[Writings] Cogidubnus: Update (5-6-2009) - Short Story

[Tapewolf]

Somehow, I'll take that. the fact that I was able to elicit an emotional response is a compliment itself. Even if it was a bad taste. 

Yup.  To clarify, the 'Cubi soul-eating thing bugs me in a big way, yet in some way it adds a touch of horror to DMFA as a whole, making it more gripping than it would be otherwise.  Your writing has succeeded in tapping into that.
Murder, okay at a pinch although too much overdoes it.  Soul-eating... I think Jakob's plaintive request to Gareeku in FCRP sums it up.

Ehehe! Again, I'm truly glad you liked it! Keaton is a surprisingly fun character to write. 

Hell, yes.  She was only supposed to have a side role in FH, instead it's practically turning into some kind of crossover. 

Now, two more detailed comments I have about your story.
First, is that all of it?  It seems a rather cliffhanger ending for a one-off.

Secondly, we don't know whether 'Cubi can actually visually see the souls of the recently-deceased/their prey.  I actually made this a trait peculiar to Jakob's clan so as to be sure, but IMHO it's likely that they perceive them through some other means that we mere humans cannot really understand since we can't do it, kind of like their ability to sense emotions.

And dammit, I keep missing your Khajiit series.  Only found the first one when I was browsing llearch's story server...

[Cogidubnus]

Now, two more detailed comments I have about your story.
First, is that all of it?  It seems a rather cliffhanger ending for a one-off.

You can read the rest of Keaton the Black Jackal's story at the Castle RP, located in Haunted Ballrooms everywhere. 
And slightly related, I'll take that as a good sign that more is wanted. 

Secondly, we don't know whether 'Cubi can actually visually see the souls of the recently-deceased/their prey.  I actually made this a trait peculiar to Jakob's clan so as to be sure, but IMHO it's likely that they perceive them through some other means that we mere humans cannot really understand since we can't do it, kind of like their ability to sense emotions.

And dammit, I keep missing your Khajiit series.  Only found the first one when I was browsing llearch's story server...

I don't think it's been made canon, no - but as a literary device, I think being able to see the souls of the departed makes for better writings, in this case. Siphoning off a metaphysical concept just isn't the same...

And as for that, I keep forgetting to note that I've updated. I shall do that more often.

[Tapewolf]

Cog, I see a few typos and suchlike in the Elsweyr story.  Are you interested in corrections?

[Cogidubnus]

Cog, I see a few typos and suchlike in the Elsweyr story.  Are you interested in corrections?

I confess that I'm terrible at catching those sorts of things. By all means, sir.

[Tapewolf]

Okay, here are some corrections... mostly it's the names from the game, which are admittedly rather peculiar.

Sheggorath -> Sheogorath
Kahjiit -> Khajiit
Elswyr -> Elsweyr

The only other thing I noticed was this: "And Ambrose is out alchemist"

[llearch n'n'daCorna]

* llearch n'n'daCorna adds those changes to the story server.

;-]

[Cogidubnus]

Okay, here are some corrections... mostly it's the names from the game, which are admittedly rather peculiar.

Sheggorath -> Sheogorath
Kahjiit -> Khajiit
Elswyr -> Elsweyr

The only other thing I noticed was this: "And Ambrose is out alchemist"

Ah, the last two I missed, and those are probably systematic errors, if I know myself.

The first one, however, was on purpose. I take it you've never read the Tales of Clan Mother Ahnissi?
The Kahjiit have different names for some things. 

Other than that, though, thank you for telling me about those - and thank you Mr. llearch for updating the server.

[Tapewolf]

The first one, however, was on purpose. I take it you've never read the Tales of Clan Mother Ahnissi?
The Kahjiit have different names for some things. 

Ah.  There were a lot of books in Morrowind, some of which were incredibly gripping and fascinating.  That book was not among these.  So yes, I have read it, but unlike 'A Game at Dinner' or 'Smuggler's Island' etc, I haven't committed it to memory.

I guess llearch had better roll that particular one back

[Cogidubnus]

The first one, however, was on purpose. I take it you've never read the Tales of Clan Mother Ahnissi?
The Kahjiit have different names for some things. 

