Other My Works

[Arthro]

Sometimes I wander, when I can remember. Aft is haze, I can’t reach through that delirium of fog, and can’t recall when I could. A century will pass, and through it my view from this summit is a painting. Nothing new, save the scare of a quaking ground. What am I doing here? A thought procured at my most frantic, resounding through the thin air and swiftly forgotten. With an impulsive step, the crash and clatter of my skin is drowned by the flirtation between gas and void. I looked down, saw the leg I owned, and flexed the power within it. This is me. I am a hard being now, no longer flesh and bone, but rather lava and stone. Armor plating fused to my rocky dermis, quadrupedal and articulated, my insectoid body stands high above the gravel below. What am I to this terrain, now that I am its titular makeup? A molten core housed in a rocky crust — but at least I can move. Too many views assail me now, all at differing angles and of oscillating quality. One of the many eyes on my head seldom remains perceiving for more than a minute, sans the largest of which that remains steadfast aimed in the direction which I point my igneous prosoma. I could see at the cost of my sanity, observe the world as this jagged being. Is this really me?

I could remember, finally, the particularly useful aspect of my species. Standing tall on my four feet, my mandibles exhaled in a hostile hiss as the large, metallic tube was aimed fore. It was warm now, the barrel on my back radiated an earthly heat from within as it primed. Surely this was my purpose. The mystery faced me now. How could I ever have forgotten the glory of firing my cannon? A wobbling boulder of magma and rock spun through the air, radially spewing small, glowing bits of material as it traveled far from the summit. I could see the impact before its sound returned to me — a satisfying whump from a desolate valley. This has got to be the best moment of my life. I must fire again. And again. I will not stop until a new mountain is formed by my organ of war. So I did, finding it necessary to consume the rocks beneath me to sustain myself. There came a time when the mountain I had been shooting into existence was of equal height as the one I was consuming. Eventually, the valley and my mountain had switched places. Looming above, the pile of stone beckoned my dusted form to climb it. And, at the top, I found myself looking at the landscape below, how my mountain had disappeared, and the brown tint of dust blowing in the wind. The heavens danced as I became an indefinite statue.​

 

[Arthro]

I was some
Dust bound by the chain, dragged forward not one
Meter from a desire, or the yearn,
But was pushed. What for, I couldn’t discern.
Chanting and hissing, wicked and empty,
The Train marched toward an eternity,
That black void, mysterious was it so,
Eyes I never saw glared from the window.

The Train: Pale, passionless grey struck on
Behind me, awaiting the moment that flesh
Would make contact with each of its wheels. Gone
Forever, however, was the dread. Fresh
Steel and plate, a featureless theme seemed to
Overtake my tunnel now, and I could
Walk in company, bidding shame adue.
The wheels were ready, but I never would.

Lines of soldiers in sand held their helmets.
That familiar and bountiful pale
Wouldn’t show if they wanted it. “Come, let’s
Go, what do they know?” Then they found the whale.
Fire only burns with its needs fulfilled,
And no glint will use a fraction of its
kit. What’s a fire on its own but killed?
It could burn forever, had it some wits.

And so the tunnel bent and curved, a sight
Discovered the glow of the Train’s bright light.
An outcropping of metal, long and thin,
Fixed to the ground and a winch, which, when pulled,
Affixed the train down a new track within
The tube. Hellish premonitions were culled.
And then the change came without a warning,
Brick and slime now gone, replaced with shining

Surfaces extended beyond my sight
Through twists and turns, the light wasn’t so bright
As to reveal more than a few yards
In front of me. This held no ill regards,
Because who doesn’t like a mystery?
I, now pushing myself, took steps thither.
This gleaming, new tunnel bounced the bright trace
Around to present a loving new face.

My train is no longer some high menace.
Rather, the glow behind, sans a grimace
On its azure-tinted windows and fair
Brilliance.
How long this new tunnel is, I don’t know.
For now, I’m spending my time at Ditto
Growing my experience for working
And creating life unfit for a king.

Forever is short, especially when
Only some of it’s visible. We then
Take it to the end—our end—when the Train
Can fulfil its purpose, when none remain.
This is my tunnel now. I’ve slightly grown,
Already I answer to me alone,
And now say with certain naivety
That I’ve come to terms with humanity.​

 

[Arthro]

Who are you, giant rock?
All alone in the flame,
Separated, your flock
Left you in this terrain.
Are you a misfortune,
O, walking rock? Is there
Anywhere you’ve got to
Go? If so, could you share?
No, you only stare. “Shoo.”


Our comrade was one of the few who didn’t miss eating. Pyotr’s few words, if the conversation drifted onto the subject of the past, were always void of any content. This was a far cry from the romance of my peers, who all derived solemn pleasure in collectively forming a glorified port-hole to peek through. The sensations of a digestive system had been long forgotten in all of us, that internal, eternally inefficient energy consumer having long ago been discarded in favor of an intelligently designed tract.​

 

[Arthro]

hope this isn't a necropost lmao

Dimly lit, aurous screens of misted light could be seen as the Hellwalker pushed and bent any small trees that dared to block him. The light itself was a blue, tinted azure that distributed unevenly through the damp plants, whose very being were shifted by the presence of one thousand small creatures. And soon, with each sinking step, the man in the alien armor witnessed a gathering of wood and stone under the leaves, arranged in such a way that would allow a small gathering of men to hide within. The structure, however, seemed to have been long abandoned, the wooden door had been bound shut by its rusted latch (the only visible metallic component on the building).
Pushing inward, the latch clattered onto the wooden boards beneath it, and the sunlight that seeped through the leaves above broke into the recently opened shack. Several moments of staggered unease passed before Pyotr stepped into the dusk before him, his eyes adjusting to see wooden walls and furniture tested by time. Sat upon an old desk on the far side of the sole room, an open book beckoned Pyotr’s prying eyes. The Hellwalker, driven by curiosity to the pages, looked down upon them — but was unable to make any sense of the characters written.
“Take whatever you want,” an old voice that could easily be mistaken for a frog’s croak spoke from the corner, and Pyotr quickly responded with the whip of his masked head, “All I ask is that you clean the dirt you’ve tracked in.” It was a man, covered in a legion of old rags, accompanied by several types of strange fungus. He lifted a bony, pale finger, which pointed to the dirt left behind by Pyotr’s thick, rubber boots. The Russian’s eyes, from behind his plastic visor, glanced to each footprint. “There’s a broom behind you.”​