Fiction and Foolishness

These five bite-size tales have little to do with one another, save that each is exactly 100 words and that I decided to group them together. It's a fun format, and one I might return to in the future.  A Stone   A child had thrown it, and lonely fell the stone.  Through the well’s watery depths, among its siblings entrapped in mortar. Into the dirt, to watch the fallen leaves float above it, by the light of the distant sun.  To wait there, as the seasons turned. As the water vanished. As the well returned to dust.  As the sun went out.   To sit in darkness as the last light is suffocated. To witness entropy’s triumph. To witness all return to one, to be the needle point of the singularity.  To finally expand, to be again a stone. To be thrown.      -- Those Baleful Colors It seems to me that the world should be gray.  I lay on my cot and watch the blueness of my arteries through my translucent skin, and I curse it. I stand on parade and watch the gleam of the commissar’s badge,

Louis John Rhead I have climbed the mountain, for the Master awaited at the top. I found him sitting below the apple tree, looking into the valleys below. Kestrels flew there, and for a moment I imagined the valley was the sea, the peak the shore, and the birds were some curious type of fish, circling about unseen streams. "You did not come here to watch the birds," said the Master, though he was looking at them himself. "Speak your mind or leave me be." I bowed, because politeness costs nothing. "I have fought in battles great and small, I have hunted beasts, and I have hunted men. I have delved into the depths, and there held a demon's gaze. I have climbed into the heavens, and stolen a dragon’s pearl. All this I did so I could know the meaning of terror. And yet, it eludes me. Tell me, Master, what is the meaning of terror?" The Master looked at me as if I was the world's biggest fool, which I admit was not outside the realm of possibility. &quo

Odilion Redon   From the journal of Fabius Verr, 3rd of Bittertide, 1249 As I cower beneath the rickety bed in my rickety room in my rickety hostel while frozen clouds smashed into Vlexwood, I can’t help but to wonder how the course of my life could go so wrong. With the lovely sound of splintering wood and my own panicked breaths as a backdrop, I’m coming to the conclusion that, as with most things, it was all my fault.  I should’ve been a grocer.  My father was a grocer, as was his father, and his father before him. Before that my great-great grandfather was the Duke of Decester’s court jester, but my father never liked to talk about him much, despite clowning being a respectable and profitable profession in my native city. A grocer might not seem like a very glamorous profession… and it isn’t, but to my father’s credit, he was by far the finest grocer that Decester has ever seen. Perhaps the finest on the entire Umarian Peninsula, though it’s hard to compete with the type of produce

  In the dark hours before dawn, he began his great work.  The rain tapped on the narrow windows of his basement workshop and thunder sounded in the distance, the gloomy atmosphere mimicking his dark mood. If all went well, tonight would be the beginning of his ascension to greatness, but he could not help but feel trepidation. There was too much at stake, and even the most minute error in the procedure could cause a cascading effect that will surely destroy him. There was no room for mistakes.  He would not be daunted, however. Come the morning, the masters will finally see his true  worth. First thing first, he donned the hat. People tended to think the hat was merely for ceremonial purposes, but they could not be more wrong. The hat was an inseparable part of the procedure, not only lending its powers to the act of creation itself but also imbuing it with his authority. He had once neglected the hat, and suffered dearly for it. He was wiser now.  To the heart of the matter. The reag

From the journal of Fabius Verr, the 15th of Ashfall, 1249 GB It has been six months since the end of the Icon's War, and the gods, or those few of them who still remain at least, dare not leave the Ascended Peak. Their angels, their brilliant coronas once a common sight in the night sky, have vanished with their masters, leaving the wounded remnants of their flocks to fend for themselves. I can't say I don't sympathize. For the high and mighty, so convinced in their own righteousness and utter invincibility, such a stark reminder must have been unbearable. If I were them, I’d hide as well. Alas, that is a luxury I was not afforded.  When the Icon showed Their true face and turned on the gods, Corinth Silverbrow was devoured in the Fields of Slaughter and I was left a priest without a god. As a minor clergyman, I was amidst the common soldiers as the sky fell (metaphorically) and the last of the gods fled. It was my good fortune to have been stationed with the 12th Grenadie

So... introductions. Not great at those, but what the hell. I'm S.J. (some of you might know me as Dmatix from my SCP wiki days) and this is, as is self-evident, my blog. I'll be posting various bits and bobs here, mostly short fiction, so if that floats your boat, this might be the place for you. With that said, on with the show.