When I wrote that three-act treatment last August I didn’t have the slightest suspicion that we’d be living through something like we are right now by the time I returned to expand it. Then once we were under quarantine, I thought it would be horribly insensitive to revisit it. At this point, I’m not so sure about that. The pandemic element is ultimately ancillary to this story, and thinking about it I guess helps me turn some concepts over in my mind. How constructive that is will remain to be seen. This story has come to mean a lot to me, though, and I think it will evolve a lot now that I’m fiddling with it during a strange reflection of its own premise. Maybe I will, too.
I don’t have specific plans for anything with this, but I’m writing it while imagining it in a visual medium, for practice and variety. This first draft isn’t in any kind of standard format, just something that seems to make sense to me. I hope someone else somewhere gets something out of it.
Abyssal (first draft)
Another installment of the story written on an old computer. I’ll type this story up in normal readable text when it’s over, but I’m having fun doing it this way too.
Written on a Timex-Sinclair 1000 computer, I haven’t figured out how to capture video from it very well yet, but it’s legible at least. I hope I’m not the only one who finds this kind of thing amusing.
I haven’t been doing as much free writing lately to focus on other things, but something I’ve done lately is exercises in developing plot summaries. This is one I wrote based on a few prompted themes.
There was just one more thing I had to get, one thing I couldn’t leave behind. Someone grabbed at my arm but I shrugged their hand off, pushing back through the hallway against the flow of evacuating employees. The alarm was high and shrill, had the timbre of a shrieking animal that assaulted my ears no matter how I tried to protect them.
The very highest quarter inch of the hall was beginning to gather wisps of smoke, just barely thick enough to see. It looked, rather, as though the gypsum ceiling tiles themselves warped and bubbled. Heat pushed back against me like giant, slow, gelatinous hands cupped and trying to resist my momentum. They could not stop me, but there were other forces beyond them, hands that could press with greater force. Burn and sear.
In the sweltering heat of the third moon, Falsallow carefully circled the ancient building, jug of liquor in one hand and cane in the other. The cane he held upside down, dragged its crystal tip in the dirt beside him so that it left a line, just barely perceptible in the low but harsh light. The earth shrank from the corruption contained in the crystal, and slowly billowed up in mounds on either side of the line, leaving a trough that widened as he went. He’d had most of the circle drawn before anyone inside saw him, and now there were many eyes on him (in addition to the third moon, the Oracle’s Eye itself), worried faces in the windows, silhouettes in the dim night moving nervously. Falsallow raised his jug to them, took a swig, hopped a couple quick steps to avoid being caught by the widening ravine.
The new Conversant struck a bell that rang into session a ceremony, the first of its kind. He was a stocky, balding man with small, shrewd but strangely distant eyes and a slight pucker to every feature. Yesterday, as throughout the long process thus far, he had worn a simple black suit, common for the middlemost class of commoners: today he came draped in antiquarian robes that enough of the audience found offputting that a murmur prevailed over the first words he spoke after ringing the bell.
“…sweep aside the nobility,” were his first audible words. “because they were an affront to God.”
These were old, very old. They sparkled in my hand when I held them to the light. Green and bluish, amber with deep brown veins. Undoubtedly made of stone but also undoubtedly alive. Embryos, frozen in some kind of stasis, but with an indescribable sense to them that, given the right circumstances, they would resume the growth that was arrested millennia past.
(content warning: violence, but it isn’t described)
The need hit Greg suddenly. At first he didn’t know what it was, if he was yearning for some unknown sensation or if he was just tired. Weary. He knew he was that. He moped and he dwelled on it – as anyone looking on would say. He would say rather, that he was examining it. What he came up with after a long solo drinking session was: community. That’s what he was yearning for.
“That’s not how you do it,” Timothy laughed, and took the device away from Martha.
He punched a code into it, and slowly withdrew his hands so that it hung stationary in the air. The others looked on with vague anticipation. Except for Martha, who scowled and rubbed the burn spot on her hand.
“Go,” Timothy said.