fuck. i fucking hate this whole petty, stupid race. i hate the fact that the only thing i have ever asked of the inbred fucking morons who surround me is to pull their glazed unblinking eyes away from their inane repetitive sitcoms and scripted "reality" shows and take six fucking seconds to take a look at the world around them and see it from a perspective they have never seen. to HEAR what i say and not just decide what it was i said to them without actually applying any of that amazing, and apparently stagnating, processing power the large quantity of grey matter locked in their skulls gives them access to. and i would really like for them to open their fucking eyes and stop pretending that the happy lovely world they were force fed by their parents, their teachers, and their own fucking fears is only a very tiny part of the actual world and that what i say is not meant to be offensive or insensitive, but an honest and open appraisal of the world around us.
i am told i am offensive. do you know what it requires to be offended? it requires the AUDIENCE to interpret the speakers words in a manner that bothers them. the person speaking does not have to put any meaning behind his words, it is up to the AUDIENCE to determine how they perceive what has been said. that means that if YOU are offended by the words of another it is because YOU CHOSE TO BE, not because the speaker is trying to. in fact, in most cases i'll bet you find the speaker never intended for their words to bother you, they were just exercising their right to speak their mind.
think on that before you decide to assault the next person who says something you do not agree with. it is your fault you got upset, even if they were trying to provoke you. you can fucking think for yourself and choose your response. HEAR what others are saying, don't just listen.
i fucking hate october, and i especially hate this week. and just to add that extra ray of sunshine to my life my parents have decided to visit tomorrow. yaay me. fucking stupid idealistic assinine bullshit day.
oh yeah, as of friday, it has now been a year since i have had the pleasure of sharing my life with another who i thought cared, obviously i was wrong. in honor of the occassion i went out and drank myself blind. i was awoken the next day by the girls from down the hall to tell me that my poetry was wonderful. apparently, while heavily under the influence of irish whiskey i decided to scrawl something across the board on our door. everyone seems to like it, except the aforementioned inbred morons who decided to mark inane and insipid criticisms all over it this morning in an attempt to remind me what an asshole they have come to believe i am.
the truth fucking hurts.
anyway, i reproduce it here for you because i've already made any reader suffer through my personal tirade and for some reason people seem to like the crap i produce. hope this makes up for all the preceding bullshit.
fucking october.
Pain.
Pain like you wouldnÕt believe.
I clutch at my stomach, feeling the slick warm flow of blood, the viscous pliancy of intesteines,
my life.
Pain wrenches and tears through my gut. A gaping, widening hole, tearing through the center of my very being.
I think of her.
The first moment I saw her, the way I felt, the terrible/wonderful instant I realized I was in love.
Pain like you wouldnÕt believe.
And as my life slips away between my fingers, I realize something:
being in love,
dying,
They feel exactly the same.
i am told i am offensive. do you know what it requires to be offended? it requires the AUDIENCE to interpret the speakers words in a manner that bothers them. the person speaking does not have to put any meaning behind his words, it is up to the AUDIENCE to determine how they perceive what has been said. that means that if YOU are offended by the words of another it is because YOU CHOSE TO BE, not because the speaker is trying to. in fact, in most cases i'll bet you find the speaker never intended for their words to bother you, they were just exercising their right to speak their mind.
think on that before you decide to assault the next person who says something you do not agree with. it is your fault you got upset, even if they were trying to provoke you. you can fucking think for yourself and choose your response. HEAR what others are saying, don't just listen.
i fucking hate october, and i especially hate this week. and just to add that extra ray of sunshine to my life my parents have decided to visit tomorrow. yaay me. fucking stupid idealistic assinine bullshit day.
oh yeah, as of friday, it has now been a year since i have had the pleasure of sharing my life with another who i thought cared, obviously i was wrong. in honor of the occassion i went out and drank myself blind. i was awoken the next day by the girls from down the hall to tell me that my poetry was wonderful. apparently, while heavily under the influence of irish whiskey i decided to scrawl something across the board on our door. everyone seems to like it, except the aforementioned inbred morons who decided to mark inane and insipid criticisms all over it this morning in an attempt to remind me what an asshole they have come to believe i am.
the truth fucking hurts.
anyway, i reproduce it here for you because i've already made any reader suffer through my personal tirade and for some reason people seem to like the crap i produce. hope this makes up for all the preceding bullshit.
fucking october.
Pain.
Pain like you wouldnÕt believe.
I clutch at my stomach, feeling the slick warm flow of blood, the viscous pliancy of intesteines,
my life.
Pain wrenches and tears through my gut. A gaping, widening hole, tearing through the center of my very being.
I think of her.
The first moment I saw her, the way I felt, the terrible/wonderful instant I realized I was in love.
Pain like you wouldnÕt believe.
And as my life slips away between my fingers, I realize something:
being in love,
dying,
They feel exactly the same.
so, it took a couple of weeks, but i finally found the place where my muse resides in Columbus. i don't know what the rest of you use, but i need stimulants and human interaction to write. not personal interaction, just the witnessing of other people's lives. i find my stories in the quick caught words of overlapping conversations. as for stimulants... well, lets just say i've written my best on a shitload of amphetamines. something about the way the mind jumps and pulses to the rythym of a too fast world that meshes so well with my writing style.
anyway, these days i just settle for coffee (stupid laws) and coffee houses manage to supply the best of both worlds for me.
yes, i know coffee houses are overly trendy yuppie hang outs. i don't care. those fucking yuppies give me what i need to write.
how fucking scary is that?
anyway, i am now midway through episode ten. so in honor of my recently refound muse, i give you episode nine, in which our young narrator finds himself in an awkward situation. welcome back to the Adventures of Hunter Cartwright.
(insert wild applause here)
Nine
Brilliant burst of golden luminescence, quick chemical hiss, the sharp stink of sulfur, all gone before the mind can even really register them. The light has faded to a quivering yellow, a tiny flame that stutters madly, always on the brink of extinction. It is suddenly joined by a steady red glow and the thick, rich scent of tobacco.
I draw raggedly on what feels like my first cigarette in ages as I shake out the match. My hands have developed a juddering palsy, an erratic twitch that has already caused me to go through four matches just to light this one cigarette.
I pull the fragrant smoke deep into my lungs, feeling its heat deep in my chest. After a few more drags, the tobacco begins to have its desired effect, and I feel the tension in my back and brow ease slightly.
I keep my eyes down cast, focused on the nervously tapping fingers of my right hand upon my knee, as I rapidly, mechanically smoke. When I begin to feel my lips singe, I pull another cigarette from my case and light it off the ember of the one still clenched between my lips, like some common street corner hustler. I donÕt care. All that matters now is the sweet narcotics effect on my system.
It is not till the third cigarette that the nervous tapping of my fingers finally ceases, and I raise my eyes to the room about me.
I am seated in a comfortable arm chair placed perpendicular to a large fireplace. The coals in the grate our banked, giving a cheerless crimson glow and a slow baking heat. There are no windows, the only light coming from the fireplace and a few low oriental lamps, darkly shaded. The walls of the salon are thickly draped with heavy tapestries, also apparently of oriental origin, and are hung with a casualness that only serves to reinforce their thoughtful arrangement. The floor is piled deeply with soft rugs, creating an uneven, slightly giving surface. Next to me is a small table, on which is my cigarette case, a simple silver thing purchased shortly after I began attending Miskatonic University, a box of matches, an oddly carved, stone ash tray, and an untouched glass of very fine scotch. There are only two other pieces of furniture in the room: another arm chair on the other side of the table, and a low divan directly across from me. Only the divan is occupied.
With a faint sigh, whether of trepidation or relief I cannot honestly say, that fills the air before me with lazy blue smoke, I finally bring my attention to the rooms sole other occupant.
Sprawled languorously across the plush covering of the low coach, head lolling easily over one raised end, left foot hanging easily over the lower end. the right slowly tracing circles on the piled carpets, lies Stacia Brennar. In one hand she dangles a cigarette, occasionally raising it to her lips in a graceful, practiced gesture, to draw lazily and deeply upon it. I find myself focusing on the contrast of delicate white fingers to neat blue nails to slim white cigarette, as they rise and fall. It is a futile attempt, as I soon find my eyes wandering to other, more enticing views.
Her hair, silky smooth, falls lightly away from her face and over the edge of the divan. In the intimate red light cast by coals and shaded lamps, a red light that seems to be swallowed by the dark wall and floor coverings, making the room seem even smaller then it is, her hair is black. Every now and again, she shifts, stretching her sprawled form further and causing the light to flow along those silken strands, picking out brown and red highlights that flow smoothly back to black. I find myself fascinated by that play of color and light, but soon enough my eyes wander again.
Her fascinating eyes are thankfully closed, though this in no way diminishes from the beauty of her features. The dim light of the room makes her ivory skin seem almost luminescent, and a small smile plays slowly and easily across her tiny pink lips. There is a look of utter contentment about her face, one that tugs wrenchingly at my heart as I fleetingly wonder at its cause.
As I watch, she once again brings her cigarette to her lips, opening them just enough to fit the tiny white tube into her mouth, inhales slowly and deeply, an action that causes fascinating things to happen at her chest. I feel the heat rise into my face with a furious rush as I try in vain not to stare. Her smooth white shoulders lower into the divan, pushing her chest up, and causing the tight white material of her scandalous corset to push the tops of her soft, full breasts closer together and further out. It is not till I feel that insistent stirring in my loins again that I can manage to tear my eyes away, forcing them to move lower down her heavenly figure.
This does not improve matters in the slightest.
Instead, I find myself now faced with yet more of her smooth pale stomach exposed as the corset rides up on her torso. My eyes greedily, and uncontrollably, follow the movement of the corset up her soft flesh till I find my gaze dipping into the dark shadow of her naval. The heat in my loins rises again, more insistent now, and I drop my eyes again.
Directly to the black stockinged leg, idly tracing circles across the piled rugs. She is not wearing shoes, and I can clearly see each small toe on her tiny foot. I notice the dark color of her toenails beneath the thin black material, and imagine they too must bear that same metallic blue color as her finger nails.
For some reason, it is this image above all others that does me in, and I find myself uncontrollably aroused.
