I’m probably going to have this page redirect to a Wiki page sometime soon. I’m not working on any writing at the moment – I’m busy finishing my degree right now – but I am definitely working on something. That something could probably go live around the end of the year.

So yeah. I don’t even know why you’re here.

wowwee u kild ursefl

The Sculptor walked confidently to the grimy wooden door. He turned the brass knob, then pulled the door open.

The Janitor sat in front of him, its arms crossed across its chest. The regular, dull wheeze of the gas mask buzzed throughout the cramped, dilapidated room. The Sculptor let the door swing shut behind him with a small metallic click. He smirked at the masked figure.

“Well? Am I The Critic Yet?”

The Janitor remained motionless.


The Sculptor’s smirk widened to a smile, teeth grinning at his new slave.

“Brilliant. Brilliant.”

The Sculptor looked down, staring at his muddy, clay-encrusted hands.

“Fucking BRILLIANT.”

He let his head swing back, wildly cackling at the roof, eyes wide open, ecstasy spilling from every pore of his being.

He had won.

“Up you get, Janitor. We’ve got work to do.”

The Janitor stood up, cape billowing out from behind it. The Sculptor turned to the door, ready to leave the fray victorious. He grabbed the brass knob, then twiste-


The Sculptor tried to twist the-


The Sculptor frustratedly rattled the doorknob, then spun around.

“Janitor, open this fucking…”

The Janitor was gone, a small pink walkie-talkie left on its seat.


The Sculptor looked around the room; he hadn’t noticed before, but there were no windows from which to escape. There were no air vents, there was no plumbing system. The only way out of the room was through the door or through the walls. A single, flickering incandescent light bulb glowed obstinately from the roof. The walkie-talkie buzzed, a feminine voice coming through.

“Hello Sculptor. I want to play a game.”

The Sculptor’s jaw dropped. He ran over and grabbed the walkie talkie, holding down the talk button.


The Sculptor released the button. The walkie-talkie released a sigh.

“See, that lack of creativity is why you’re here. You don’t even swear colourfully. What an utter absence of artistic vision. What a talentless hack you are.”

The Sculptor threw the walkie-talkie to the ground, stomping on it and snapping the cheap pink plastic. He turned and kicked the door, trying to gain some leverage. The broken device on the ground transmitted a laugh.

“No, you’re not getting out that way. Nor any other way, unfortunately. See, I at least have the foresight to plan for some contingencies.”

The Sculptor ignored the speech, driving his fists into the unyielding wood, screaming bland variants of the word “fuck”. The flickering light cast deep shadows along the walls, occasionally plunging the whole room into complete darkness.

“You’re going to want to turn around.”

The Sculptor ceased his assault, looking over his shoulder. A large wooden crate stood behind him, occasionally rattling. A muddy red substance was leaking out onto the ground. The Sculptor breathed deeply in apprehension, getting a pungent whiff of blood and shit. His face paled, his eyes widened. His life flashed before his eyes as he whispered a single word.


The Director cut in with a parting remark.

“I’d say it was nice knowing you. But it wasn’t.”

The flickering incandescent light bulb turned off for an instant. The Director held her ear to the walkie-talkie. A crunching of wood, a stifled scream, and then a final, echoing crack.

The Director pensively sipped her coffee. Continue reading

Drifting In The Not

“Hello, Timothy. My name is Samuel.”

I opened my eyes.

“Hi. Yes. Hello. Hi Samuel.”

“You look surprised to see me. Not expecting visitors?”

“I… yes. A little. Surprised, I mean. Yes.”

“Don’t worry about the headache. It’ll pass.”
“What? Listen, I… I’m a little busy, now. I think. Could you come back later?”

“I’m afraid not, Timothy. We’re on a tight schedule tonight.”

“Is this… is this about the rent? Are you the landlord? Look, can we talk about this later, maybe set a date, I’m really quite busy. Probably. I think I should be busy.”

