Hate Of The Fossil God

Hate of the Fossil God

I am furious.

My hide is black as night, carved with scales like iron and feathers like blades, glowing in negative illumination from ten thousand fires.

My talons are scythes, clawing at the angry metallic insects that dare oppose my movement; petulant fireflies that barely sting. Petty creatures I swat into oblivion or swallow by my cavernous lungs.

My tail crumbles metropolises like an earthquake topples termite mounds: shimmering glassy cascades that shatter into dust and cataclysm. Such childish things, so fucking minuscule!

My jaws scream in hatred, yawn open forever, fangs that could puncture the greatest of steels brought to bear. My scream is supersonic, hateful down to its core, so strong as to make a million tiny naked apes deaf in seconds. Crimson lightning howls from my fossilized throat.

Ships dangle upon my thorny quills, skyscrapers crushed within my clawing fingers, armies pulverized beneath my steps.

This was my world once. Primordial and free of a crawling infestation. Trees that towered a mile into endlessly cloudy, storming thunderheads. Lifeforms ancient and graceful that dwarfed even me..

Gone.

I have slept too long.

Did these infernal meddlers destroy my precious Garden? Did they ruin all I held dear..?

I am furious.

I will make them pay.

Arthur Morgan, and the Rings of Paradise

Arthur was confused.

His mind reeled and his stomach ached like he’d been drowning his insides in putrid liquor. Doubled over, coughing, half laughing at his predicament he remembered lengthy drinking binges with Lenny or John or Javier. He wiped spittle from his chin as the daze began to be replaced by a painfully everpresent dull ache. The outlaw scratched unkempt hair from under his hat, looking this way and that, looking for his horse. Arthur was alone, too, on a familiar lookin grassy plane surrounded by sparse woodland islands. Birds’ egg blue skies embraced him. A gentle breeze whispered here and there.

He whistled in vain, sputtering out into a coughing fit. “Rachael! Oh, goddamn creature, run off again... What the hell did we drink last night..?” Arthur wiped his eyes and very suddenly, something caught his uncertain gaze.

Foggy disorientation vanished from his thoughts in an instant.

The sky above him arched upward into an elegant, impossible Ring growing increasingly thin and tiny against a dreamlike blue-black sky. Before and behind him stretched landscape and horizon as it reached into the air. He saw gorgeous oceans, crimson deserts, steaming jungles, glacially entombed mountains, hissing badlands: all in endless glory above him.

Arthur Morgan fell to his knees in silence, staring upward in disbelief. Thoughts of fireside roars by Dutch about paradise echoed in his mind, stories of rich eternity in an untamed and uninhabited frontier. Arthur Morgan felt tears prickle at his eyes. The weight of his rifle and repeating shotgun and revolvers, his aged knapsack, the weight of running from the law, the weight of fear that had grown in him as dreams of paradise slipped away into unreality: all seemed to evaporate into nothingness. Another life.

Then: a scream in the skies above him. Arthur threw himself to the ground and drew his ornate revolvers, turning upward just in time to watch bulbous, unnatural shapes wrought in organic purplish-black racing overhead. The flying machines were larger than any carriage or steamboat he’d ever seen, and they flew like horrendous angels!

More strange craft like howling demons passed overhead and away from him, thrumming with predatory energy. Suddenly the Outlaw felt very, very small.

When Arthur noticed he was not alone, and when Arthur saw the hulking giant metal man carrying a rifle unlike any he’d ever seen, a singular thought grew in his thoughts.

What the in the goddamn hell did I get myself into?

Lights, Action, and Relaxation

Late night tonight. I watched a lot of movies today, and relaxed, did my usual walk, picked up the house. Still feeling kind of sick, on and off. Tired. But relaxed. Happy. Excited for Mother’s Day, it’ll be really nice to hangout with my mom and my sister, do something enjoyable for my mom. She’s a really great woman. She works very hard for all that she has. I hope everybody had a good day today, whoever reads these, you crazy bastards. I can’t imagine I say anything very interesting, and I’m sorry I kind of ramble.

- your friend, Zachariah

An Unlikely Pair: The Colossus and the Scout

Derros grumbled and Nastrea chuckled at him. They were both sweating in the sweltering, primeval heat. Insects, some as fat as a charcoal-colored chitin finger, orbited about their exposed skin along their heavy scaly armor. Angry sunlight stabbed between colossal tree trunks like glassy shards, wind tussling richly enshrouded trunks covered in mossy plated growths.

“Derros”, said Nastrea with a smirking laugh on her lips, “you seem like a hatchling, you know that? Pale as a weaver-worm freshly spurted from its-”

Derros interrupted. Irritated at the tall black woman, and also trying to hide his own laughter behind an unhappy expression.

“Would you hush up, you talkative squaking menace? I’m not sure what’ll drop me first: the predators, the parasites, the heat, or goddamn you!” Much to the young mans dismay: Nastrea burst further into laughter and clutched her stomach, wheezing in syrupy humid heat.

Derros sighed, wiped his brow. The young man was tall, but not as tall as his companion, and pale skinned. His lengthy curly hair was unruly. His armor was light and simple, fit for a scout to traverse the steaming jungle with ease. Nastrea on the other hand was tall and crowned by midnight dark hair, with vigilantly speckled green eyes. The woman’s armor was heavy, but organic with slick curves and tactical gear: ammunition cartridges, communications maintainers, chemical disperers, even a small active reactor that could be used for a rapid deployment vehicle or long term campsite. The pair trudged through the scraping forest floor.

As they walked, little did they know: they were being hunted. For deep in the shadows of the murky jungle, predators are abound always..

Mornin’ Entries

Sometimes things can be hard for me. Lately I don’t have many friends and I can get kinda lonely. I don’t want to bother anyone or annoy anyone so I try not to text to much or let them talk to me. I tell them I’ll always be here for them and that’s true, I care for the people in my life, but I’m afraid that if I constantly want to talk to them, they’ll get bored. I talk about a lot of things, I talk a lot in general, I don’t want them to be frustrated with me.

It can be difficult to try and communicate my feelings. On here sometimes I really want to talk to people, I want to get to know them, understand them. I’m intensely curious about so much, about anything and everything, including people and their interests and their ideas. But I can’t do that, you know? I can’t just say “hey, you wanna talk about alien abductions or dinosaur zoos till 3 am? Can I describe in fine detail how I would make a spaceship my home and live comfortably in space? Or what this music makes me feel and the images it gives me in my mind?” Lmao. People would look at me like I had three heads! For a long time in my life I’ve been the odd one out, I guess, which is ironic because I’ve always been the guy everybody knew but only had a select group of friends. Idk. Maybe I’m complaining? I don’t mean to whine. Anyway, good morning everybody, and good day to you all.

- your friend, Zachariah

Neighbors in the Rain

It is storming today. Bruised thunderclouds rumble, lit internally by crackling lightning; electric spears.

The man sits in his lawn chair on the patio, overlooking the sheer lawn and slick aphsalt street. Prim houses line both sides of this road. Rain pelts the roof, splashing with metallic noise.

A car drives quietly up the street, it’s electric engine softly humming. It’s the neighbors. More rain patters it’s window and windshield.

The man watches. Sips his coffee.

They’re the neighbors. They are short, maybe five feet tall at the absolute most. Their skin is grey like dull clay, and they are eerily gaunt, thin. Lengthy arms and legs, with hands that end in disturbingly long fingers. Four fingers. Enormous, almond shaped eyes stare out from bulbous heads on thin necks.

Thunder grumbles when the last car door is closed. The man watches as his neighbors disappear inside their small, suburban home.

He sips his coffee. The rain patters on.