ÒHowÕs the new suit?Ó
The question shocks me out of my voyeuristic inclinations so suddenly that I actually rise up out of the chair. My gaze quickly darts to Ms. Brennars face, where I am confronted by those stunning green eyes and a much more amused smile playing across her lips.
I find myself blushing furiously, the heat in my face almost unbearable. For the first time in my life, I find myself in desperate need of a drink. I grab hastily for the scotch placed next to me on the table, jostling the glass alarmingly before my fingers close around it. I throw back the drink in one swift motion - that immediately results in an explosive bout of choked coughing.
Her laughter rings out at this. A sound akin to the bells on Christmas morning, to the merry cries of children at play. Even as the heat in my face grows, and the heat in my loins diminishes, I am enraptured by the sound of her laughter.
ÒYou really are too cute.Ó she manages after a long peal of laughter that leaves me feeling both embarrassed and enthralled.
I fight desperately to regain my composure, finally managing a red faced, croaking reply.
ÒVery >ahem< very good thank you. I have never owned anything this nice. It was very kind of Prof. Cartwright to make a loan of his clothing to me.Ó
She laughs again at this, a quick, short sound that deepens the color of my face.
ÒItÕs not a loan. You couldnÕt possibly think one of HunterÕs suits would fit you?Ó
I am shamed deeply by this, and cast my eyes downward in an attempt to conceal the hurt in them.
ÒI meant to say, theyÕre a gift.Ó her tone is softer now, though there is still the tiniest hint of humor to it. And something else that I almost believe could be affection.
ÒHunter attends a great deal of silly formal events, and has found that many of his students often lack the cash to dress in the proper fashion for them. I think he sees it as part of your education. Sort of like giving you a book to complete a lesson.
ÒThen again, its Hunter. Who the hell can figure out what heÕs thinking.Ó
She smiles fondly at this, a slightly distant look in her haunting eyes. A sharp stab of jealousy runs through me, and then dissipates in the face of the flood of self pity and loathing that follows.
ÒSo, um, is what youÕre wearing the proper fashion at these functions?Ó
This time her smile lights up her whole face, showing off her perfect pearl white teeth, and causing her eyes to dance from green to gray to blue and back again.
ÒCutie, whatever I wear is ÔproperÕ.Ó
She sits upright, causing her skirt to ride up her legs and flashing a dizzying bit of creamy white thigh over the top of her stockings as she swings her leg off the side of the divan. She leans towards me as she comes about, an action that expose the soft rounded curves of her breasts to my wide eyes. Her own eyes lock on mine as she does this, and I find myself torn between the wanton desire to lower my gaze to the sight below and the hypnotic pull of those stunning, brilliant, dancing orbs.
Her mouth opens a fraction and she slowly extends her small pink tongue, running it deliberately and lightly over her lips. Her eyes dance merrily with amusement, brazenness, and what I can only assume is lust. It has suddenly become very hard to breathe, the best I can seem to manage are short, rapid inhalations. I am starting to get light headed, whether from the lack of oxygen, the effects of the alcohol, or the influence of the girl, I cannot tell.
Her face is now only inches from mine. Her eyes fill the entirety of my vision. I can smell the soft scent of lilac, of sweat, and of her. I have stopped breathing entirely. She parts her lips again, I can feel her warm breath on my own face.
ÒDonÕt you think so?Ó she asks in the faintest, most seductive whisper.
She blinks once slowly, eclipsing eyes that seem the size of worlds, that could be worlds. the only worlds I ever wish to know anymore. It seems as though I have been gazing into those chimerical green pools for an eternity. I can almost feel her lips on my own, and weary muscles shudder once through me in anticipation.
And then the solid walnut door to the salon burst open.
anyway, these days i just settle for coffee (stupid laws) and coffee houses manage to supply the best of both worlds for me.
yes, i know coffee houses are overly trendy yuppie hang outs. i don't care. those fucking yuppies give me what i need to write.
how fucking scary is that?
anyway, i am now midway through episode ten. so in honor of my recently refound muse, i give you episode nine, in which our young narrator finds himself in an awkward situation. welcome back to the Adventures of Hunter Cartwright.
(insert wild applause here)
Nine
Brilliant burst of golden luminescence, quick chemical hiss, the sharp stink of sulfur, all gone before the mind can even really register them. The light has faded to a quivering yellow, a tiny flame that stutters madly, always on the brink of extinction. It is suddenly joined by a steady red glow and the thick, rich scent of tobacco.
I draw raggedly on what feels like my first cigarette in ages as I shake out the match. My hands have developed a juddering palsy, an erratic twitch that has already caused me to go through four matches just to light this one cigarette.
I pull the fragrant smoke deep into my lungs, feeling its heat deep in my chest. After a few more drags, the tobacco begins to have its desired effect, and I feel the tension in my back and brow ease slightly.
I keep my eyes down cast, focused on the nervously tapping fingers of my right hand upon my knee, as I rapidly, mechanically smoke. When I begin to feel my lips singe, I pull another cigarette from my case and light it off the ember of the one still clenched between my lips, like some common street corner hustler. I donÕt care. All that matters now is the sweet narcotics effect on my system.
It is not till the third cigarette that the nervous tapping of my fingers finally ceases, and I raise my eyes to the room about me.
I am seated in a comfortable arm chair placed perpendicular to a large fireplace. The coals in the grate our banked, giving a cheerless crimson glow and a slow baking heat. There are no windows, the only light coming from the fireplace and a few low oriental lamps, darkly shaded. The walls of the salon are thickly draped with heavy tapestries, also apparently of oriental origin, and are hung with a casualness that only serves to reinforce their thoughtful arrangement. The floor is piled deeply with soft rugs, creating an uneven, slightly giving surface. Next to me is a small table, on which is my cigarette case, a simple silver thing purchased shortly after I began attending Miskatonic University, a box of matches, an oddly carved, stone ash tray, and an untouched glass of very fine scotch. There are only two other pieces of furniture in the room: another arm chair on the other side of the table, and a low divan directly across from me. Only the divan is occupied.
With a faint sigh, whether of trepidation or relief I cannot honestly say, that fills the air before me with lazy blue smoke, I finally bring my attention to the rooms sole other occupant.
Sprawled languorously across the plush covering of the low coach, head lolling easily over one raised end, left foot hanging easily over the lower end. the right slowly tracing circles on the piled carpets, lies Stacia Brennar. In one hand she dangles a cigarette, occasionally raising it to her lips in a graceful, practiced gesture, to draw lazily and deeply upon it. I find myself focusing on the contrast of delicate white fingers to neat blue nails to slim white cigarette, as they rise and fall. It is a futile attempt, as I soon find my eyes wandering to other, more enticing views.
Her hair, silky smooth, falls lightly away from her face and over the edge of the divan. In the intimate red light cast by coals and shaded lamps, a red light that seems to be swallowed by the dark wall and floor coverings, making the room seem even smaller then it is, her hair is black. Every now and again, she shifts, stretching her sprawled form further and causing the light to flow along those silken strands, picking out brown and red highlights that flow smoothly back to black. I find myself fascinated by that play of color and light, but soon enough my eyes wander again.
Her fascinating eyes are thankfully closed, though this in no way diminishes from the beauty of her features. The dim light of the room makes her ivory skin seem almost luminescent, and a small smile plays slowly and easily across her tiny pink lips. There is a look of utter contentment about her face, one that tugs wrenchingly at my heart as I fleetingly wonder at its cause.
As I watch, she once again brings her cigarette to her lips, opening them just enough to fit the tiny white tube into her mouth, inhales slowly and deeply, an action that causes fascinating things to happen at her chest. I feel the heat rise into my face with a furious rush as I try in vain not to stare. Her smooth white shoulders lower into the divan, pushing her chest up, and causing the tight white material of her scandalous corset to push the tops of her soft, full breasts closer together and further out. It is not till I feel that insistent stirring in my loins again that I can manage to tear my eyes away, forcing them to move lower down her heavenly figure.
This does not improve matters in the slightest.
Instead, I find myself now faced with yet more of her smooth pale stomach exposed as the corset rides up on her torso. My eyes greedily, and uncontrollably, follow the movement of the corset up her soft flesh till I find my gaze dipping into the dark shadow of her naval. The heat in my loins rises again, more insistent now, and I drop my eyes again.
Directly to the black stockinged leg, idly tracing circles across the piled rugs. She is not wearing shoes, and I can clearly see each small toe on her tiny foot. I notice the dark color of her toenails beneath the thin black material, and imagine they too must bear that same metallic blue color as her finger nails.
For some reason, it is this image above all others that does me in, and I find myself uncontrollably aroused.
ÒHowÕs the new suit?Ó
The question shocks me out of my voyeuristic inclinations so suddenly that I actually rise up out of the chair. My gaze quickly darts to Ms. Brennars face, where I am confronted by those stunning green eyes and a much more amused smile playing across her lips.
I find myself blushing furiously, the heat in my face almost unbearable. For the first time in my life, I find myself in desperate need of a drink. I grab hastily for the scotch placed next to me on the table, jostling the glass alarmingly before my fingers close around it. I throw back the drink in one swift motion - that immediately results in an explosive bout of choked coughing.
Her laughter rings out at this. A sound akin to the bells on Christmas morning, to the merry cries of children at play. Even as the heat in my face grows, and the heat in my loins diminishes, I am enraptured by the sound of her laughter.
ÒYou really are too cute.Ó she manages after a long peal of laughter that leaves me feeling both embarrassed and enthralled.
I fight desperately to regain my composure, finally managing a red faced, croaking reply.
ÒVery >ahem< very good thank you. I have never owned anything this nice. It was very kind of Prof. Cartwright to make a loan of his clothing to me.Ó
She laughs again at this, a quick, short sound that deepens the color of my face.
ÒItÕs not a loan. You couldnÕt possibly think one of HunterÕs suits would fit you?Ó
I am shamed deeply by this, and cast my eyes downward in an attempt to conceal the hurt in them.
ÒI meant to say, theyÕre a gift.Ó her tone is softer now, though there is still the tiniest hint of humor to it. And something else that I almost believe could be affection.