“We’re all busy, Timothy. This isn’t about the rent. I’m here to make you an offer.”

“Listen, I really don’t have time for this, I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling. I have to get back to… working. So I can pay my rent. I don’t think I’ve paid my rent for a while.”

“You haven’t paid your rent in 37 years, Timothy.”

“I… what?”

“You haven’t paid your rent since you died.”

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense. I guess I’m probably not busy then. Wait, where have I been living?”

“You haven’t.”

“Oh. Right. That’s… interesting. What was your name again?”

“Samuel. I’ll be your operator this evening. I’m an intern here.”

“Oh. Here, being?”

“No, it isn’t actually.”


I closed my eyes. Not much point in seeing what isn’t.

“I’m here to make you an offer, Timothy.”

“Yes, you said that already, I think. Wait, you said I’m dead?”

“Yes, Timothy. We’ve been over this. Listen, would you like some coffee?”

“No, I drink tea. Do you have any?”

“I’m afraid not. We don’t have any coffee either, to be honest.”

“Oh. Then why did you offer me some?”

“The offer, Timothy.”

“You came here to offer me some tea?”
“Coffee, and no. Well, yes. Maybe. I guess what I’m offering is the opportunity to drink it.”

“So you’re offering me the opportunity to drink some coffee? I don’t drink coffee.”

“I’m offering the opportunity to drink tea, too. I’m offering you the opportunity to drink tea, and as part and parcel of that offer, the ability to drink, and in turn, an anchor point in time, wherein verb tenses make any sort of sense, and of course, and this really is the crux of what I’m offering here, you will have to be, which you currently aren’t. Interested?”

“I don’t know if I’m that thirsty.”

“Of course you’re not. Listen, this really is a once in a lifetime opportunity, inasmuch as you can still be said to be within the span of your own lifetime at the moment. I mean, time isn’t here either. It messes with your head for a while. Inasmuch as “a while” can be said to exist in any sense when time doesn’t. I asked the higher ups what they replace time with, once. They said something about a systematically generated segmentation of potential, considering a finite form of all possible states, and then ignoring the ones that they disagreed with, keeping the ones that follow, and so we’re left with this. I don’t get why we can’t just import time, to be honest. I heard they tried, once, but it took too long to get here.”

“You’re blathering.”

“Apologies. Listen, you died, right? Surely there’s something you didn’t get to do when you had the time, hey?”

“Honestly, I really don’t like coffee that much.” Continue reading

Eulogy For The Living

“Ruiz Duchamp.”

Ruiz stirred, rubbing his eyes and yawning as he woke himself up. He went to stretch his arms, but was stopped by the clanking metal restraints chaining him to the table. He looked up, staring into the terse face of Agent Green.


Agent Green had taken every possible precaution. The remainder of MTF Upsilon-18 were stationed outside the containment chamber; in retrospect, the last breach was only possible because Green was alone. The room was vacuum-sealed, with no methods of opening the door from the inside. Cameras observed every nook and cranny of the room, even well outside the visible spectrum. Green opened a thick Manila folder, spreading photographs and incident reports across the table.

“You’ve gotten our attention, Mister Duchamp. Seventy-three anomalies recovered in the last six months. All of which have your name on them.”

Ruiz leant as far over the table as his restraints would let him, looking at the pictures before falling back into a seated position, grinning.

“You’re missing a few.”

Green drove his right fist into Duchamp’s jaw; Ruiz jerked roughly in his chains, then rubbed his chin gingerly, grin dissolved. Green moved closer, staring into Duchamp’s eyes as menacingly as he could.

“You do not speak unless I ask you a question. Is that understood?”

Duchamp remained silent. Green sat down on his seat again, straightening his tie.

“Glad to see we can do this the easy way, Mister Duchamp.”

Continue reading


From: Pico
16 hartford street come beat the shit out of me or whatever

Ruiz Duchamp stared at the message blankly.

