed remnants. They were after the same end, but only one of them can make it last, and they had crafted its advantage. All they do now is wait, and die. They were broken and fractured by its connections. Suffocated as the stones it strangles to extract what ore it can incorporate into itself.

Those that were on the evacuation shuttle watched and were updated for as long as was possible on this one-way journey. They saw a once mostly-vibrant world coated by intermetallic compounds and alloys. New lifeforms, shaped in their forms, creating things as they were, in their own image. A final, impossible, transmission arrived from their home planet before they were just out of reach. It could not be translated.

Bat/Man Begins

Posted in Fiction on September 10, 2018 by GuNNhead

The war between bat and man had been waged for centuries. We bats were giants, towering above you, and you too used to have wings. Until one day, the gods seemed to descend from the sky, and offered a choice. The choice was no choice at all, but a trick from on high. Our races, once similar, diverged even further. You, siding with the visitors, gained technological aptitude and advancements, but lost your wings. The visitors did not like our savage stance against them, and so we lost our stature. They went so far as to even erase our structures, our homes, and reduce us to cave dwellings, but now – thousands of years later, things are again changing. Having long forgotten the pact that was made, it is being unwittingly broken, and now the curse will be lifted, and our battle shall begin once more…

A rural barn party rages on as we see two figures go into the shadows behind the barn, just out of sight. One shows off their new under arm wings they had been hiding beneath a large hoodie, the other has an additional pair on their shins now. They fly off to the front of the barn, and around it, high above it and beyond the rabble to the surrounding forest. A large shadow descends upon the transformed revelers, a piercing screech is heard, then nothing. On the forest floor, two headless bodies crash through the trees and hit the ground still spurting blood.

A writer prints this out for their friend to read, but it has just rained and there are tricky jumps to avoid large puddles and not get their shoes wet on the way to the bar. Having seen a shimmer of pavement above water level, they attempt to use it as a stepping stone. The writer is cut off by a pair of shoes ignorant to other people, the mission for dryness becomes a failure due to the selfishness of others. Continuing the walk to the bar, it takes the writer a few seconds to get out of their own head at the rudeness of faceless feet to realize that their friend is no longer holding the printout. They had accidentally dropped it in the puddle. Mid-apology their walk is stopped. A bespectacled man wearing a turtleneck under a button up vest and suit coat holds out a piece of damp paper. He introduces himself; he’s the famous author Lan Opher (christ, no), he admits that while at first he was glad to have saved a young writer’s draft, he now regrets it. He describes it as horribly derivative trash, idiotic, uses a word that clearly conveys the implication that it was written with the sole purpose of being adapted into a b-movie because they lack the talent to write a screenplay, poorly paced, and that the puddle he had saved it from had far more depth to it, so leaving it there would have been a favor to the world. The writer, having been holding in pee for the entire walk and tirade, takes the criticism in stride as they feel a drop of pee leak, quickly thanks the author for the advice, grabs and folds the paper, pockets it, and the pair of friends dash into the bar.

After having relieved themselves, the writer exits the bathroom and heads over to their friend’s table, already with-pitcher. The paper is taken out, and laid flat upon the table. It is quickly re-read by the writer as their friend apologizes for how shitty of a person the author was being, saying that they liked it, and, trying to connect to the piece, ask if the visitors were actually aliens and not gods. The writer admits that, yes, they were, and wonders aloud if it was really that obvious. (It was). The writer then change tones, though, because they fucking hated that author, their shitty trilogy, and all of their shitty novels. It’s all pretentious trash that completely misses the point of why it’s being made, why it’s being told, and the motivation of the characters. They were right about one thing, though: Bat/Man Begins is fucking garbage. The writer knows they can do better.

Scum (1988 Film)

Posted in Fiction on August 31, 2018 by GuNNhead

1988, a bright day in a shithole city in Southern California. She pulls up to the front of the school in her red 1983 Camaro. Off in the distance some ways, a clear douchebag with a bad crush looks on as she interacts with the boy she’d been with practically since grade school, and is green with envy, he chugs back a swig from a flask. His eye twitches, and a drop of emerald ooze leaks down the flask as he closes it back up. He lights a cigarette, spits on the ground, and walks off as she drives away.

At the arcades after school, the couple enjoys themselves with some friends, but are confronted by this douche while leaving. He’s clearly been drinking, and is ready for a fight. He takes a swing, but is easily dodged, and is dropped in three hits, one to the stomach, another to the face, and a final elbow to the back. They’re sick of this creeper’s shit, and tell him so.

That night, as he lives in the same dump of an apartment building as his rival, he kidnaps the boyfriend’s dog, and facefucks it, leaving it in the hall.

The next day, she’s brought her boyfriend back to his apartment, and he’s concerned for his dog, he swears he can hear something sloshing around in there when he puts his ear up to the dog’s stomach. He knows it has something to do with that damn douchebag, but there’s nothing they can do and need to get going to a job fair, so he leaves a note for his parents, and lets the dog keep sleeping under the kitchen table.

