What This Blog is About (with a Quote)

These lines are my vow—that by the stony centuries I am lost to, your sins will not be forgotten—I will not let history bring comfort to your bones after you took comfort from my friends and I. You chose to waste your great potential, and now your failure lunges back like an angry lion. Do not act surprised—it is only life, the life you said yourself was hard, when those words were convenient to you. You believed this life was only yours—only yours, guaranteed not by the merits you claimed to judge others by, but because of all the people of this world, you thought you were the best.

~ Lutum Hominus, 13^th Century Monk

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The Liberator #1 - Terror of the Traumoids

Wherever there is pain, there are invisible tendrils of force that can't be battled. They are protected by equally-invisible barriers, projected by sentient beings who carry hate with them. Hate breeds pain—they are the twinbirth monsters. Their invisible roots grow all around us, where we let them grow. These animal-vegetable-spirit limbs, writhing without heads or bodies need and deserve only thing: a rigorous gardener. The Liberator was deep in her Pulse Chamber, floating in the combination of serums that kept her vital. The machinery of the Heart twitched in their orbits. The teleport circuit in particular, with the clairvoyance circuit prodding it, was eagerly fretting over events minutes on the horizon. Distantly, the Liberator already knew what was ahead of her, but she'd only be able to parse out the thought in human terms later. For now, she was the machine—a giant Heart, taking in all the world through circles of metallic flesh. The veins and arteries of the ...

How We Stand Today

Y'know, working this job: I don't think I've gone through a single day where someone hasn't interrupted my reading on a break. Like. That's how I spend my breaks. I eat, I read. I go to the bathroom if it's available, which it is occasionally. But I read. I read as much as I can. I read whole websites worth of short stories and reviews, I bring books in when I'm confident that no one will try to rob me. And every. Single. Time. I am interrupted. Sometimes it's a forgivable attempt to build up friendship, albeit a misguided one. The guy who sat way too close to me, and folded his newspaper on top of my book to ask me to do a crossword with him? He was just trying to be nice. The bagger who rants at me unbroken and breathless for all fifteen minutes about all the different computer parts he's bought? He assumes I'm interested, and I'm too anxious to tell him otherwise. But sometimes the interruption gets ridiculous. I remember once when I...

Richards

It was him or Tavvy. And Tavvy deserved to live. He deserved to live too but she had had enough. If his last act on this Earth was to spare her a little suffering he would die honorably. Kevin Claude was a good man and he wanted to end his life good. And giving up his life for another was pretty damn good. It was Mrs. Richards. She was infamous at this point. The rookies heard about her early on, speaking in hushed whispers, like she was a ghost or something. In fact, there was a theory, one which Kevin had believed for a time, that she was a ghost—a ghost who could write checks. She came in regularly—once a week, usually on a Saturday—and her appearance never changed. Same clothes, same hair. She followed the same routine every time when it came to collecting her groceries. (Checkout was always a little different each time.) That was what ghosts did, wasn't it? Played out the same events over and over? It made Kevin wondered if he was a ghost. He could take the repeti...

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