Rebirth

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...and a long drag later Isaiah is following Sebastian. Then he’s walking faster. Finally he runs right by Sebastian.

The cleric begins to run and the celestial takes flight close to the ground and burst into a ball of fire aimed straight for them.

Isaiah drops to one knee and using his back Sebastian propels himself high into the sky and then fires a blast launching him too high up to see. Isaiah sinking and vanishing into the dirt mere seconds...

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Transistor VI

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...agony roars from every direction, all at once. Continuous, they twist and morph into demonic laughs and back to horrid screams. Hundreds, thousands, millions of them stacked on top of each other repeating this monstrous loop.

And then a child phases into view. He stands before Isaiah terrified, shook to his core.

Isaiah’s profusely amused at the petrified child. “Hey,” he says, “kid!”

Sabastian fights to look away and loses the battle. His neurons are firing panic signals left and right. Trembling hands, sweaty forehead, wide eyes and Isaiah is watching the kid conclude the worst in his mind.

“Are you okay?” Isaiah asks, now getting worried the child hasn’t yet reacted.

The Sabastian goes to speak, but pauses. Profound confusion mixed with fear...

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We Judge Ourselves

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...best means.

This fact tells us one thing: Who we are is who we believe other people think we are at any given moment. Because we are not actually perceiving another person’s perspective or interpretation of us, we are actually just judging ourselves all the while pretending another person is doing so. We’re merely using our own subjective information to interpret and conclude on our interactions and observations of others, but it is still us doing the interpreting and concluding.

In other...

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Writers Must Write All

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...them. Thus the question rises, whether they’re avoided because of the fear of labels. And it makes no sense. They’ll be avoided because for some reason the delusion dictates that a writer is just a writer and a philosopher is just a philosopher? There’s no trace of where this twisted concept of what a “writer” allegedly is came from. A writer writes.

And I love to theorize on physics.

And I love to create through chemistry.

It’s unknown why the struggle is to shine light on these things. A writer that doesn’t write is no writer. Only fiction gets written. Words which exist only within text and thought. Imaginary constructs with sub-dimensional intelligence navigating those realities. But these things hold no meaning, no purpose. They are intentional creations which assures...

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Backdoor

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...what delusions have to be in place to believe something would change this. There is no purpose. She might as well be nameless to me. Ineffective enough to be titled The Reason I Write. I mean, every time she rolls by I write about her and I write more than I’d even expect too. Writer’s Block inspires me. I love her.

She’s a failure, but I love her and welcome her presence. I know I’ll get writing done when she’s around.

There is a feeling of pity because the turnout is always the same. It forces me to question whether her head is in the right place or if she’s lost some screws in her ventures torturing...

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Eight Lives I

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...arms and legs. She touches around her body. She’s a young woman, curves, boobs, thumbs. But also not entirely like the humans, large cat ears instead of human ears, nails a bit longer and sharper than human nails and a long fuzzy white tail.

At a pond in the forest she gets a good look at her reflection. She’s half cat half human. Or a human with a tail, cat ears, whiskers the color they were when she was a cat, but human sized. “I’m kind of hot!” she says staring at her reflection...

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