ÒHunter attends a great deal of silly formal events, and has found that many of his students often lack the cash to dress in the proper fashion for them. I think he sees it as part of your education. Sort of like giving you a book to complete a lesson.
ÒThen again, its Hunter. Who the hell can figure out what heÕs thinking.Ó
She smiles fondly at this, a slightly distant look in her haunting eyes. A sharp stab of jealousy runs through me, and then dissipates in the face of the flood of self pity and loathing that follows.
ÒSo, um, is what youÕre wearing the proper fashion at these functions?Ó
This time her smile lights up her whole face, showing off her perfect pearl white teeth, and causing her eyes to dance from green to gray to blue and back again.
ÒCutie, whatever I wear is ÔproperÕ.Ó
She sits upright, causing her skirt to ride up her legs and flashing a dizzying bit of creamy white thigh over the top of her stockings as she swings her leg off the side of the divan. She leans towards me as she comes about, an action that expose the soft rounded curves of her breasts to my wide eyes. Her own eyes lock on mine as she does this, and I find myself torn between the wanton desire to lower my gaze to the sight below and the hypnotic pull of those stunning, brilliant, dancing orbs.
Her mouth opens a fraction and she slowly extends her small pink tongue, running it deliberately and lightly over her lips. Her eyes dance merrily with amusement, brazenness, and what I can only assume is lust. It has suddenly become very hard to breathe, the best I can seem to manage are short, rapid inhalations. I am starting to get light headed, whether from the lack of oxygen, the effects of the alcohol, or the influence of the girl, I cannot tell.
Her face is now only inches from mine. Her eyes fill the entirety of my vision. I can smell the soft scent of lilac, of sweat, and of her. I have stopped breathing entirely. She parts her lips again, I can feel her warm breath on my own face.
ÒDonÕt you think so?Ó she asks in the faintest, most seductive whisper.
She blinks once slowly, eclipsing eyes that seem the size of worlds, that could be worlds. the only worlds I ever wish to know anymore. It seems as though I have been gazing into those chimerical green pools for an eternity. I can almost feel her lips on my own, and weary muscles shudder once through me in anticipation.
And then the solid walnut door to the salon burst open.
well, this may have been the worst week of my life. is there anything better then having the girl you adore call you on her birthday to point out that no one cares (despite the fact that you left her a message at midnight the night before congratulating her on the day of her birth), complain about how much the new boyfriend sucks (while also maintaining that you still suck more), and then being told that while it was sweet of you to offer to take her out she will refuse because she wouldn't want to hurt her current jerk boyfriend(while casually ignoring the four seperate occassions she ditched you to go off with her previous ex when she was dating you). the worst part is not that this happened, but that i will happily go through this again thanks to rules i set for myself long before i realized how much people can really suck.
damn five year old optimism.
okay, so i have just decided to skip the seventh installment untill i can take the time to overhaul the entire thing. fortunately, it does not in anyway affect the over all story (at least not yet) so that for those of you who have been dilligently reading this bizarre little tale of mine no important iformation has been lost. for those of you who haven't read the first six installments: why the hell not? they're all in past journal entries, go back and read them.
without further ado, i present to you the eighth installment in the stunning Adventures of Hunter Cartwright.
Eight
Numb. (nonononotamannotaman) Soft tingling. (nonononotananimalnotananimal) Stronger. (notamannotananimal) Light stinging. (donÕtlookdonÕtlookdonÕtlook) Faint scent of decay. (nonononono) Painful prickling. (badbadbadbadbad) Smell of corruption. (runrunrunrunrun) Pins and needles crashing along nerves. (NOW)
And then I am turning, no longer in shock, turning to run, knowing it is too late. I have just gotten my first foot off the ground when I feel those obscenely long fingers grip my shoulder. I keep turning, praying for the second time tonight, praying without faith (donÕtlookdonÕtlookdonÕtlook) without hope. I saw something (nonononono)...
His other hand clamps onto my side, long fingers easily fitting around my paunch, and suddenly I am spinning, flipping, flying through the air. I come down heavily on my backside, air rushing from me like a bellows, pain spiking in my back and my head.
The world swims around me. I am so tired of being afraid. Still too terrified to stop.
There is a noise. An awful, horrid noise. The dry crack of bone breaking mixed with something wet and slurping. I turn my head in time to watch a severed, badly decayed arm drop to the floor. Something out of sight (donÕtlookdonÕtlookdonÕtlook) picks it back up off the floor, and then there is more noise. Crunching, slurping noise.
Darkness.
Wet sounds. Writhing white limbs. Impossible curves and angles. Eyes. Yellow and black eyes. Too many. Ghost image outlines, barely perceived. Claws. Talons. Tentacles. Hands. Grasping, reaching, squirming hands.
ÒSir?Ó
Darkness.
The vague impression of something alien, terrifying. And then it is gone.
ÒAre you all right? Sir?Ó
The voice is unfamiliar. It is low and raspy and grating. Almost as if the words were being formed by organs only approximating vocal chords. Organs that were never really meant to utter human speech.
I open my eyes.
Standing over me, a rather blank look in those hideous yellow eyes, is the emaciated giant I had been so terrified of. His soiled suit looks even more rumpled then I recall, and there is a smell about him. A sort of sour goatish scent.
ÒMy apologies for the rough treatment. Sir. It seems are recent guests are functional even when mostly dismembered. If I hadnÕt acted as quickly as I did it would have been sure to get you. Sir.Ó
There is no tone, no inflection in his voice, no sign of any emotion, let alone regret. Oddly though, through the strange raspy tones, I detect a strong New England accent. The kind one only finds in the most rural and backwoods parts of the area anymore.
ÒI am sure Master Cartwright will be quite pleased at acquiring one of the masks intact. Sir.Ó
He gestures with his right hand, while using his left to help me to a sitting position. I look dizzily at the place he indicated and see one of those awful grinning porcelain masks lying on the thick carpet of the hall. Around it there is a dark stain, but no other sign of the corpse thing that once bore it.
ÒWha...Ó, a wave of nausea moves through me, and I can feel the painful throbbing of a lump forming on the back of my head. ÒWhat happened to it?Ó
Those glinting animal eyes regard me emptily, ÒIt was dealt with. Sir.Ó
I open my mouth to ask how exactly it was dealt with, but another wave of nausea courses through me, and I find myself occupied battling with my gorge for the next few moments. I manage to maintain my dignity, but decide it is perhaps wiser not to continue my inquiry.
ÒAh, Mr. Derleth, we were wondering what had become of you. Feared you might have gotten lost in the old...Ó, he pauses, as if just noticing the state of affairs, ÒWhy, whatever has happened here?Ó
I turn my head, causing my vision to spin and tilt wildly. When I can focus again, it is to the image of Hunter walking rapidly across the room from a door in the far wall I had not noticed. I also finally register the state of the room I am seated in.
Every piece of furniture is shattered, and seems to be coated in some type of strange ichor. The carpet on the floor is torn and gouged, as well as bearing spatters of the strange substance, along with other, darker stains. The walls bear the same decorations as the carpet, thick trails of the slimy substance tracing along the lattice of cracks and holes in the plaster. It looks as if some giant slug had run rampant in the place.
Before I know it, Hunter is beside me again, hands moving rapidly and competently over the back of my head, pulling wide my eyes. He examines me for but a moment, pronounces, ÒMild Concussion.Ó, and then turns to the albino beside me.
ÒIt seems I was not as thorough as I should have been in routing our unexpected visitors. Sir. I take full responsibility for Mr. DerlethÕs present condition. However, it should be noted that he has managed to gain one of the masks you so desired. Sir.Ó
At this, HunterÕs eyes light up, and he eagerly takes hold of the object on the hallway carpet. He spins the mask about, holding it in both hands by its edges, and brings it up to his face as if he means to place it there. His eyes dart back and forth as he studies whatever is on the inside surface of the porcelain mask, a small smile playing about his lips.
ÒAh yes,Ó he murmurs to himself, ÒMuch as I had suspected. However, this level of craftsmanship was far beyond the talents of Professor Mortum last I knew. It seems he has either had himself an epiphany in the study of electronic control systems, or he has taken on a partner.Ó
The smile is still playing about his lips as he lowers the mask from his gaze, a vacant, far away look in his vibrant eyes. He says nothing for a minute, and I realize that I am witnessing the greatest mind of our time at work. Finally, his eyes refocus, and he returns from the airy plains of deep thought to the world about him.
ÒVictor, when you are finished taking care of the recent unpleasantness, could you bring my files on that German inventor to me. The one who made quite a showing with his mechanical man last year at the Paris convention. We shall be in the salon, in the meanwhile.Ó
He says this casually, as if it were a matter of no real import, that strange humor still playing about his voice.
ÒOf course. Sir. Will you be taking your tea at that time also?Ó
The ease with which these two seem to be accepting all the recent events lends an air of unreality to everything about me. For a moment, I am almost certain that I am merely suffering from some fevered dream. A dream that I am bound to wake from any moment.
ÒYes, I should think tea would be perfect at that time.Ó
And then Hunter is helping me to my feet, and leading me back through the doorway into the waiting hall. There are strange sounds coming from the room we had just left, the room which now contains no one but the exceedingly tall, albino Victor. I try to turn back to investigate the sounds, some part of my mind seeming to recognize them, while another screams for me to flee, but Hunter has his arm around my shoulder and the two of us move steadily away from the already fading noises.
damn five year old optimism.
okay, so i have just decided to skip the seventh installment untill i can take the time to overhaul the entire thing. fortunately, it does not in anyway affect the over all story (at least not yet) so that for those of you who have been dilligently reading this bizarre little tale of mine no important iformation has been lost. for those of you who haven't read the first six installments: why the hell not? they're all in past journal entries, go back and read them.
without further ado, i present to you the eighth installment in the stunning Adventures of Hunter Cartwright.