“Carol, can I-”

Ruiz looked up; Carol wasn’t behind the counter. Ruiz stood up, walking deliberately back to his studio. He paced past the foyer, entering the room filled with deathtraps. His brother had clearly turned self-destructive; the final phase of his antipsychotic withdrawal. Ruiz opened his medicine cabinet, moving his own antidepressants and multivitamins to the side, reaching to the back. He pulled out a small bottle of Clozapine, shoving it into his right pocket. He moved to his closet, grabbing a heavy brown bomber jacket. He pulled his elastic band pistol from an inner pocket, clenching it tightly in his left hand.

Ruiz sent two texts, then sprinted to Pico’s hideout.

From: Snipper
16 hartford street I’m all that’s left

The Sculptor sat and thought. Snipper was a reckless idiot, but on the other hand, he was an unpredictable one. Snipper had to be removed from the equation.

The Sculptor turned to the wall of clay, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

Continue reading

Snipped From The Same Cloth

Pico Wilson sat in the middle of his corpse pile.

“What would you do with the powers of a god?”

The corpses remained silent. This was partially because they were uncertain of how to answer, but mostly because they were dead.

“Most people couldn’t handle it. Some people would go out and solve world hunger, cure poverty, disease, inequality. Some would turn the world into their personal playground, wreaking havoc or destruction. Some people would just hide away, fearing what they might do if they lose control.”

Pico jumped from the pile of bodies, landing like a cat on the wooden floorboards. He had picked a long-abandoned building as his new home; mice scuttled around the walls, water slowly leaked from rusty pipes.

“It’s like this, right… if you make someone a god, if you give them power over reality and an undo key, absolve them of all responsibility or fear of retaliation? They stop caring. When you can solve any problem by clicking your fingers, then everything just stops being fun. Existence itself becomes joyless.”

The corpses remained silent.

“Seventy percent, according to the books. That’s how many gods kill themselves – sorry, ‘Reality Benders’. That’s how many deified, glorious beings decide to ragequit reality. It’s scary, isn’t it? Scary that beings like that think that the world we live in just isn’t worth it. Seventy percent figure it’s easier on them just to stop thinking. Forever. With numbers like that, how can ants like us compare? With people as great and powerful as that, how the fuck do I justify continuing my own existence? How does anyone?”

The corpses remained silent. Pico paced pensively.

Continue reading

Disposal and Discourse

“Sorry, Carol; forgot something.”


“You know, had to throw a blanket over a dead body. Wouldn’t want people to see it and panic.”

“Ah, of course. That’s understandable.”

Ruiz took his coffee back from the bemused barista, sipped it once to check the taste, then downed the cup in one gulp. He moved to his regular seat, pulling out his phone and checking for new messages.

From: Felix
Be there in ten.

Ruiz sighed, typing a response.

To: Felix
im in the coffee shop down the street

He tapped his chin pensively with the phone.

“So what are you up to today, Ruiz?”

Carol sat across from Ruiz, the counter unmanned.

“Well, I’ll have to dispose of that body, of course. Can’t just keep a blanket over it forever. Then I need to somehow track down my brother. He knows where I am, so he’s got the upper hand at the moment. He likes to play games, though; I imagine he’ll send me some kind of formal invitation to some kind of stupid ‘secret lair’. He’s always had a flair for the dramatic. Then I need to get him to start taking his meds again, since he’s almost certainly off them at the moment… After that, I’ll need to scare off a couple of scragglers, and then I’ll have saved the city. A true artistic community can be established, free from the judgement of old farts and everymen. We’ll be able to do something different; I don’t know what, but anything’s better than this. We’re sitting in squalor and stagnation, some too stupid or senile to see the sensibility of severing ties with shittier artists. We need someone to slice away the shit, shear off the silliness; perhaps all we need is someone to snip-”

“Alright, I get it, business as usual, mad artistry ahoy. Hang on, I’ve got a customer.”