Ah.  There were a lot of books in Morrowind, some of which were incredibly gripping and fascinating.  That book was not among these.  So yes, I have read it, but unlike 'A Game at Dinner' or 'Smuggler's Island' etc, I haven't committed it to memory.

I guess llearch had better roll that particular one back

Morrowind has some fantastic books. What's really amazing is that Bethsoft has included this sort of thing in most of it's series, from daggerfall and beyond. The Real Berenziah is also quite good, as is the Poison Song series. The Imperial Library is a good place to find all these - I think only one copy exists of some of the Poison Song books.

[Dannysaysnoo]

i kinda want to read "The man who was Thursday". It was in Deus Ex, but i've never really thought too hard about it.

[Tapewolf]

The Real Berenziah is also quite good, as is the Poison Song series. The Imperial Library is a good place to find all these - I think only one copy exists of some of the Poison Song books.

I created the entire set of Poisonsong just so I could to read them.  I'm still trying to complete my set of Vivec sermons.

As for Barenziah, I suppose that now I've murdered her, I really ought to read up on who she was (apart from an obstacle to the Throne).  But I digress.  It's good to see you're continuing the Elsweyr series... I was planning to ask about them until I saw the followup.

[Cogidubnus]

Prose and Poetry, Gentlemen.


Snow in Autumn

Wreathed in fire, falling cold,
like tears in auburn hair,
the time for fire's growing old,
and fall the ashes from the flare,
that whisper through from here to there

Early is the frost, and slow,
and slow, the trees are dying,
gripped in hand by drifting snow,
brought by wind that's softly sighing,
by fluttering leaves, so softly sighing

The sky is somber, dark and grey,
like soot, it coats the fire, ashen:
like sorrows to fall from somber days,
to coat a heart that's fire-golden
A heart I know is fire-golden

Passions, hopes and dreams, a leaf,
a spirit on a snow-soft tree,
plucked by snowswirled, windy thief,
to fall and die, right next to me,
in dust of snow right next to me

But bitter soft the wind will blow,
and a terrible, bitter thing it be-
it takes a rustling leaf, to flow,
like fire over grey-eyed me
and in the sky I watch it: free

And whisper soft that now I see

[llearch n'n'daCorna]

That's wonderful, Cog. I like the way it evokes winter.

[Cogidubnus]

Portions of this text were taken from Ink's signature. Specifically, the picture.

I was in Astronomy class, listening to a lecture by a Eastern European Doctor with a slightly thick accent, and a tendency to speak softly and rush, and as I sat my mind was forced to wander - as though it could not be helped. The sheer opression of my situation bade me think of things that were, perhaps, of similar evil, and gradually the pathways of my mind took me through all evils, sanguine and crass, that were known to me - it was perhaps inevitable that my mind should wander, to here.



Ink


Deep and dark, like jet-black tea,
- as innocent as a child,
with crooked crown he looks at me,
and eyes of ink doth smile

And graceful, as a moonlight dance,
and as silent as the rose,
with a thousand words in a but a glance,
he'll draw you, to repose,

and soft, so soft, he'll stroke your hair,
and offer, of sweet vintage, rare,
and with sanguine smile he'll sidle close, and whisper soft to you:
"My love, my treat, I love you, so-
I love you, so I'll kill you."

[Damaris]

bump!

Unlocked by request.

[Cogidubnus]

Thanks much!

I'll be posting something here tomorrow. For now, I have to get to bed.

Keats showed me a little prompt sheet the other day, thats sort of like the 100 Themes for artists, except for writing. This one is 'veneer'. It's rather a lot darker and violent than my usual stuff, I'm afraid.

