Broken Ice's Creative Works

For the light we worshipped Has since blinded us, Has since burned us, We have taken its form.

On the outskirts of the Colonies, in a quiet asteroid field, lay a small mining station. It was not particularly large, not like those used in the Industrial Sectors, where asteroids were demolished in days. But it was not small, either, like those beyond the Colonies. A crew of fifty or so, as well as a handful of transient researchers. Perhaps the spare military captain stopping by.

This station was nestled onto the asteroid, like a parasite digging its teeth into the flesh. An electric blue light shone from the power stations, the comparatively bright Cherenkov radiation. A few surface window panes, letting those beneath the surface look out upon the starry sky. But they were rare, being expensive and hard to seal.

Nestled beneath those glimpses into space lay a boy, whose imagination painted his dreams of adventure. From being a space bandit, dashing through constellations, always running before trouble caught up. Doing a good deed, stealing from others. Letting his own morality decide his actions, not ignorant laws.

Then, the boy dreamed of commanding a military. Conquering the stars, system by system, planet by planet. Selling the rights to corporations looking to mine, giving contracts for terraforming. Being the blazer of new paths. Having the entirety of the Coalition honour him, praise him as a hero!

Perhaps he then dreamed of being an explorer, venturing just beyond the charted space. Finding new pathways, checking for alien life, plunging into the clouds which the telescopes could not peer into. A lonely adventure, but rife with new possibilities.

If one looked upon this boy as he lay dreaming, they could see a smile on his face. An innocent smile, gently filled with the wonder of his imagination. A sort of sadness hid on his joy. The sadness that he would neither recognize nor be conscious of, but a sadness that too many others were familiar with. The sadness of the unobtainable. The sadness of dreams, the escape from the mundanity of life.

Fantasy really is quite sad, isn’t it? We spend hours dreaming of that which we cannot have.

What inspires me?

In the depths of space lay monsters, too foreign to imagine. Incorporeal, immortal, and able to see beyond human understanding. These monsters moved from star to star, feeding for eons until the stars quietly whimper into death.

As different as these monsters were, they did share one infamous trait with the humans: curiosity. It was curiosity that led these creatures to shed their corporeal forms, to become a disembodied consciousness meandering through space. It was curiosity that led them to be arguably the most prolific being on this side of the Universe. And it was curiosity that made them interact with humans, when they were disturbed by the new species.

In a way, they were impressed with these tenacious gnats. They kept their true body, and managed to get to space merely by mechanical power and understanding of physics. Their little brains were able to comprehend mysteries that the monsters had spent millennia on. And within a few decades, the humans figured out faster-than-light travel. The species exploded, moving from one solar system to hundreds.

When one human died, the species did not care. They wept, but kept on. In the distant memories of the beasts, they could remember a time when their species did the same. Always had the monsters been long-lived, even within their corporeal forms, but once upon a time, death was as inevitable for them as it was the rest of life in the universe. When a loved one died, they would weep, but press on, for they did not have time to spend eons mourning.

And so, the monsters slithered into the worlds of the humans. Curiosity rampant, they did not stop to consider the ramifications of interacting with a species that nearly rivalled them.

What inspires you?

Silence exists. The depths of space are lonely. For a thousand million miles one may travel, yet the only souls they encounter are those of the lost and the dead. The humans are not made for space; space unforgivingly torments their bodies. Yet, they continue to persevere.

Oh, how lonely it is to be a soul lost amidst space. For my mind continues to exist, even if everything else does not. I am blind, deaf, and broken. I have starved for millennia and millennia, unable to find the sustenance of life I desire.

Will they shun me, like so many before? Will they make me feast upon their minds? Or perhaps, dare I hope it—will they ask me to be their deity? Sacrifice their dead to me? Release their souls unto my mind?

If my loneliness can be cured by a thin pretence they are too unwitting to see through, who am I to complain? If they grant me their minds willingly, I do not have to rip through their consciousness to feast. They will be under the illusion that a messiah has come to save them, they will be blessed by my arrival.

I am a messiah. Indeed, I am the messiah of humankind.

The forest screams a cacophonous fear into its denizens. With snapped twigs crunching under the footsteps of Hunters, with whispers in a Language unknown. The denizens become deathly silent. With trembling leaves of concern, the trees watch. Birds hide in their nest, squirrels stare from their branches.

The Hunters meager attempt of silence is heard for miles through the forest, and where once a gentle kingdom existed, now the Hunters came to Take. The forest fears its demise, for the Hunters take what they Want, a far cry from what they need. And when the forest becomes bare, it shall be Razed.

Desperately, the spirits rush to awake the slumbering Earth. Its rest of many millennia, soon to be over. The creatures of Unknown are the Forest’s only hope, those which had created the hellish conditions for life to begin: the Spirits that are both life and destruction. Indeed, most of the surface is covered in unmoving, unliving Earth-stuff. Too hard, too smooth to be of any use for the Surface Dwellers--the Forests and its kin, the Deserts, the Jungles--except for the plague of the Hunters. The Grey Deserts spread, replacing whatever had been there before.