In the office where the job fair is held, they’re looking at one of the employer’s showcases, an original Doomsday game with the red cartridge, all set up in an NES. Known to be one of the toughest games currently out, it was originally developed in Japan as a launch title. It was scrapped back then, but with a little tinkering was released only in the states by this small company. A top-down shooter, you only had one life, but when you died, you were taken to a screen with a choice of two mini-games to win your freedom from hell.

Outside, douchebag is looking at her car and fuming. He’s chugging his flask like there’s no tomorrow and looks really worse for the wear. His black eye is pretty puffy, and appears to be leaking pus, he has a weird gait sort of and a hunch. He takes a final swig and makes a b-line for the door of the office building. From inside you can hear him yelling around the halls before he breaks the unlocked door open, making a show of himself. A security guard is caught off guard, and pops him two in the chest, dropping him.

They return to check on the dog, but when they open the door, they quite clearly see that the dog has mutated into the table, just fur coating a kitchen table, slime and blood splattered on the walls and floor. The dog is clearly dead, and after vomiting, they leave, heading to her place to try to figure out what the hell just happened, because that crap is fucking messed up.

Shithead is is back in his apartment, examining the two bullet-holes in his flask. He throws it down, and picks up a large green bottle with a number 2 on it, and a picture of a winged serpent woman. He starts chugging the whole thing.

Cruising past an industrial string of buildings, the red Camaro is sideswiped through a chain-link fence. They see asshole, giant, deformed and monstrous, writhing tendrils flailing from where he was shot, coming towards them. They get out of the car entangled in fence and run in between the buildings. Mutant jerk jumps over the car, and punches the sides of buildings, breaking large chunks off of them as he searches for the duo. He eventually breaks through enough walls to the point where they’re cornered. He’s a grotesque monstrosity, 8-9 feet tall at least, and leaking out slime from everywhere, especially his fists now that he’s spent the better part of 10 minutes hitting bricks and slamming the ground and large machinery. He lurches towards them, saying he’ll turns her boyfriend into paste, demanding to be with her or he’ll smash them both. She refuses, obviously, but as he’s about the bring his giant fists down on them, he begins to pop and fizzle, some parts deflating, others enlarging. When his bottom drops out and he shits himself, he starts melting from the inside out, becoming just a steaming puddle of scum.

Sleep at Night

Posted in Fiction on June 1, 2018 by GuNNhead

Do you ever wake up with that overwhelming sense of everything being worthless, that there is no future where there is happiness, none of the effort you ever put into anything will ever be rewarded properly, no matter how much effort into anything your life will be completely miserable and empty, and you wake up alone to these thoughts and they stick with you all day and keep you up at night, and you know you’ll never feel anything resembling love for anyone and no one will ever feel love for you because all of life is just so damn horrible and hollow and empty because deep down everyone knows it’s all going completely to shit, and that there’s nothing that they can do to change the actual future, the big picture future, because be as successful as you want, make as many friends, or get as fit, or find that special someone, no matter what, it’s all going to go to shit, the world is a hellhole full of awful people, and there’s no recovery, there’s no hopeful future, it’s all just shitty people getting shittier, where you think they can throw all the technology they want at it, people are just rotten and greedy and it’s completely inescapable all over the world, that there is no bright future for anyone over the next 50 years?

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The Devildeath Spider

Posted in Fiction on May 28, 2018 by GuNNhead

Deep in its web, it lurks. Gossamer strings stretch for kilometers, vibrations of the essence of beings who become trapped in their heads, in its bed. It feels your pull on its tiny leg hairs. It does not live for flavor, or to savor, it is to consume, it does not live. In your sleep, your mind is rotating, being wrapped up in its threads, a sliver of dream extending from its spinnerettes, caressing your consciousness, gentle pedipalp packaging. You walked into this devildeath, to be swaddled as a baby, fawned over, admired in eight eyes. Attention and care, massaged in silk, comfort blankets your entire vibe. You glow to it, you know, just like heaven.

There is no way to stop it, you don’t need to feel alive, a calm of stunted growth, preserved as you are. Your innards remain, it does not crave the corporeal, fangs of the metaphysical enter your thought, and your sense of future begins to necrotize from the venom injected. Numinous neurotoxin spreads, and spreads, and spreads. Across time, across space, you will die, consumed and left a monument to the mastery of the devildeath’s craft. Your self will remain there, as you continue to walk around, hollow and alone, void of what once made it move so determinately long ago. You are remembered, like distant stars and a rainstorm out of the blue, falling for what seems like forever, but can only be glimpsed so briefly in our time. A rain drop on a tongue, a meteor in the heat of a sun, you have arrived at one inevitability.

It gently sways to itself as it has its drinks of you. Its abdomen and legs moving to an unheard rhythm within your life. It occasionally stops to brush your hair from your face, place soft chelicerae smooches upon your brow. As you come undone, it knows you. Each sip, a memory, every gulp, a moment; the swigs are loves. It feels no remorse, but it feels the potential you once had for yourself in your mind that will no longer be able to be achieved; consumed. It wishes that you had accomplished your goals for you, but knows that to live, all who fall into its web cannot, it has felt the remorse of lost potential for the entirety of its existence, that is how it lives up to its fullest destiny. A spectral spider, webs lining the space between dream and reality, consuming the past and preventing the future, Devildeath.

You wake up, and take a walk to clear the cobwebs from your head.