Without further ado-



Veneer

   A second skin of water slipped down high-paned windows, morphing shining lights below and scattering them across the far wall. Shadows danced on the carefully textured beige, the prenumbra stopped only at the gently sloping shadow of a man's head. The man himself, shadows dancing on his face too, stared blankly at the ornate window. His eyes, vibrant and green, were perfectly still, high cheekbones and a carefully washed face unmoving. His features bespoke breeding and wealth, the veneers on his teeth, visible only when he smiled, bespoke expensive orthodontistry. His fingers, nails clipped close and heavy with rings, rested absently on the richly lacquered desk before him, although those too didn't move.
   Another person was in the room – a woman, gesturing at the man animatedly. Fluorescent light illuminated the rest of highrise office, her fur coat and collar catching the luminescence in a bright, artificial halo. Hot tears ran her mascara, smearing the outline of her eyes. Her pillbox hat slanted, threatening to fall off her brown hair. A purse was clutched tightly in her hands, oiled and intricately tooled leather worth more than all the contents of most lesser purses.

   The man was still as a corpse. A watch, bright and silver, ticked on his wrist like a metronome, drowning out nearly everything else, with every second pulsing, counting the seconds into minutes, the minutes into hours. The rain drummed against the windows and the sound built and built until the man couldn't hear anything else but the storm outside, the rain hitting the window again and again, a thousand times in a moment, running down the glass like a liquid sheet.
   Movement. A hand, rose and lifted an amber-filled glass to his lips. He drank quickly, baring his teeth as he swallowed, his mouth clicking just faintly. The sound of the glass clinking as he set it down was like a bomb, louder than loud – an iron bell tolling on dessicated, mahogany graveyard.

   The man finally managed to look at the woman, vibrant green eyes locking on her. His lips peeled back in a sneer. His breath stank.
   "M'lady, m'lady...m'lady... the fuck. You're still here?" he said, motionless body moving, a sudden frenzy. He grabbed the glass of whiskey, spilling the liquid on the desk. Amber drops beaded on the fine lacquer, not staining the beautiful wood beneath while the glass shattered on the woman's head, knocking her over.
   Rain pattered like gunshots. The watch ticked like a cannon, a monolith tipping end-over-end over the earth in a never-ending, never-pausing cycle.
   
   The man rose, moving quickly, grabbing the woman's collar and dragging her to a window. Vibrant eyes, dead eyes, watched as shadows danced across the his own face, danced on the shudders of rage flitting through him.
   The sound of the rain was overpowering, a thousand thousand screams in his ears. He lifted a leg and kicked.

   The glass shattered, cutting his leg, the shards falling down to the street below. Wind whipped up his pants and blew his coat back, and knocked the pillbox from the woman's head. Blood oozed from wounds in her scalp, dark blood flowing around glass.
   He shuddered in the rain, instantly soaked to the bone. Rich clothes clung tightly to his frame, thin to the point of boniness - bright red blood ran in curls down his shin, mixing with the rainwater. The man coughed and bent over, and grabbed the woman again by the collar. With great effort he pulled her onto the desk, pausing briefly. His eyes darted to the woman's injured form, and to the small hole in the window, as though testing the strength in his arms already.
   His indecision lasted only a moment.

   Outside, a dark building of glass that burned with a solitary light, a chair arced through the rain and slammed into the pavement. On the building itself, a single pane of glass stood shattered - a hole in the base, stark against the smooth side of the building, while the rain ran down the glass and soaked an empty office.

[Sunblink]

Keats showed me a little prompt sheet the other day, thats sort of like the 100 Themes for artists, except for writing. This one is 'veneer'. It's rather a lot darker and violent than my usual stuff, I'm afraid.

I CLAIM FULL RESPONSIBILITY FOR THIS. FULL RESPONSIBILITY.

Because if this is how your dark-and-violent periods go, you need to have more of them, dude. This was absolutely great - I loved it. The descriptions were great and the ending was terrific. Of course you know my theory about what happened already But I really do love how you tied all the symbolism you described into the theme "Veneer," overall, even if symbolism is sometimes lost on me.

For some reason, I loved the crying woman's description - both of them, before and after () - particularly the "artificial halo" line. Another thing I loved was, strangely, the only line of dialogue in the story, which I thought was oddly appropriate. Whole thing was marvelous.

I demand to see more 100 Prompts things from you, or you will make me very sad.

~Keaton the Black Jackal

[Cogidubnus]

A fanfic is here. There is blood, pain, character conflict, and people die, so fairly warned be ye.

DMFA is copyright Amber Williams. Posted with permission. Is not official in any capacity whatsoever, and is quite simply a fan-fiction.