Eight
Numb. (nonononotamannotaman) Soft tingling. (nonononotananimalnotananimal) Stronger. (notamannotananimal) Light stinging. (donÕtlookdonÕtlookdonÕtlook) Faint scent of decay. (nonononono) Painful prickling. (badbadbadbadbad) Smell of corruption. (runrunrunrunrun) Pins and needles crashing along nerves. (NOW)
And then I am turning, no longer in shock, turning to run, knowing it is too late. I have just gotten my first foot off the ground when I feel those obscenely long fingers grip my shoulder. I keep turning, praying for the second time tonight, praying without faith (donÕtlookdonÕtlookdonÕtlook) without hope. I saw something (nonononono)...
His other hand clamps onto my side, long fingers easily fitting around my paunch, and suddenly I am spinning, flipping, flying through the air. I come down heavily on my backside, air rushing from me like a bellows, pain spiking in my back and my head.
The world swims around me. I am so tired of being afraid. Still too terrified to stop.
There is a noise. An awful, horrid noise. The dry crack of bone breaking mixed with something wet and slurping. I turn my head in time to watch a severed, badly decayed arm drop to the floor. Something out of sight (donÕtlookdonÕtlookdonÕtlook) picks it back up off the floor, and then there is more noise. Crunching, slurping noise.
Darkness.
Wet sounds. Writhing white limbs. Impossible curves and angles. Eyes. Yellow and black eyes. Too many. Ghost image outlines, barely perceived. Claws. Talons. Tentacles. Hands. Grasping, reaching, squirming hands.
ÒSir?Ó
Darkness.
The vague impression of something alien, terrifying. And then it is gone.
ÒAre you all right? Sir?Ó
The voice is unfamiliar. It is low and raspy and grating. Almost as if the words were being formed by organs only approximating vocal chords. Organs that were never really meant to utter human speech.
I open my eyes.
Standing over me, a rather blank look in those hideous yellow eyes, is the emaciated giant I had been so terrified of. His soiled suit looks even more rumpled then I recall, and there is a smell about him. A sort of sour goatish scent.
ÒMy apologies for the rough treatment. Sir. It seems are recent guests are functional even when mostly dismembered. If I hadnÕt acted as quickly as I did it would have been sure to get you. Sir.Ó
There is no tone, no inflection in his voice, no sign of any emotion, let alone regret. Oddly though, through the strange raspy tones, I detect a strong New England accent. The kind one only finds in the most rural and backwoods parts of the area anymore.
ÒI am sure Master Cartwright will be quite pleased at acquiring one of the masks intact. Sir.Ó
He gestures with his right hand, while using his left to help me to a sitting position. I look dizzily at the place he indicated and see one of those awful grinning porcelain masks lying on the thick carpet of the hall. Around it there is a dark stain, but no other sign of the corpse thing that once bore it.
ÒWha...Ó, a wave of nausea moves through me, and I can feel the painful throbbing of a lump forming on the back of my head. ÒWhat happened to it?Ó
Those glinting animal eyes regard me emptily, ÒIt was dealt with. Sir.Ó
I open my mouth to ask how exactly it was dealt with, but another wave of nausea courses through me, and I find myself occupied battling with my gorge for the next few moments. I manage to maintain my dignity, but decide it is perhaps wiser not to continue my inquiry.
ÒAh, Mr. Derleth, we were wondering what had become of you. Feared you might have gotten lost in the old...Ó, he pauses, as if just noticing the state of affairs, ÒWhy, whatever has happened here?Ó
I turn my head, causing my vision to spin and tilt wildly. When I can focus again, it is to the image of Hunter walking rapidly across the room from a door in the far wall I had not noticed. I also finally register the state of the room I am seated in.
Every piece of furniture is shattered, and seems to be coated in some type of strange ichor. The carpet on the floor is torn and gouged, as well as bearing spatters of the strange substance, along with other, darker stains. The walls bear the same decorations as the carpet, thick trails of the slimy substance tracing along the lattice of cracks and holes in the plaster. It looks as if some giant slug had run rampant in the place.
Before I know it, Hunter is beside me again, hands moving rapidly and competently over the back of my head, pulling wide my eyes. He examines me for but a moment, pronounces, ÒMild Concussion.Ó, and then turns to the albino beside me.
ÒIt seems I was not as thorough as I should have been in routing our unexpected visitors. Sir. I take full responsibility for Mr. DerlethÕs present condition. However, it should be noted that he has managed to gain one of the masks you so desired. Sir.Ó
At this, HunterÕs eyes light up, and he eagerly takes hold of the object on the hallway carpet. He spins the mask about, holding it in both hands by its edges, and brings it up to his face as if he means to place it there. His eyes dart back and forth as he studies whatever is on the inside surface of the porcelain mask, a small smile playing about his lips.
ÒAh yes,Ó he murmurs to himself, ÒMuch as I had suspected. However, this level of craftsmanship was far beyond the talents of Professor Mortum last I knew. It seems he has either had himself an epiphany in the study of electronic control systems, or he has taken on a partner.Ó
The smile is still playing about his lips as he lowers the mask from his gaze, a vacant, far away look in his vibrant eyes. He says nothing for a minute, and I realize that I am witnessing the greatest mind of our time at work. Finally, his eyes refocus, and he returns from the airy plains of deep thought to the world about him.
ÒVictor, when you are finished taking care of the recent unpleasantness, could you bring my files on that German inventor to me. The one who made quite a showing with his mechanical man last year at the Paris convention. We shall be in the salon, in the meanwhile.Ó
He says this casually, as if it were a matter of no real import, that strange humor still playing about his voice.
ÒOf course. Sir. Will you be taking your tea at that time also?Ó
The ease with which these two seem to be accepting all the recent events lends an air of unreality to everything about me. For a moment, I am almost certain that I am merely suffering from some fevered dream. A dream that I am bound to wake from any moment.
ÒYes, I should think tea would be perfect at that time.Ó
And then Hunter is helping me to my feet, and leading me back through the doorway into the waiting hall. There are strange sounds coming from the room we had just left, the room which now contains no one but the exceedingly tall, albino Victor. I try to turn back to investigate the sounds, some part of my mind seeming to recognize them, while another screams for me to flee, but Hunter has his arm around my shoulder and the two of us move steadily away from the already fading noises.
went out and foraged with the racoons on campus last night. after a few perfunctory sniffs and some haughty glances they just sort of accepted me. not very good conversationalists are racoons, but they are fairly calming.
i do not like October anymore. once it was my favorite of months for Samhain and autumn and the first snow fall of the year... now it just reminds me of too much i don't wish to recall.
its her birthday in two days. the first one since i lost her nearly a year ago. how do you let go of someone after so long together? how much of an ass was i that she did so quickly?
so in honor of my first bought of depression of the season i have poetry. may all you learn from the stupidity of me and not find your path towards enlightenment suddenly and awfully thrown by that most simple and oft times necessary of things - lonliness.
christ i'm getting soft in my dotage.
Night air bites with the first real chill of fall. Steady chirp of crickets worshipping their eldritch gods. Moisture hangs heavy in the air, giving a barely noticeable, yet obviously present, mass to that which we think of as empty.
A sound.
The soft, amused screech of a pair of students drifting across the Oval. Their steps ring out for a moment in a frenzied rush, then die, as their brief excitement wanes and their rapid steps fade beneath the rising cries of the crickets.
The crickets seem to sound in shifts. A constant rising and falling of tantalizing sound. Over there, a chorus with a basso tone falls silent, while nearer the tentative timbre of a soprano cry steadies to a melodic call.
An ant, sluggish and wary moves within the shadow I cast, pausing for the breifest of moments before before it quickly dives into the deeper dark. Plunging forward in what could be a parody of the fate that awaits it in the coming winters dark.
I breathe deep, tasting the cool wet air, then watching as my lifes warmth hangs upon the tiniest of water particles till entropy and the hungry cold steal its energy and dissipate the form my life has breathed.
Perhaps this is how the soul appears; slipping away silently and slowly, fogged breath by fogged breath, till there is nothing left inside.
As if fate sought to soothe my melancholy, I look up in time to see two young lovers pause beneath the comforting radiance of a lamp to share a breif embrace. For a moment I can imagine the warmth, the fleeting touch, stolen touch of soft flesh on soft flesh, that mutual sharing of warmth and comfort and trust.
I think of her.
I can feel her soft, moist lips like a shadow upon mine. The phantom warmth, the half seen grin as she pulls away, the sense of joy dancing behind sparkling, beautiful eyes.
And then it passes, and the new/old ache of loss replaces the memory of her.
I sigh as I stand, watching again as the night gives shape and form to warm breath, and then takes away that shape and form.
Takes away another piece of my soul.
i do not like October anymore. once it was my favorite of months for Samhain and autumn and the first snow fall of the year... now it just reminds me of too much i don't wish to recall.
its her birthday in two days. the first one since i lost her nearly a year ago. how do you let go of someone after so long together? how much of an ass was i that she did so quickly?
so in honor of my first bought of depression of the season i have poetry. may all you learn from the stupidity of me and not find your path towards enlightenment suddenly and awfully thrown by that most simple and oft times necessary of things - lonliness.
christ i'm getting soft in my dotage.
Night air bites with the first real chill of fall. Steady chirp of crickets worshipping their eldritch gods. Moisture hangs heavy in the air, giving a barely noticeable, yet obviously present, mass to that which we think of as empty.
A sound.
The soft, amused screech of a pair of students drifting across the Oval. Their steps ring out for a moment in a frenzied rush, then die, as their brief excitement wanes and their rapid steps fade beneath the rising cries of the crickets.
The crickets seem to sound in shifts. A constant rising and falling of tantalizing sound. Over there, a chorus with a basso tone falls silent, while nearer the tentative timbre of a soprano cry steadies to a melodic call.
An ant, sluggish and wary moves within the shadow I cast, pausing for the breifest of moments before before it quickly dives into the deeper dark. Plunging forward in what could be a parody of the fate that awaits it in the coming winters dark.
I breathe deep, tasting the cool wet air, then watching as my lifes warmth hangs upon the tiniest of water particles till entropy and the hungry cold steal its energy and dissipate the form my life has breathed.
Perhaps this is how the soul appears; slipping away silently and slowly, fogged breath by fogged breath, till there is nothing left inside.
As if fate sought to soothe my melancholy, I look up in time to see two young lovers pause beneath the comforting radiance of a lamp to share a breif embrace. For a moment I can imagine the warmth, the fleeting touch, stolen touch of soft flesh on soft flesh, that mutual sharing of warmth and comfort and trust.
