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Stories of the Far (and other bad ideas)


Tea Leaf

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So I do little short writes, all of which are quickly written and unpolished. Now I know everyone will plot killing me over my commas. Well...

Themes of insanity and death may be present.

Pasted from my SU:

Spoiler

Red ichor soaked the clearing, soaked the ground, slathered the trees, and covered his hands. Every bit it covered steamed and smoked. The thing laid sprawled across the ground, limbs twisted with no life. The iron dagger glinted under the moon. In a room years later he stared at the crippled unmoving hand, talking to it. "I removed it, why do they hold up their hero? Why Gulliver?"

The people who found him at the scene of the murder were able to arrest this perfectly healthy and unwounded adult covered in blood. Shortly they figured out that he was quite insane, claiming their victim was a monster, cradling a hand claiming it was burned. 

The first cell in which the madman was kept had a landscape of an unreal place. But after the madman yelled at it for days straight he was moved. The portrait was strange, apparently the madman painted it years before the crime. It was of a green field, a blue sky dotted with sickly white, misshapen trees, and splashes of purple dots.

 

Note: The painting is a reference to a short story by Terry Pratchett.

 

Also my 333rd post...

Edited by The Last Fæ
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  • 2 weeks later...

Random prologue: 

I would like to think this is a message to those who will come after me. But I don’t know, I don’t know if this will sit at the bottom of a ditch or will be sold in every shop. I may have livened things up a bit, and if this isn’t what it was it is what it ought to be. My actions may have seemed wrong or cruel, and I know this and I accept my imperfections. 

I have more of that story if anyone is interested.

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Here have some gibberish that I wrote on a sleepless mind in a matter of seconds:

Pain as air, bringing through thoughts, left thoughts, through bringing air as pain.
Yourself, you here now, there you aren’t, aren’t you there now, hear you yourself.
Shame for hope, think what you see, see you, what think hope, for shame.

See
Much
Speed
To see
For life
To see
To it
Life
Far

Edited by The Last Fæ
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The scene of my mind:

Salt in the air close to the sea, wind whipping a field of low blue green stalks that feel of hope and sorrow. The moon, a scythe-like crescent carved into the fabric of the sky. Speckled glow from fireflies like holes into other worlds. A chill in the night air similar to hushed fear.

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