Sunshine

"You are my sunshine - my only sunshine. You make me happy, when skies are gray,"

The setting sun filtered through a four-paneled window, casting orange, dusky light over two beings sitting in an overstuffed armchair - the room was furnished very simply and tastefully, with carpets and wallpaper and smiling pictures on the wall - but despite the brightness and scent of cleaner, it was calm, and peaceful, and at that moment utterly quiet. It possessed, though sometimes overwrought and commonplace, that ephemeral, utterly intoxicating feeling of home.
A man with a patch over one scarred eye held something curious in his arms- a small, winged thing, black and cream, with two mismatched eyes that stared back at his own. The smaller one was enraptured with the larger one - the child had giant eyes, not quite unblinking, and was simply looking at the one holding it. The one with the eyepatch smiled, and stroked the little thing's hair, his expression nearly melted - utter love. A Father to his Son.
"You'll never know, dear, how much I love you - Please don't take, my sunshine away..."


* * *


Blood dripped from his hands, sparkling a ruby red in the fluorescents. It blinded him, got in his mouth and filled it with copper, and stained the carpet beneath him, the white boiling over into a dark, dark red.
This creature, standing in his father's clothes, wearing his father's wedding band around his finger, flicked a bloodstained claw and looked at him with an expression of utter mockery – standing slightly to the side, his eyebrow tilted at a jaunty angle, and his arm aflame with a single, damning mark on his forearm. The same mark that he himself had on his back. He could feel the stylized flame there now, burning, making his back jump and twitch - could feel the blood oozing between his fingers and into his eyes and making his breath light. He could remember the sound of tentacles severing Hennya into pieces.
He could remember the look on his mother's face as she turned away from him.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting in darkness. How long he'd sat on a stone floor, feeling the heat leech out of his legs and arms, sat and shivered but still felt like he was burning up, like he'd swallowed molten rock but simply wouldn't die.
He remembered the voice of that thing, cruel and mocking. He remembered the form of his bleeding mother, laying motionless on the carpet after Aniz had smashed in her nose. He remembered when, in the end, she turned her eyes away from him. Her son.
He remembered most the incubus's threat. Go back, and I'll kill her. Try to kill me, and I'll kill her.

He sat unmoving, still but for the tremors that shook him – even his eyes stared straight ahead, the blue-and-green nearly unblinking. Everything ran through his mind until it blurred, became more pain than memory. He huddled on the floor, shivering and burning at the same time, hair drenched with sweat, and stiff with blood. He could still taste it in his mouth.

Much, much later, the ball of lead in his stomach would cease to burn so brightly – but it would never, ever quite go away. He would forget about it for awhile, sometimes even for a day, but he'd always feel that tightness in his gut, and remember. A small ember burned - the scar that would never fully heal. And eventually, that too would grow, the ember fanning into a point of brightness in his soul, nearly blinding to look at – casting a shadow over everything else, a fire brighter than all other passions.
Hate. Black, unutterable hate.

But as for then, Abel huddled, and shivered, and sat in the darkness.


* * *


The first years were very hard for May.

When Cid...when Aniz had taken Abel and disappeared, she hadn't moved for hours, laying on the same spot on the carpet, her nose bleeding until she felt lightheaded. The entire room stank of flesh – Hennya's carcass had been split into pieces. The amount of blood was tremendous, pooling on the floor. The carpet squelched and foamed when she finally did get up to call the police.

They'd arrived in a matter of minutes. Zinvth had a good police department, very used to dealing with all manner of emergencies, especially domestic disputes involving all sorts of creatures. They scryed May first, searched her, and took blood samples to make she she wasn't the incubus in disguise, and when they confirmed that she was just a being, began to clean up the mess and take her testimony of the events. Hennya's parents were called, and what was left of the corpse was put into a black plastic bodybag.

Forensics and mages attempted to locate some of the incubus's blood – May had said that that Hennya had taken a chunk of his shoulder before she had been killed, and a drop might allow them to find him through a magical search, or by running a successfully identified sample through the criminal reliquary. Hennya's grisly death ended up ruling this out, however – the entire room was nearly painted with the her blood. Finding an uncontaminated sample proved impossible.