I think of her.
I can feel her soft, moist lips like a shadow upon mine. The phantom warmth, the half seen grin as she pulls away, the sense of joy dancing behind sparkling, beautiful eyes.
And then it passes, and the new/old ache of loss replaces the memory of her.
I sigh as I stand, watching again as the night gives shape and form to warm breath, and then takes away that shape and form.
Takes away another piece of my soul.
so, still arguing with myself over the necessity and language of the seventh installment of The Adventures of Hunter Cartwright. i'll figure it out eventually and post it here for all you readers of the bizarre.... and if you haven't read anything of the Adventures of Hunter Cartwright please see my past journal entries to witness the madness your life has been lacking.
in the meanwhile, i present to you what happens when you OD on vicodine and then go out for coffee in downtown Buffalo and write. oddly enough, this is a philosophy i subscribe to when in full possesion of my faculties also. cities are wonderful, brilliant, terrifying, LIVING things. go listen to what yours has to say.
City Life
Bass pounding.
Motion.
Constant white noise of too many conversations fighting for dominance in too small an area.
Images,
quick blurs,
occasional pauses framing eternally caught moments.
Blur.
Face, soft and tan turning to listen to its neighbor.
Movement,
color,
A car, blue and sleek caught in the headlights of a turning vehicle at the intersection.
Rising noise,
people moving,
A girl, hand raised to brush hair out of her face.
This is how my city speaks:
brief moments of peace framed forever against a constant violent background.
Staccato rythm continues.
Break it down and it becomes thrumming engines,
pounding foot steps,
raised voices.
All caught in a beat that is the cities heart, pumping its lifeblood of people through its roads and arteries.
They stop for food,
for money,
for work.
Nodal points that move the cities life and nourishment:
cash and energy and people.
So many people.
Like blood cells carrying the requirements of the city through a circulatory system no less complicated then our own.
People:
the lifeblood of an entity we do not recognize.
Parasites on the gods we created.
in the meanwhile, i present to you what happens when you OD on vicodine and then go out for coffee in downtown Buffalo and write. oddly enough, this is a philosophy i subscribe to when in full possesion of my faculties also. cities are wonderful, brilliant, terrifying, LIVING things. go listen to what yours has to say.
City Life
Bass pounding.
Motion.
Constant white noise of too many conversations fighting for dominance in too small an area.
Images,
quick blurs,
occasional pauses framing eternally caught moments.
Blur.
Face, soft and tan turning to listen to its neighbor.
Movement,
color,
A car, blue and sleek caught in the headlights of a turning vehicle at the intersection.
Rising noise,
people moving,
A girl, hand raised to brush hair out of her face.
This is how my city speaks:
brief moments of peace framed forever against a constant violent background.
Staccato rythm continues.
Break it down and it becomes thrumming engines,
pounding foot steps,
raised voices.
All caught in a beat that is the cities heart, pumping its lifeblood of people through its roads and arteries.
They stop for food,
for money,
for work.
Nodal points that move the cities life and nourishment:
cash and energy and people.
So many people.
Like blood cells carrying the requirements of the city through a circulatory system no less complicated then our own.
People:
the lifeblood of an entity we do not recognize.
Parasites on the gods we created.
well, here i am in ohio. class has just begun and i have barely managed to be sober a day, so college hasn't changed much since the last time i was in attendance. if any one could supply me with a decent watering hole and a good place to find a job here in columbus i would greatly appreciate that.
anyway, no Hunter Cartwright today. much to do and far too little time to do it in. maybe monday or tuesday when things have calmed a bit in my mad rush to adapt.
go read more.
anyway, no Hunter Cartwright today. much to do and far too little time to do it in. maybe monday or tuesday when things have calmed a bit in my mad rush to adapt.
go read more.
welcome back to the continuing Adventures of Hunter Cartwright. this weeks episode will be the last to be uploaded from the Great State of New York as next week i will be uploading them from the Not So Great As New York But Still Quite Nice State of Ohio. for all of you new to the exciting world of Prof. Cartwright, you can find the previous exploits by checking past journal entries. i swear they are all still there.
so without further ado (as i really should be packing instead of looking at terribly pretty girls and even prettier words) here is the latest episode in The Adventures of Hunter Cartwright.
Six
Heavy round face, its skin lightly tanned an uneven beige. Watery blue eyes. Unruly sandy hair, raggedly cut and unkempt. Patchy blond stubble standing out against the wide chin and broad jaw. Nose a bit too large for the face, obviously having been broken on at least one occasion. Thin, quivery lips, wrinkles already forming at the corners from the constant frown that plays upon them. A perpetually startled look stamped across the whole of the features.
I sigh at the face in the mirror.
There is a soft metallic groan. The sound of water falling onto a smooth stone surface. The sudden burst of warm air, stabilizing to a steady rising stream. Soft wispy tendrils of steam dance and caper in the uneven eddies of heated air. The forlorn face softens and wavers. Droplets of water congeal, hang suspended upon the features, and then run slowly down, gaining size and momentum as they meld with more and more tiny drops.
The image in the mirror finally vanishes behind steam and moisture, leaving just a blurry approximation of my features behind. I sigh again as I compulsively wash my hands for the fourth time. No matter how often I clean them, I cannot escape the feel of the corpse things touch.
Foetid air. Rancid stench. The sound of a thick bubble bursting. The cold viscous touch of burst optic tissue. The jagged feel of cold fingers pressed against soft, warm flesh.
I shudder spastically and scrub my hands harder.
There is a brief knock, and then the bathroom door is pushed briskly open. Miss Stacia Brennar enters, towels and fresh clothes over one slender arm. She has removed her coat, clad now in a form fitting white corset that displays more female flesh then I have ever seen. Slender pale arms flowing into bare ivory shoulders running down to the ripe curve of the top of her breasts. A faint pink line at the edge of the corset where it pushes into the soft, plump skin, broken only by the faint shadow of cleavage. Shimmering white laces, cross and re-cross the smooth silk garment, pulling tight against the even smoother flesh beneath. The thinnest strip of skin, as ivory and smooth as sculpted marble, peeks between white silk and black.
She giggles, the sound of a little girl watching the boys at play in the school yard. It suddenly occurs to me that I am clad only in my under shorts as I stare openly at the woman of my dreams. I grab a towel from the side of the marble basin, hot water still rushing into it, and desperately try to cover myself. I can feel the first serious stirrings in my loins, as well as the hot, tight flush in my face.
I... I... I...
She giggles again, furthering the rush of heat in my midsection as well as the heat in my face, and sets the clothing and towels on a short shelf beside the sink. She watches with those fascinating green eyes, humor openly dancing in them, as I struggle with my improvised covering. Her smile is wide and brilliant, and I catch a quick pearlescent flash of small, shapely teeth.
My arent we just the cutest thing. she says warmly, her soft throaty voice causing another sudden twitch in my loins. I cant remember the last time I saw a young man blush. We might just have to keep you around.
She laughs now, a sound that makes me think simultaneously of childhood innocence and carnal sin. She flashes those perfect teeth at me once more, face turned to look over her creamy bare shoulder, and exits as abruptly as she entered.
It takes me several moments to compose myself after her departure.
I exit the bathroom, the largest and most opulent I have ever seen, let alone been in, and step out into the hallway in my borrowed clothes. The cut of them is perfect, much better then my now ruined suit, in pale gray linen rather than my accustomed dark brown wool.
I had been in something of a state of shock when first led here by the recently departed Miss Brennar, recalling nothing except the faint pressure of her blue nailed fingers, the intoxicating scent of her hair, and the barest of blurry impressions concerning my surroundings. Now, free of the most delightful of distractions, I am quickly caught up by the sight of the artifacts lining the hallway I stand in.
Directly across from me is a case containing the original prototype for the cold fusion engine. On the wall beside the door I have just exited, is a huge metal mask, far too large for a human head, and made of a shimmery blue metal. It is carved with images of strange aquatic beings: frog like creatures with long tails balanced upright on two legs, a strange city drawn in angles that cause my eyes to blur and water, and a great tentacled being that causes my stomach to clench in fear and revulsion.
I turn away from the mask, shaking my head to clear it, and wander slowly down the hallway, taking in the many trophies and accomplishments of the worlds foremost inventor, explorer, and adventurer.
As I get towards the end of the hall, I begin to notice signs of damage and struggle. An overturned table. A broken glass display case. A collection of oddly carved figurines scattered across the thick carpet. Another door torn from its hinges.
I turn to look through the open door and see
(....)
a grotesquely tall man (nonononotaman) at least eight feet in height, and thin to the point of emaciation. His flesh is the white of a deep sea creature, or some cave dwelling amphibian which has never known the touch of the suns rays. He is dressed formally: black suit, white shirt, black tie, all hanging poorly and in desperate need of washing. Hair, lank and white, composed equally of greasy strands and dread locked snarls, hangs long and loose about his shoulders and face. His eyes are a disturbing shade of yellow, seeming as if they would be much more at home in the face of some low beast. His features are sharp and thin, much like everything about him.
Something ripples beneath the dingy, untucked shirt. Almost as if some small, stealthy animal (nonononotananimal) were running across his chest and around his stomach.
And then he is moving towards me in long uneven strides, reaching for me with large, grasping hands.
so without further ado (as i really should be packing instead of looking at terribly pretty girls and even prettier words) here is the latest episode in The Adventures of Hunter Cartwright.
Six
Heavy round face, its skin lightly tanned an uneven beige. Watery blue eyes. Unruly sandy hair, raggedly cut and unkempt. Patchy blond stubble standing out against the wide chin and broad jaw. Nose a bit too large for the face, obviously having been broken on at least one occasion. Thin, quivery lips, wrinkles already forming at the corners from the constant frown that plays upon them. A perpetually startled look stamped across the whole of the features.
I sigh at the face in the mirror.
There is a soft metallic groan. The sound of water falling onto a smooth stone surface. The sudden burst of warm air, stabilizing to a steady rising stream. Soft wispy tendrils of steam dance and caper in the uneven eddies of heated air. The forlorn face softens and wavers. Droplets of water congeal, hang suspended upon the features, and then run slowly down, gaining size and momentum as they meld with more and more tiny drops.