Continue reading


Agent Green walked down the street, a Styrofoam cup of tea in one hand and a glowing cigarette in the other. Endless crowds of people flowed around him, occasionally bumping his arms or legs. Green moved to the right, turning down a secluded alleyway. Go straight, go straight, turn left, go straight, turn right, turn right, turn left, go straight, turn left…

Agent Green found himself in front of Safehouse-53.

Safehouse-53, from the outside, appeared to be an abandoned tailor shop. The storefront windows showed a small room, dust coating mannequins wearing antiquated dresses and suits. Green sipped his tea and walked to the wooden door, rapping on it and hearing his impact echo. He heard a shout from inside, gradually louder footsteps, and then Agent Tangerine swung the door open from the inside. Tangerine was standing two steps down, wearing a blue and orange Hawaiian shirt; the door did not, in fact, lead into the abandoned tailor shop, but into a basement level below.

“Gotta give up the smokes, Green.”

“Nothing keeps you warmer. And let’s face it, something else is going to kill me before these do.”

Tangerine shrugged half-heartedly, walking back down the stairwell; Green downed the last of his tea, threw his cup to the ground outside, clenched his cigarette in his jaw, then walked down just behind.

“How long have you been here?”

“Got here about ten minutes ago. They wipe you too?”

“Yup. I’ve got nothing after the horn went off.”

“Same here. On the downside, no idea what happened last night. Upside, whatever it was, we grabbed some Artists to talk to.”

“How many?”

“Eight all up, but three of them I know; you can take the other five.”

“Sounds good. Standard truth serums?”

“Unfortunately not. We’re all out of Class B hypnotics here; I’m pulling some more this afternoon.”

“Ah. Back to the classics until then?”

“Yup. Just like old times.”

Continue reading

Empty Unmarked Grave

>run fmc.exe -t
Foundation Mail Client (Text Only Mode)
You have 1 new message. You have 5739 old messages.
>readmsg new
Reading All New Messages…
1 new message found.

From: The Administrator (admin.5b3j6vb2kju3_intra@
To: O5 Primary Reroute Address (o5.5b3j6vb2kju3_intra@
Cc: Senior Staff Primary Reroute Address (ss.5b3j6vb2kju3_intra@
Subject: Now Cracks A Noble Heart
Over my many years as Administrator of the Foundation, I have found the job progressively less taxing.
My responsibilities grew at first, but with my institution of the O5 council, my job was functionally reduced to an optional veto on high level votes.
I have not used my veto power in the history of the Foundation. This speaks volumes of the competence of the elected personnel.
As I have grown older, my ability to continue my duties to the Foundation as a whole has drastically deteriorated.
My position does not continue to have any significance, or indeed, relevance, to this organisation.
As such, effective immediately, I am stepping down from my role, with no incumbent to take my place.
This will likely change nothing of your day-to-day operations, and I hope you will continue on with your work as normal.
Friends and colleagues, I leave the fate of the world in your capable hands.
Thank you for your service.
The Administrator

You have not accessed this terminal in ten minutes. Do you require assistance?
Does the black moon howl?
>logoff Override BaseCommand *1-0001
Goodnight, sweet prince; and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

Continue reading


Is he willing to stop me, but not able?
Then he is not omnipotent.
Is he able, but not willing?
Then he is malevolent.
Is he both able and willing?
Then why am I still alive?
Is he neither able nor willing?
Then why call him God?

Six hundred and twenty.
Seven hundred and forty.
Between these lies eternity.
All returns to me.

I don’t work the same as other people.
You look inside me and I’ve got the same blood and guts and so on and so forth.
But there’s just something about my brain.

It’s been twisted, you understand, twisted by a man who thought it would be fun.
Or perhaps not.
Perhaps he kept me the same and twisted the world.
Or perhaps not.

the teacher asked the student
“why is five”
the student asked the teacher
“where is your face”

all false and yet the only truths
a parable for all to witness
take a good hard look
hence I deal you some fucking mindworks

Continue reading