May kept up with the investigation for the first thirty minutes, answering questions and pointing things out to the detectives. When they stopped asking her questions constantly, though, and she didn't have anything to distract her, the shock finally set in. She sat down in a chair, and didn't remember anything else about that evening, or the day after – or any day until she woke up in the psychiatric wing of Zinvth First Community Hospital.
She'd been there for two months. Some nurse was feeding her a cup of fruit when she screamed and knocked it away, sending it flying across the room and making a mess of the wall, while May had simply started to cry.

Her husband of over twenty-five years, for at least twenty-five of them, had been a complete lie, down to his very name. The man she loved – had shared everything with – the one she'd woken up to in the morning, laughed with, cried with, fought with, the one who when she looked into his eyes, she saw nothing but love and care, and his roguish, charming smile...
Every moment she'd shared, every embrace, every kiss – everything, was a lie. A trick, an actor laughing at her inside his sleeve. Everything she'd ever loved, the person she'd grown old with, had never really existed.
May simply broke.

She became violently paranoid. The hospital, located in such a large urban area, especially one inhabited by numerous creatures, had thankfully seen cases like May before, and began to take the necessary steps. A specialist arrived to check her out a few days after she had begun to refuse food and water, and react violently to the nursing staff.
As bad off as Abel was, it was nothing compared to May went through. The betrayal was too complete – she was one of the worse victims of impersonation the hospital had ever seen. What the incubus had done very nearly bordered on the sadistic. Why wait for twenty-five years to reveal yourself? What could possibly be worth such a long charade?
As she kept refusing food, she was eventually put onto a feeding tube. When they found her soaked in blood from ripping it out, they finally reached a compromise to keep her alive – she would eat what they gave her as long as it was pre-packaged and sealed. Even so, it was weeks before she'd speak to the people who gave her juice and fruit and vacuum-sealed sandwiches.

There was hardly anything to be done for her, except to wait, although even then it wasn't expected for her to recover. Routine psychological evaluations were made, and she was allowed to walk the grounds and exercise at her leisure, but the extent of the mental trauma was simply too great. She didn't trust anyone. Therapy was practically impossible.
Steel hair did not belie a steel heart – honestly, who was she supposed to trust now? If Cid wasn't real, who could possibly be beyond suspicion? The irrationality of her fears did not penetrate the haze of paranoia and pain that made up her world – if Cid could be an incubus in disguise, couldn't anyone?

She refused to see friends, visitors, and answer more than perfunctory questions from any sort of psychiatric help, and for two years, that's how things remained.

* * *

"Ms. Rewanz?"

The cream colored feline didn't respond. Ambrose hadn't expected her to, but that didn't change much of anything. It was time for her bi-annual check-up. Useless gestures had to be made, if only for the sake of the one making them.
"How are you feeling today, Ms. Rewanz?"

May didn't say anything. The orderlies and nurses had picked up on a few things the being preferred, and seeing outside was one of them. The view wasn't terrible – the window on the side of the room was open wide, drenching the room in sunlight, and granting a view of a beautiful spring day. The two trees visible from the room swayed in the breeze, while clouds passed by lazily overhead. Short-cut green grass and brown dirt made up the rest of the view, but it was better than the rock garden roof some rooms got. The raccoon sat down by her bedside and clicked his pen.
"Good? Bad? Not wanting to talk today, huh?" he said, marking the often-penciled 'no response' box on his form. He shook his head slightly.
"Do you know what day it is, Ms. Rewanz?"

"Who are you?"

Ambrose nearly jumped. He looked up from his notebook, and his eyes darted around the room -  when they confirmed that no-one else was in there, he turned back to look at May. Could she...
The voice was raspy and slow, but he'd never heard her speak before anyway. It'd been at least a year and a few months since she'd spoken to anybody. He clicked his pen nervously.
"I'm Dr. Ambrose, Ms. Rewanz. I'm here to try and help-"

"I want to go home." she said. She turned and looked at him, her eyes not haunted, or empty, but simply tired. The feline looked like she was about to cry. Ambrose paused – he might be in over his head, here. Medical school was only a few months ago, and they usually gave the lost causes to the new people – you couldn't screw up something that had no hope of recovery anyway. It was likely no-one expected her to actually speak to the raccoon. Ambrose cleared his throat.
"Well, we'd like to let you go home, Ms. Rewanz, but we need to make su-"

She turned away, and resumed looking outside. Ambrose paused, and swallowed. He could feel his heart in his throat. Had he just screwed it up forever-
"I'm tired." she said, her voice still rough. "I'm sick, and tired, of waiting. For him. Seeing him everywhere. I just want to go home."

