A mashup of a strugglesome final-project-in-the-works for fashion illustration class and an old short story I found lying around on my hard disk. Uhm… enjoy?
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Painted
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Category Archives: Writing
The Chosen One
“This world was only the first rude essay of some infant deity who afterwards abandoned it, ashamed of his lame performance; it is the work only of some dependent, inferior deity, and is the object of derision to his superiors; it is the production of old age and dotage in some super-annuated deity, and ever since his death has run on…” - David Hume, (Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, V. 1779)
******* short story ******
You must make me a promise: Once I tell you, in my own mindwriting, what is known about the God-King Farkuhan, you must let the matter rest. Do not dwell on any of it. Do you understand? Very well, then…
It is said, that God-King Farkuhan flitted between the eerier spaces of his dominion, and with careless abandon. Even when the unavoidable dis-synchronies lashed at him and twisted him, he persisted. He was torn to pieces an unimaginable number of times every moment, in places where moments passed at all… and instantly, where they did not. Continue reading
polymath on a burned dvd
Answers
Somewhere between the apartment and the subway, every movement dwindled to a barely-moving halt, and even as Roland walked he realised that he was no longer covering any ground. It made him think of bad dreams. The ones where you ran and ran, rooted to the spot.
Yet he was sure he wasn’t dreaming, which only served to increase his sense of panic. Enough to make him rip out his earphones and pay better attention. To be sure this wasn’t happening.
But it was.
Frantic, he tried to look about… and was greeted with the same slow churn of inexplicable inertia. Each direction that slid glacially into view had blurred. Out of focus. As if he’d suddenly been struck with nearsightedness. Continue reading
clowns
Because she had no shoes appropriate for such a journey, Brenda had been given one of her older sisters’ shoes. They had balled up a couple of old newspaper pages, after rubbing them until they were weathered soft, and stuffed them into the front of each shoe so that Brenda’s 7-yr-old feet would be tricked into feeling at home. The shoes were a dark shiny red, with silver buckles. Continue reading
headcase
[Updated in 2009-03-22] (short story).
Whatever it is that “bing!”s, when the lift you’re in reaches a requested floor, it does not bing in this monkey cage when it finally clangs to a halt. After a worrying pause, the lift doors finally bid farewell to each other, noisily and begrudgingly. She looks down, finding that the 17th floor isn’t quite flush with the one she’s standing on, but she gets out anyway. Continue reading
textuality
Quick short story (pseudo precursor to a bunch of related shorts I want to put up soon)…