The image in the mirror finally vanishes behind steam and moisture, leaving just a blurry approximation of my features behind. I sigh again as I compulsively wash my hands for the fourth time. No matter how often I clean them, I cannot escape the feel of the corpse things touch.
Foetid air. Rancid stench. The sound of a thick bubble bursting. The cold viscous touch of burst optic tissue. The jagged feel of cold fingers pressed against soft, warm flesh.
I shudder spastically and scrub my hands harder.
There is a brief knock, and then the bathroom door is pushed briskly open. Miss Stacia Brennar enters, towels and fresh clothes over one slender arm. She has removed her coat, clad now in a form fitting white corset that displays more female flesh then I have ever seen. Slender pale arms flowing into bare ivory shoulders running down to the ripe curve of the top of her breasts. A faint pink line at the edge of the corset where it pushes into the soft, plump skin, broken only by the faint shadow of cleavage. Shimmering white laces, cross and re-cross the smooth silk garment, pulling tight against the even smoother flesh beneath. The thinnest strip of skin, as ivory and smooth as sculpted marble, peeks between white silk and black.
She giggles, the sound of a little girl watching the boys at play in the school yard. It suddenly occurs to me that I am clad only in my under shorts as I stare openly at the woman of my dreams. I grab a towel from the side of the marble basin, hot water still rushing into it, and desperately try to cover myself. I can feel the first serious stirrings in my loins, as well as the hot, tight flush in my face.
I... I... I...
She giggles again, furthering the rush of heat in my midsection as well as the heat in my face, and sets the clothing and towels on a short shelf beside the sink. She watches with those fascinating green eyes, humor openly dancing in them, as I struggle with my improvised covering. Her smile is wide and brilliant, and I catch a quick pearlescent flash of small, shapely teeth.
My arent we just the cutest thing. she says warmly, her soft throaty voice causing another sudden twitch in my loins. I cant remember the last time I saw a young man blush. We might just have to keep you around.
She laughs now, a sound that makes me think simultaneously of childhood innocence and carnal sin. She flashes those perfect teeth at me once more, face turned to look over her creamy bare shoulder, and exits as abruptly as she entered.
It takes me several moments to compose myself after her departure.
I exit the bathroom, the largest and most opulent I have ever seen, let alone been in, and step out into the hallway in my borrowed clothes. The cut of them is perfect, much better then my now ruined suit, in pale gray linen rather than my accustomed dark brown wool.
I had been in something of a state of shock when first led here by the recently departed Miss Brennar, recalling nothing except the faint pressure of her blue nailed fingers, the intoxicating scent of her hair, and the barest of blurry impressions concerning my surroundings. Now, free of the most delightful of distractions, I am quickly caught up by the sight of the artifacts lining the hallway I stand in.
Directly across from me is a case containing the original prototype for the cold fusion engine. On the wall beside the door I have just exited, is a huge metal mask, far too large for a human head, and made of a shimmery blue metal. It is carved with images of strange aquatic beings: frog like creatures with long tails balanced upright on two legs, a strange city drawn in angles that cause my eyes to blur and water, and a great tentacled being that causes my stomach to clench in fear and revulsion.
I turn away from the mask, shaking my head to clear it, and wander slowly down the hallway, taking in the many trophies and accomplishments of the worlds foremost inventor, explorer, and adventurer.
As I get towards the end of the hall, I begin to notice signs of damage and struggle. An overturned table. A broken glass display case. A collection of oddly carved figurines scattered across the thick carpet. Another door torn from its hinges.
I turn to look through the open door and see
(....)
a grotesquely tall man (nonononotaman) at least eight feet in height, and thin to the point of emaciation. His flesh is the white of a deep sea creature, or some cave dwelling amphibian which has never known the touch of the suns rays. He is dressed formally: black suit, white shirt, black tie, all hanging poorly and in desperate need of washing. Hair, lank and white, composed equally of greasy strands and dread locked snarls, hangs long and loose about his shoulders and face. His eyes are a disturbing shade of yellow, seeming as if they would be much more at home in the face of some low beast. His features are sharp and thin, much like everything about him.
Something ripples beneath the dingy, untucked shirt. Almost as if some small, stealthy animal (nonononotananimal) were running across his chest and around his stomach.
And then he is moving towards me in long uneven strides, reaching for me with large, grasping hands.
'lo all. another stupid double shift at the office this week. on the plus side, i only have a week more at this soul sucking job and then i am free... for a moment. which leads me to a warning for all our friendly Ohio members. it seems i have managed to get myself transferred to Ohio State, which means that i will be bringing my disease addled body to the wonderful city of Columbus. to everyone there: make sure you're up to date on your vacinations and seriously reconsider re-legalising lynching... you're probably gonna need both after dealing with me for a couple of weeks.
with that said, let me present to you this weeks exciting installment of The Adventures of Hunter Cartwright. in this episode we finally meet that sage of sages and hero of heros Professor Hunter Cartwright. read on, dear subscriber, and be awed by the greatest adventurer of any age.
Five
I am sure the boy would appreciate it if you pointed your weapon elsewhere, Miss Brennar.
There is laughter behind that voice. A sound that seems to imply there is humor in everything it addresses, even if its audience will never see it. A sound that supporters point to as a sign of confidence and good nature. A sound that what few detractors there are claim shows signs of hubris and disdain.
And it is a sound I have only heard once before, four years prior when I first enrolled at the prestigious Miskatonic University. A sound that rang through the words of a speech delivered to my freshmen class mates and I on our first day at university. A sound and a voice that has never left me.
I barely notice the goddess next to me lowering her gun, as I rise quickly and shakily to my feet. She may be the single most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on, but the man at the top of the stairs is a living legend. The most prominent figure of our times. Perhaps of all times.
I pointlessly try to straighten my torn coat, run a filth covered hand back through my disheveled hair, and begin to stutter out a speech I had been running through my head for the past week in preparation of this moment.
P...P...Professor Car... Cartwright... sir. I... I... its an hon... an hon...
He waves his hand as he lithely makes his way down the few steps.
No need for all that now. Its just Hunter, and we have a bit more pressing matters to attend to at the moment then formal greetings, wouldnt you say?
He smiles as he says this, thin pale lips tugged upward at the corners in an easy grin. His whole face is pale, seeming more so beneath the shocking red hair that is parted neatly away from his high, broad forehead. His eyes are green, but a dark green. The green of a forest seen at twilight.
There is something else about his eyes. Like his easy smile and his humor laced voice, there is a laughter that dances behind those piercing green orbs, but there is something else deeper then that. Something old. Something cold. Something... alien.
And then he is right beside me, long pale fingers light on my shoulder, and I am struck with amazement that I, I of all people, am standing with the great Prof. Cartwright at my side.
No! Not Prof. Cartwright. Hunter. He said to call him Hunter.
A boyish grin spreads across my round face, and I stare like an adoring puppy up into the eyes of my idol.
Hunter gives a brief squeeze to my shoulder, and then quickly kneels beside the partially headless corpse that so recently was astride me. A shudder runs through me at the thought, part in remembered horror, part in shame for my craven actions.
Hunter removes a pair of white cotton gloves from the inside pocket of his black suit coat, and pulls them deftly onto hands that are only slightly less pale. His long, lean fingers seem to dance over the body, poking here, prodding there, raising some tiny piece up to the light for a better examination. He then paws through the mess of spattered gray tissue and broken porcelain that was once the head of my assailant. Another shudder runs through me, but I refuse to turn away from this gruesome examination.
Another moments search, and then there is a faint sigh.
Stacia dear, I do so wish you were not such the shot you are. I really could have used one of the mask units intact.
I tried just taking out the limbs, she casually points with her gun, now held loosely in her right hand and still looking much too large for such a tiny, delicate limb, back to the top of the stairs. For the first time I notice that there is another one of the headless corpses sprawled across the landing, though this one also appears to be missing its right arm.
...it didnt seem to slow them down much. Why dont you check one of the ones you left Victor to take care of?
Hunter gives her a blank look. There wont be anything to examine when Victor is finished.
What does tha..., she starts to ask.
Victor is very thorough. he answers from over his shoulder. He is already working his way back up the stairs towards the ruined door.
Stacia Brennar, the vision of beauty to whom I have already given my heart, makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. The gun is gone now, I notice, though I have no idea where. She is dressed in a skirt that is scandalously short, being cut just above the knee, and a provocatively tight coat, the top buttons of which are open to reveal an expanse of ivory, softly curved flesh. My impression of her wavers for a moment. She is dressed as only a cabaret singer or a... a working girl would be. And then the moment is past, and I am once again enthralled by those magnificent eyes that have deigned to turn my way again.
She smiles prettily at me, soft pink lips curving delicately, and my heart beats faster.
Sorry about the gun. You must be the Professors latest protégé. Come on then, lets try and clean you up some.
She gently takes me by the shoulder, perfect, blue nailed fingers seeming out of place on my filthy, brown coat. An electric charge runs through me at the touch, and I feel myself blush, as she guides me up the steps. Together, we walk through the gaping doorway and into the home of Professor Hunter Cartwright.
Behind us, the night fills with the screeching cries of frenzied whippoorwills.
with that said, let me present to you this weeks exciting installment of The Adventures of Hunter Cartwright. in this episode we finally meet that sage of sages and hero of heros Professor Hunter Cartwright. read on, dear subscriber, and be awed by the greatest adventurer of any age.
Five
I am sure the boy would appreciate it if you pointed your weapon elsewhere, Miss Brennar.
There is laughter behind that voice. A sound that seems to imply there is humor in everything it addresses, even if its audience will never see it. A sound that supporters point to as a sign of confidence and good nature. A sound that what few detractors there are claim shows signs of hubris and disdain.
And it is a sound I have only heard once before, four years prior when I first enrolled at the prestigious Miskatonic University. A sound that rang through the words of a speech delivered to my freshmen class mates and I on our first day at university. A sound and a voice that has never left me.