Not moving at all, Ambrose sucked in a stiff breath. He hazarded a question. "Why do you want to go home, Ms. Rewa-"
"I'm not Ms. Rewanz." she said, already turned away from him. "I wasn't ever Ms. Rewanz."

Ambrose paused. He looked at his sheet, and looked back up. "Why do you want to go home, May?"

May was silent for a long time. Ambrose sighed, hanging his head a little bit, and began penciling notes onto his clipboard. It was likely he'd be blamed for wasting an opportunity, here, but that's what they got for sending him in unprepared. He finished marking in the rest of the paper, and looked up again – May was still sitting in the same position as before, looking at the trees and clouds outside. He stood up, about to leave.
"Maybe if I go home, he'll finally kill me." she said. Ambrose's eyes widened. To the surprise of most of the staff, she'd managed to avoid being suicidal so far...

"Maybe it'll finally be over. I don't care anymore." she sighed, shifting on her bed. "I just want to go home. I don't care if he finds me. I'm...just...tired."
Ambrose paused. He clicked his pen again, and sat down. He set the clipboard away.
"I'd like to help you if I can...May. Would you like me to help you?"

Again, May didn't respond immediately, looking outside at the scenery, but Ambrose was patient. He waited for her to turn back to him, and with eyes that nearly made his skin curdle, nod.
"...yes."

* * *

Five years later, May went home.

She was brewing tea, and sitting by herself at the kitchen table. Crickets chirped softly outside, while the water boiled softly to itself.. The piercing whistle of steam was yet to come, but May got up and shut off the burner anyway. She grabbed a mug and a teabag, putting the triangular packet in the cup first and pouring the boiling water on top of it. The herbal tea was prescription – a powerful relaxant, to be taken before bed. She took a sip, and then reached for a clear plastic container, and popped open the small box marked "W". She fumbled for a moment before producing two pills, and popped them into her mouth, using the tea to wash down the anti-depressants and anti-psychotropics, and then sat down in her chair as she waited for the drugs to kick in.

It had been a long road home. It very nearly hadn't happened. When they'd finally let her go back home, after wrangling and begging and scraping and promising, and after they'd discharged her with caveat and leash, with weekly checkups and drugs and much hand-wringing, she'd nearly blown it again.
Some idiot had left a the family portrait up. Seeing it was like a physical blow – but she'd taken a breath, flipped it over, and simply called the hospital instead, and after she got on the line with Dr. Ambrose, she tore into him with every vicious bone left in her body. She was promised that someone would be fired over it – when they offered to take send someone to remove it, she told them she'd already burned the thing.
She hadn't. It was still sitting on the kitchen counter, face down from where she'd set it the first time. Her gaze lingered over it while she sipped her tea.

Ten minutes later, she felt the familiar fuzziness of the herbs begin to set in. She stood up slowly and put the mug in the sink, washing it out carefully, and went to bed.
She slept in Abel's old room. She couldn't quite bring herself to sleep in their...in her bedroom.

She closed the door, locked it – a somewhat pointless gesture – and slipped under the sheets, cool in the moonlight, and thanks to the magic of the herbal tea, nearly instantly slipped into sleep. The trees whispered in the wind outside, drowning out the chirping of the crickets – it would have been comforting, if May had been awake to hear it.

* * *

"I won't be a monster, Mom..."

May awoke. Her feet felt wet. Her eyes snapped open, and the cream-colored feline jumped backwards in her bed - moonlight poured into the room an impossible, lurid red, bathing everything in the room in a thick, sickly sanguine.
Something glimmered darkly on her sheets –  a body, pieces of a body, parts of it fallen over on top of the covers. Red eyes stared blankly from two eye-sockets, dead. May moved her foot and it rolled off, thunking onto the wooden floor.

