D&D Friends #1. Featuring KATOKI, SUSURU, PHILLIPE, and nameless maimed orc
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a/s/l
I’m
fine, she says; her armor is already up. I immediately fold, a little bit: what
was my purpose in calling here if I’m only going to upset her? I never know how
to handle these things. I wish I knew how to have a project or something with
Siobhan: when I have a project, I know how to relate to people. It’s the
project that relates to people, and I’m just the tiny Fionna riding in the
back, waving hi sometimes.
novel
Orcrist is not factual. This is something she knew. But for a moment, she lets herself dream. The house lights darken. Flickers, only: Lynchian glimmers. A fire, kindled in an iron brazier; thrumming bass notes from full Marshall stacks that the sun alone powers. Then lights: a full band, Iago and his nebulous musical brothers—Glamdring, Aragorn, Narsil, Olorin—all filth and eschatological, final. Iago wears a stag’s skull on his brow, white lights animating his irises. The crowd, hundreds somehow fitting in this space, stands mesmerized, hushed. Then cheers as the band begins: shreds of guitar, grandeur and synthesizer, allegiances sworn immediately: a new congregation: the sorceress rising from their cloud of music and incense to conquer the planet. All her aims fulfilled.
What had she wanted from him, beyond that? Nervously she shifts from foot to foot, wanting to die, wanting to be alive, a pulse of hot adrenalin: what had she wanted from anything, beyond motion toward something?
CHLLC
After your CraftQZeldaFreak1985 period, it’s all downhill.
CHLLC
Output Days are worse, because that’s when you type whatever’s interesting from what you’ve generated, distill it down to a series of gnomic propositions (you used to number them, all Tractatus, but you are trying to cultivate a kind of modish intellectual sloppiness), and post them to your blog, whose address is secret.
hey i still exist and i am still doing my patreon zine; it is at http://patreon.com/jwthornton and i am Proud of this issue which has a weird feeling like a slide travelogue i guess, plus fiction writing about making video games when you are a teenager with a bad life
Summer Fun
And finally, Dahlia spoke: —Goodbye, she said. And she burst into a cloud of shrieking bats and vanished in a Van Gogh swirl over the hills or something, or she just got in her car—I don’t know, Brian, but she was gone. Caroline was alone on El Camino Real with a phone number she told herself she’d never call, and with her seventeenth birthday gift right there in its blue folder, attached to her hand.
Summer Fun
On the ground beside us, Brian, a tumbleweed was growing. Kali tragus: an invader species, initially almost a fruit before growing sharp, untouchable; extending as far as it can before dying young, leaving only a brittle cloud, all extension and motion. The dead plant that can get you to where you need to go. And creating one is easy: you just have to know the best place to plant an evil seed.
Summer Fun
A line of cars is listening to you, semicircle of crystal teenage coffins. You can not see their faces; they are dreaming.
Jayne County Comix
taugete