I barely notice the goddess next to me lowering her gun, as I rise quickly and shakily to my feet. She may be the single most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on, but the man at the top of the stairs is a living legend. The most prominent figure of our times. Perhaps of all times.
I pointlessly try to straighten my torn coat, run a filth covered hand back through my disheveled hair, and begin to stutter out a speech I had been running through my head for the past week in preparation of this moment.
P...P...Professor Car... Cartwright... sir. I... I... its an hon... an hon...
He waves his hand as he lithely makes his way down the few steps.
No need for all that now. Its just Hunter, and we have a bit more pressing matters to attend to at the moment then formal greetings, wouldnt you say?
He smiles as he says this, thin pale lips tugged upward at the corners in an easy grin. His whole face is pale, seeming more so beneath the shocking red hair that is parted neatly away from his high, broad forehead. His eyes are green, but a dark green. The green of a forest seen at twilight.
There is something else about his eyes. Like his easy smile and his humor laced voice, there is a laughter that dances behind those piercing green orbs, but there is something else deeper then that. Something old. Something cold. Something... alien.
And then he is right beside me, long pale fingers light on my shoulder, and I am struck with amazement that I, I of all people, am standing with the great Prof. Cartwright at my side.
No! Not Prof. Cartwright. Hunter. He said to call him Hunter.
A boyish grin spreads across my round face, and I stare like an adoring puppy up into the eyes of my idol.
Hunter gives a brief squeeze to my shoulder, and then quickly kneels beside the partially headless corpse that so recently was astride me. A shudder runs through me at the thought, part in remembered horror, part in shame for my craven actions.
Hunter removes a pair of white cotton gloves from the inside pocket of his black suit coat, and pulls them deftly onto hands that are only slightly less pale. His long, lean fingers seem to dance over the body, poking here, prodding there, raising some tiny piece up to the light for a better examination. He then paws through the mess of spattered gray tissue and broken porcelain that was once the head of my assailant. Another shudder runs through me, but I refuse to turn away from this gruesome examination.
Another moments search, and then there is a faint sigh.
Stacia dear, I do so wish you were not such the shot you are. I really could have used one of the mask units intact.
I tried just taking out the limbs, she casually points with her gun, now held loosely in her right hand and still looking much too large for such a tiny, delicate limb, back to the top of the stairs. For the first time I notice that there is another one of the headless corpses sprawled across the landing, though this one also appears to be missing its right arm.
...it didnt seem to slow them down much. Why dont you check one of the ones you left Victor to take care of?
Hunter gives her a blank look. There wont be anything to examine when Victor is finished.
What does tha..., she starts to ask.
Victor is very thorough. he answers from over his shoulder. He is already working his way back up the stairs towards the ruined door.
Stacia Brennar, the vision of beauty to whom I have already given my heart, makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. The gun is gone now, I notice, though I have no idea where. She is dressed in a skirt that is scandalously short, being cut just above the knee, and a provocatively tight coat, the top buttons of which are open to reveal an expanse of ivory, softly curved flesh. My impression of her wavers for a moment. She is dressed as only a cabaret singer or a... a working girl would be. And then the moment is past, and I am once again enthralled by those magnificent eyes that have deigned to turn my way again.
She smiles prettily at me, soft pink lips curving delicately, and my heart beats faster.
Sorry about the gun. You must be the Professors latest protégé. Come on then, lets try and clean you up some.
She gently takes me by the shoulder, perfect, blue nailed fingers seeming out of place on my filthy, brown coat. An electric charge runs through me at the touch, and I feel myself blush, as she guides me up the steps. Together, we walk through the gaping doorway and into the home of Professor Hunter Cartwright.
Behind us, the night fills with the screeching cries of frenzied whippoorwills.
greetings once again from the cancerous depths of my poisoned mind. i know its a day early, but i am trapped here for shift number two of the day and i felt the need to do something worthwhile on company time... so here it is.
welcome to this weeks electro-textual installment in the continuing Adventures of Hunter Cartwright. this week, we catch our first glimpse of that most magnificent of heros and one of his most trusted, and toothsome, comrades.
Four
Black. The empty black eye of a gun bore giving way to the metallic black sheen of the gun itself. A million miles away from that black, unblinking eye, I can vaguely make out delicate white fingers. Fingers whose tiny oval nails are painted a deep shade of blue.
I hesitantly move my eyes from that one, baleful black eye and look up into the two most beautiful eyes I have ever seen.
They are at first glance green. The green of a dewed field on a perfect spring morning. The glinting green of an emerald held in the last failing rays of dusk. As I watch they seem to catch and change the light, wandering from brilliant green to glowing yellow, while browns, and blues, and grays dance at the edges of reflective black pupils.
Slowly, other details start to seep in around the hypnotic pull of those eyes. Skin as white and as unblemished as costliest ivory. A tiny delicate ear, slight drifting strands of dark hair curling around it. Hair, cut short, seeming now to be black, now brown, now darkest red, always looking as if it has been frozen in the moment of a sharp breeze. Small, thin lips the softest shade of pink, now pursed tight in concentration. A nose, slightly broad, but the perfect size and shape for the soft, round face it rests upon.
And those brilliant, enthralling eyes from which I cannot pull my own gaze for more than a moment.
I fall in love immediately.
If you so much as blink I will blow whatever passes for your brains all over the fucking road.
For a long moment this does not even register. It is said in such a conversational tone. The tone of someone who is absolutely certain of them self. Someone who fears nothing and has never felt the need to make an idle threat. Someone who just happens to be the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.
I continue to gape in awe and incomprehension. I am suddenly struck by how I must appear to her: clothes torn and covered in blood and bile and filth, face pale, eyes wild, bits of gore spattered over an ashen complexion, jowls quivering with fear and adrenaline. A filthy, overweight boy on his knees, eyes still red with tears, chin still sticky with vomit.
I must look a horror to this angel.
Now, she says with a voice that is throaty and low and perfect, I am going to ask you some simple questions. Move nothing but your mouth when you answer. If you move anything aside from your mouth, I will shoot you. If I do not like the answers you give me, I will shoot you. If I just feel like it, I will shoot you.
She stares at me, never a single moment of doubt in those hypnotic eyes. I am still entranced, still in shock, still sure I am dead. I could not consciously move if I wanted to.
The moment stretches out. I realize that I am still trembling uncontrollably, the occasional errant tear still leaks from my eyes. I am moving, shaking, twitching to the crazed rhythm of over taxed muscles and shot nerves. I am absolutely certain she is going to pull that trigger if I cant get control of myself, but I have no idea how.
As I struggle futilely for control, I am struck by how stupid it is to have just survived the past few, what is it seconds? minutes? it feels like days, only to die now. What was the point of being spared one death only to immediately fall to another? Its like the punch line to one of those horrid jokes I never really understood back in my boarding school days: whats red and stiff and wrinkled and makes grown women scream?
Crib death infants.
For the second time today, I give up and resign myself to death.
I am still trembling, still trapped by those haunting eyes, when she asks her first question, Who are you?
Shock and relief hit me like a splash of cold water. I was so sure the next sound I would hear, should I have lived long enough to hear anything, would be the report of a gun, that I am unable to answer her. I just stare, a distant part of me noting that I have stopped trembling, ceased the whiney little sobbing in the back of my throat, am now in fact both still and silent. For a moment, the world is still and silent with me, and then I notice the slightest of contractions in her pupils, the tiniest of movements at the corner of her eyes, and my mouth opens quickly to answer her.
Warren Derleth, if I dont miss my guess.
The voice is not mine. It is rich and charismatic. The voice of a man who is used to speaking to large crowds, for whom holding a conversation with one is no different then discoursing with an entire room. An educated, sophisticated, and well known voice.
I look to the top of the stairs and see him standing there on the landing, outlined by the light pouring through the broken door. The master of the house. The man whom I was sent here this night to meet.
Professor Hunter Cartwright.
Authors note: i don't know how storytelling works for other people, but for me it can be a very long process. most of my stories start with a single image/notion that haunts the back of my mind. over time, i catch more glimpses of characters, scenes, contraptions, over hear an occasional conversation, come to learn bits and pieces of the world and characters that will inhabit the story. i add and polish bits and pieces during this stage, learn or find names, begin to recognize characters and their roles, understand a little of what and who they are. then one day, i sit down and find that there are words for what is happening. to be honest, i have no real idea (just hints and clues right now) where the story is going till it appears as words before me.
with that in mind, The Adventures of Hunter Cartwright have been kicking around in my head for sometime now. it started as an image of a red haired man in formal dress and aviator's goggles firing a pair of pistols into a mechanical object, and a name. from there i learned of the world and characters that inhabited that place. in most of my writing, the hardest part is finding names. a name is what will identify and complete any character, make them a real thing and not just an errant thought, give them true life in essence. for the first time, this was not the case. instead the names were the easiest part for me, whereas the hardest became learning about my main female chaarcter.
i knew bits and pieces of who she was: a name, a voice, a personality who's conversations i had been eavesdropping on, but i could only catch the most tenuous of images of her. i knew she had that classic sultry look of the twenties and thirties, and that it was combined with this almost child like innocence, but i just could not pin it down in my head, and most assuredly not on paper.
and then one day, a new set showed up on this website and i found myself looking into the face of Stacia Brennar. it is my full intention (once i figure out how to get the silly testimonial option to work that is) to offer my sincerest gratitude to the young woman who gave Stacia her appearance, and thank her for being that tenuous blend that fit her flitting images so well. if i have done my job well, some reader out there should easily be able to determine the true face of Ms Brennar.
good luck.
welcome to this weeks electro-textual installment in the continuing Adventures of Hunter Cartwright. this week, we catch our first glimpse of that most magnificent of heros and one of his most trusted, and toothsome, comrades.
Four
Black. The empty black eye of a gun bore giving way to the metallic black sheen of the gun itself. A million miles away from that black, unblinking eye, I can vaguely make out delicate white fingers. Fingers whose tiny oval nails are painted a deep shade of blue.
I hesitantly move my eyes from that one, baleful black eye and look up into the two most beautiful eyes I have ever seen.
They are at first glance green. The green of a dewed field on a perfect spring morning. The glinting green of an emerald held in the last failing rays of dusk. As I watch they seem to catch and change the light, wandering from brilliant green to glowing yellow, while browns, and blues, and grays dance at the edges of reflective black pupils.