"I promise...please don't be mad..."

May looked up. Green and blue orbs stared back at her. He held a familiar red arm in his hand, a stylized flame prominent on the wrist. Wings were outspread wide on his head and his back. Pieces of a body littered the ground. Blood dripped from his forehead, and mixed with tears from his eyes.
"I'm a good boy...right Mom? I did good, right?"

May screamed.

* * *

"The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamt I held you in my arms..."

Dreams were something that Abel missed.

It wasn't the loss of a need to sleep, he was told, that caused the lack of dreams, although it was related to it. Sleep was the time when the mind defragmented itself – the memories of the day transferred themselves from short term to long term, for instance, and the places that got cluttered during the day were cleaned. It was also the time when the subconscious stretched its dreamlike legs and unkinked itself. Hence, when we sleep, dreams and nightmares bubble up from the very pits of our soul.
Cubi, as a general rule, do not dream. To any other race, it would be impossible to say why with any certainty, but in this case the affliction is part of the answer in more ways than one. The succubus and incubus are the masters of the mind, and they are, and they lack dreams, because they lack a subconscious.

Rather, what subconscious they have is awake, and melded with the greater mind.  There come all manner of psychic ability and power, the reading of thoughts, the sensing and derivement of nourishment from emotion. They can make themselves mad by eating a slice of anger – a bad mood is contagious among Cubi.
They wear their souls on their sleeves, as it were. They are their subconscious.

Psychology is an avid science among Cubi. All manner of psychosis still affect them, of course, as they do any thinking and living individual. The subconscious still exists, but through miracle of biology and magic, it is merely in a different place, and melded with the greater mind to a much greater extent. Irrational fear, phobias, even the greater mental illnesses are still present, neither banished nor enhanced.
Everyone has baggage.

The clock ticked. Abel shifted in bed invisibly, the room nearly completely bathed in darkness. A small amount of light filtered in through a crack beneath the door where the seal was broken, and light from the outside managed to pour in – a serious problem in SAIA, where at all hours of the day or night the lights stayed on and the people active.
He would sometimes lay awake, watching the crack dim and flare as people walked by it.

He didn't have anywhere to go, then, and didn't have anywhere he particularly wanted to go either. He spent most of his free time trying to sleep – which was a much harder feat to accomplish when one wasn't tired at all.
He was trying to dream.

The subconscious sometimes does not integrate all at once – hence, the gradual formation of Cubi attributes and abilities, and the sometimes lingering tendency to dream. When he had first arrived, it sometimes seemed that the nightmares would not stop – every time he closed his eyes, visions of blood would assault him, and visions of that one night when his life simply ceased to exist. As time went on, they faded – even that too began to pass, however slowly. But dreams, he missed – and he had managed to dream, once.

He'd been at home again, in his own bed – the way it looked when they'd just moved to Zinvth, when he couldn't have been more than twelve. His mother looked different – younger, the way she had when he'd been young, when she'd been younger.
The trees outside were deafening, practically a roar in the breeze, so she'd gone to shut the window. Red curtains and moonlight bathed the room a strange, dark crimson, somehow ominous. But the dream hadn't taken a turn for the worse – his mother had simply kissed his forehead, and stroked his hair, and before he awoke, she'd sang the oddest song.

"The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamt I held you in my arms,
But when I woke, dear, I was mistaken,
And I hung my head and I cried."


"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,
you make me happy, when skies are gray,
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you,
Please don't take my sunshine away."

-Fin

[Jairus]

As I said last night when you showed this to me, wow. I really like this, dark as it is, for focusing on what might have happened to May afterwords. Poor May.

I'm actually reminded slightly of American McGee's Alice, though I don't quite know how to described accurately why.

[llearch n'n'daCorna]

Heh. Nice story, Cog.


... And it leaves it entirely open as to if that's a dream, a nightmare, or reality. Very nice.

[Cogidubnus]

I added an ending. The last one was a bit abrupt, I think.

As I said last night when you showed this to me, wow. I really like this, dark as it is, for focusing on what might have happened to May afterwords. Poor May.

I'm actually reminded slightly of American McGee's Alice, though I don't quite know how to described accurately why.

Well, from what you explained to me later, I can definitely see how, although I hope it isn't as over-the-top macabre as that one.
Although it has been a bit since I've written a short story, so it could be a lack of finesse on my part, definitely.

Heh. Nice story, Cog.


... And it leaves it entirely open as to if that's a dream, a nightmare, or reality. Very nice.

Danke schoen, sir. That was the intended effect, most definitely.

[techmaster-glitch]

I added an ending. The last one was a bit abrupt, I think.

I actually think it was better without the ending, really. This new bit seems like a random irrelevant afterthought that kind of breaks the original mood and theme.

[Cogidubnus]

I added an ending. The last one was a bit abrupt, I think.

I actually think it was better without the ending, really. This new bit seems like a random irrelevant afterthought that kind of breaks the original mood and theme.

Hm. Well, that's not good.

Perhaps I'll get rid of it then. I sort of wrote it and thought it could fit nicely on the ending, without meaning to write an ending in particular. I'll think about it, definitely.

[llearch n'n'daCorna]

Mmm.

Yeah, I'd be inclined to agree. It messes with the impact of the nightmare that his mother is in, and since most of the entire rest of the story is about May, not Abel, it's a bit jarring.

It fits as part of an entirely different story, though...

[Cogidubnus]

Mmm.

Yeah, I'd be inclined to agree. It messes with the impact of the nightmare that his mother is in, and since most of the entire rest of the story is about May, not Abel, it's a bit jarring.

It fits as part of an entirely different story, though...

Hmm. Maybe as an epilogue, then?

I don't think I could make an entirely new story out of it, but I don't necessarily want to throw it in the dustbin. I'll change the story back though, I think. Maybe I can figure out something to use the little excerpt for.

[Cogidubnus]

Tomb

Hewn from granite mountain-walls
Icy castle, stately halls,
Dripping sapphire tears of stone,
drifting snow, whitest bone,
White on blackest ocean-rocks
'Neath the gatebridge gently glit'ring
Red-eyed maiden softly sleeping,
in sepulchure of sapphire-stone
gleaming 'neath the ocean foam
a gem in blackest waters grown

A froth! A crack, the gem split open,
Cracked the sepulchure, and broken,
In brine and sludge the red-eyed girl
is woken, drenched from toe to curl

and laughs, blackest, ocean swirl

[Jairus]

Ooh... nice. Very descriptive, and a bit purpley but you pull it off nicely. I like how the "brine and sludge" is what wakes her up... I wasn't expecting something like that. Eww.

[Cogidubnus]

Ooh... nice. Very descriptive, and a bit purpley but you pull it off nicely. I like how the "brine and sludge" is what wakes her up... I wasn't expecting something like that. Eww.

Danke schoen, sir. Ehrm. I'm not entirely sure what purpley is, but I'm glad you think I pulled it off nicely.

As far as the brine and sludge, well, kelp and seawater and so on. It was inspired from reading Coleridge quite a bit, mostly the Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Christabel.

[Jairus]

Ooh... nice. Very descriptive, and a bit purpley but you pull it off nicely. I like how the "brine and sludge" is what wakes her up... I wasn't expecting something like that. Eww.

Danke schoen, sir. Ehrm. I'm not entirely sure what purpley is, but I'm glad you think I pulled it off nicely.

Purple prose. Needlessly flowery and fluffed-up writing. It's not a good thing generally, but in this case I quite like it: it helps to paint the tomb. Actually, it feels more natural than purple prose... hm, I don't quite know what I'm trying to say, but whatever it is it works.

As far as the brine and sludge, well, kelp and seawater and so on. It was inspired from reading Coleridge quite a bit, mostly the Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Christabel.

Ah, interesting.

[Cogidubnus]

Working on a story, I'm hoping to get through with it soon. In the meantime, verse.

Silent

I have nothing to write today,
I have nothing to say,
The muse, the muse, the muse is gone,
and stolen my voice away.

Who are You

Bedlam never saw such eyes,
no hue of blue, no scale of green,
that accounted for this man unseen,
hidden by gemini lies.