Slowly, other details start to seep in around the hypnotic pull of those eyes. Skin as white and as unblemished as costliest ivory. A tiny delicate ear, slight drifting strands of dark hair curling around it. Hair, cut short, seeming now to be black, now brown, now darkest red, always looking as if it has been frozen in the moment of a sharp breeze. Small, thin lips the softest shade of pink, now pursed tight in concentration. A nose, slightly broad, but the perfect size and shape for the soft, round face it rests upon.
And those brilliant, enthralling eyes from which I cannot pull my own gaze for more than a moment.
I fall in love immediately.
If you so much as blink I will blow whatever passes for your brains all over the fucking road.
For a long moment this does not even register. It is said in such a conversational tone. The tone of someone who is absolutely certain of them self. Someone who fears nothing and has never felt the need to make an idle threat. Someone who just happens to be the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.
I continue to gape in awe and incomprehension. I am suddenly struck by how I must appear to her: clothes torn and covered in blood and bile and filth, face pale, eyes wild, bits of gore spattered over an ashen complexion, jowls quivering with fear and adrenaline. A filthy, overweight boy on his knees, eyes still red with tears, chin still sticky with vomit.
I must look a horror to this angel.
Now, she says with a voice that is throaty and low and perfect, I am going to ask you some simple questions. Move nothing but your mouth when you answer. If you move anything aside from your mouth, I will shoot you. If I do not like the answers you give me, I will shoot you. If I just feel like it, I will shoot you.
She stares at me, never a single moment of doubt in those hypnotic eyes. I am still entranced, still in shock, still sure I am dead. I could not consciously move if I wanted to.
The moment stretches out. I realize that I am still trembling uncontrollably, the occasional errant tear still leaks from my eyes. I am moving, shaking, twitching to the crazed rhythm of over taxed muscles and shot nerves. I am absolutely certain she is going to pull that trigger if I cant get control of myself, but I have no idea how.
As I struggle futilely for control, I am struck by how stupid it is to have just survived the past few, what is it seconds? minutes? it feels like days, only to die now. What was the point of being spared one death only to immediately fall to another? Its like the punch line to one of those horrid jokes I never really understood back in my boarding school days: whats red and stiff and wrinkled and makes grown women scream?
Crib death infants.
For the second time today, I give up and resign myself to death.
I am still trembling, still trapped by those haunting eyes, when she asks her first question, Who are you?
Shock and relief hit me like a splash of cold water. I was so sure the next sound I would hear, should I have lived long enough to hear anything, would be the report of a gun, that I am unable to answer her. I just stare, a distant part of me noting that I have stopped trembling, ceased the whiney little sobbing in the back of my throat, am now in fact both still and silent. For a moment, the world is still and silent with me, and then I notice the slightest of contractions in her pupils, the tiniest of movements at the corner of her eyes, and my mouth opens quickly to answer her.
Warren Derleth, if I dont miss my guess.
The voice is not mine. It is rich and charismatic. The voice of a man who is used to speaking to large crowds, for whom holding a conversation with one is no different then discoursing with an entire room. An educated, sophisticated, and well known voice.
I look to the top of the stairs and see him standing there on the landing, outlined by the light pouring through the broken door. The master of the house. The man whom I was sent here this night to meet.
Professor Hunter Cartwright.
Authors note: i don't know how storytelling works for other people, but for me it can be a very long process. most of my stories start with a single image/notion that haunts the back of my mind. over time, i catch more glimpses of characters, scenes, contraptions, over hear an occasional conversation, come to learn bits and pieces of the world and characters that will inhabit the story. i add and polish bits and pieces during this stage, learn or find names, begin to recognize characters and their roles, understand a little of what and who they are. then one day, i sit down and find that there are words for what is happening. to be honest, i have no real idea (just hints and clues right now) where the story is going till it appears as words before me.
with that in mind, The Adventures of Hunter Cartwright have been kicking around in my head for sometime now. it started as an image of a red haired man in formal dress and aviator's goggles firing a pair of pistols into a mechanical object, and a name. from there i learned of the world and characters that inhabited that place. in most of my writing, the hardest part is finding names. a name is what will identify and complete any character, make them a real thing and not just an errant thought, give them true life in essence. for the first time, this was not the case. instead the names were the easiest part for me, whereas the hardest became learning about my main female chaarcter.
i knew bits and pieces of who she was: a name, a voice, a personality who's conversations i had been eavesdropping on, but i could only catch the most tenuous of images of her. i knew she had that classic sultry look of the twenties and thirties, and that it was combined with this almost child like innocence, but i just could not pin it down in my head, and most assuredly not on paper.
and then one day, a new set showed up on this website and i found myself looking into the face of Stacia Brennar. it is my full intention (once i figure out how to get the silly testimonial option to work that is) to offer my sincerest gratitude to the young woman who gave Stacia her appearance, and thank her for being that tenuous blend that fit her flitting images so well. if i have done my job well, some reader out there should easily be able to determine the true face of Ms Brennar.
good luck.
welcome back to this weeks astounding hyper textual installment in the continued Adventures of Hunter Cartwright. this week we depart from the traditional narration of our tale and learn things perhaps better left unknown. if you are brave of mind and sound of heart, then keep on peerless reader and wonder at the terrific annals of that greatest of all heros...
(man, i love writing shit like that)
Three
The door explodes outward with the organic snapping sound of wood and the screeching cry of hinges being torn from their frame. The first of the Re-Animate Tissue System hosts bursts through the newly created aperture and collides with an unknown organic obstruction. It pauses its main directive programming, redirecting processing power into an aetherport query. As it waits for a reply, it cycles its systems through a routine maintenance check, ceasing all of its motor functions and shunting all power systems to standby.
Following on the heels of the first R-A.T.S. host, are two more, bright electric street light reflecting off their grinning porcelain masks. Between them they are carrying a large toroid composed mainly of cables and lenses in a skeletal frame. At the center of this construction, umbilicals of cable attached randomly to its surface, is a large glass sphere that pulses with a pale blue light.
They pause briefly on the small landing outside the broken door, as more power is directed through tiny filaments to the cloudy lenses of decaying optic tissue. Their vision magnifies, focuses for a moment on their prone companion, and then scans the street for any recognizable obstructions. Their programs detect none. Energy shifts again, this time flowing to flexors in the upper legs and the two R-A.T.S. hosts leap simultaneously into the street. They touch down briefly, legs bending at awkward angles to redistribute mass, and then are up again, over the fence and into the darkened park . Their movements are quick, yet obviously artificial. Nothing in nature moves like they do.
Back at the door, yet another R-A.T.S. host passes through the gaping door frame. This one is leaking thick fluids from the place where its right arm and shoulder used to be. It lists widely, its overtaxed system desperately trying to cope with the new distribution of mass. Error messages burn repetitively through its program codes, slowing processing speeds and punctuating all its movements with long pauses. Its lagging system hasnt even had the chance to start a movement command when their is the definitive report of a large caliber weapon. The hosts main interface point is pulped by a .50 caliber round originating from some point through the door. Barely a moment later the bullet, easily passing through the soft organic tissue of the host, strikes the main R-A.T.S. unit, shattering it into a thousand tiny glass and circuit fragments.
Below, the first R-A.T.S. host has just received a reply to its query: terminate obstruction. Its system cycles up from standby, and with one quick burst of power it rights itself. Energy is sent along wires through the arms and fingers of the host, causing minute muscle contractions. Receptors in the host finger tips confirm their position, and more power is directed. Hands clench on the soft tissue of the obstruction.
There is a second report. Once again, a host interface point is destroyed along with a R-A.T.S. unit.
It does not matter. The main directive has been achieved.
(man, i love writing shit like that)
Three
The door explodes outward with the organic snapping sound of wood and the screeching cry of hinges being torn from their frame. The first of the Re-Animate Tissue System hosts bursts through the newly created aperture and collides with an unknown organic obstruction. It pauses its main directive programming, redirecting processing power into an aetherport query. As it waits for a reply, it cycles its systems through a routine maintenance check, ceasing all of its motor functions and shunting all power systems to standby.
Following on the heels of the first R-A.T.S. host, are two more, bright electric street light reflecting off their grinning porcelain masks. Between them they are carrying a large toroid composed mainly of cables and lenses in a skeletal frame. At the center of this construction, umbilicals of cable attached randomly to its surface, is a large glass sphere that pulses with a pale blue light.
They pause briefly on the small landing outside the broken door, as more power is directed through tiny filaments to the cloudy lenses of decaying optic tissue. Their vision magnifies, focuses for a moment on their prone companion, and then scans the street for any recognizable obstructions. Their programs detect none. Energy shifts again, this time flowing to flexors in the upper legs and the two R-A.T.S. hosts leap simultaneously into the street. They touch down briefly, legs bending at awkward angles to redistribute mass, and then are up again, over the fence and into the darkened park . Their movements are quick, yet obviously artificial. Nothing in nature moves like they do.
Back at the door, yet another R-A.T.S. host passes through the gaping door frame. This one is leaking thick fluids from the place where its right arm and shoulder used to be. It lists widely, its overtaxed system desperately trying to cope with the new distribution of mass. Error messages burn repetitively through its program codes, slowing processing speeds and punctuating all its movements with long pauses. Its lagging system hasnt even had the chance to start a movement command when their is the definitive report of a large caliber weapon. The hosts main interface point is pulped by a .50 caliber round originating from some point through the door. Barely a moment later the bullet, easily passing through the soft organic tissue of the host, strikes the main R-A.T.S. unit, shattering it into a thousand tiny glass and circuit fragments.
Below, the first R-A.T.S. host has just received a reply to its query: terminate obstruction. Its system cycles up from standby, and with one quick burst of power it rights itself. Energy is sent along wires through the arms and fingers of the host, causing minute muscle contractions. Receptors in the host finger tips confirm their position, and more power is directed. Hands clench on the soft tissue of the obstruction.
There is a second report. Once again, a host interface point is destroyed along with a R-A.T.S. unit.
It does not matter. The main directive has been achieved.