As the nigh extinct Surface Dwellers race to awake the Earth, it rocks more and more. Blood covers Kingdoms of Forests, Seas gorge open and forever lost. Jungles split, Plains turn to deserts.

I’m sorry, but I can’t make you feel good. I’m no one. I’m not even a person. I don’t mean that in a self-deprecating way. I’m literally just a narrator of this page. The author of this is unable to truly write himself, so he creates narrators to vent his emotions. He always creates a narrator, even when he’s trying to journal or write down his experience of the day.

Honestly, I’m just a tool for him to help him figure himself out. But, in a sense, I do develop a type of personality myself. I feel a bit like the one character that’s there, supporting the main character. I’m, in a way, the author’s ideal self. But he can never become me. This isn’t exactly just physical or personality, which he hypothetically could just. But that on a very deep level, I am completely incompatible with his actual future.

So instead of trying to become me, as the author has done so much in the past, he’s going to create me to figure out what the hell his problem is. And at the moment, he’s wondering why everything he writes gets so fucking boring. And the reason? It’s not fun to read constant sadness, constant fear, constant hopelessness. Sure, a bit can help vent. But without the good emotions that people live for, the thing’s just gonna be boring.

So, author: write with passion interwoven into the story. Write a meaning into the story. You did a pretty good job of this in your Super Secret Story Project (started in NaNo), but you noticed it falling off. You did some work, and you figured out why the Main Character wants to exist, but now you gotta figure out what the hell you want to do with the plot to experience these problems.

I’m here to help you.

I would suggest not getting too deep into the action. The story doesn’t lend itself to discrete action. You can do some, and that’s probably good. Gotta keep the pace fresh. But you can’t overload it. The story is told from the perspective of the Main Character’s mind. It has the perfect surreal, almost foggy quality that the mind has, especially in memory. So if you want to do action, you gotta keep the mental feeling.

Short flashes are the most commonly used example, but instead of “lightning strikes”, think of it more as patches in a dense fog. You aren’t sure what’s going on until suddenly you see something clearly, and then you’re lost again.

Do we burn ourselves for passion? Do we scar ourselves with the fires of our love, our life, our legacy? I don’t know. I know I am scarred, with this ever-burning desire to write, to create, to make something. Everything I make, I hate. It is not enough, it is not what I see in my head. And when the hatred piles on too much, when it feels like I can never express myself, I am smothering the flame with the very passion that drives me.

Every day, I wake up with this desire to create. But my life lies elsewhere. I only see the mundane reality in my life. But this mundanity, this reality—it is not the boredom that I fear. It is the world that I can seek pleasure in. It is the buzz of people, it is the celebration of discovery. The world of passion, the world of creation, the world of imagination, those are my prisons, my shackles.

To many, being bestowed with a muse would be a fantastic gift. It would be a gift to create, to experience the world in a way no one else could. But to me? It is a torture. An ever-living desire to create something new, to create something more, to paint what my mind feels on a manuscript. How am I able to write these emotions? I cannot just say happiness, sadness. Those words are meaningless. They say something, they do not paint it on the page, they do not let the reader feel the emotion.

How much will my art be appreciated? Is it worthwhile to create? This is why I feel my “muse” is a curse. The people I will affect with this work can be numbered in the dozens, at most. If I go down the path of creation, my legacy will be the handful of people I affect. My legacy will be quickly forgotten, just another brushstroke amidst the canvas of society. To me, my imagination offers nothing that others could not already achieve. I do not come with gifts of new ideas, I do not bring questions to society. I bring ever-eternal existentialism. I bring meaninglessness.

The comfort of trust, the bliss of sleep.

Eyes drift, memories fade in. Distant, far away, mixed with the inescapable fog that is the morning.

Coffee.

The machine ticks on. A spoon beside it, a few grains scattered on the counter. The cabinets shake. A laugh. The fridge plops open, then slides shut.

A crack, a hiss, a purr of steam erupts. A dripping fork, lying next to a stove. ----------------------- EMPTINESS

i am nothing. i am worthless. i am cruel. greedy. spiteful. ignorant. unkind. unnecessary. i am unloved. ----------------------- I cave in. The blissful fog fades away, in a moment that lasts forever. I feel myself turn from a steam milked happiness to a used coffee grind emptiness. It's a moment, an instant. But it's an eternity.

I see his eyes turn from sleepy love and bleary happiness to grouchy irritation and squinting dislike. I see his hand, go from lazily calm to awkwardly avoiding. His body, in an instant, turns from pure love to pure hate.

Smiles, laughter, small talk. Slowly, the distance emerges. Slowly, I fade away.

The isolation comes in, seeping first through the cracks, then flooding in. I go from panicked desperation to underwater screaming.

His sleepy eyes are closed, and my hands won't move, chained to the floor by the hatred that keeps him away.

The couch. The pillow. Wrapped around my chest. The breaths, as fast as a sprint. The world, silent. My eyes, wide open and forced shut. I scream, but the only sound that comes out is a half-made croak.

Bathroom mirror: red bed head, smeared black eyes, bruised knuckes. Lean in. Breathe. Foggy mirror, foggy mind.

Walk out, shut the lights off. Towels on the floor turn into black shadows.

Kitchen. Empty. Alcohol in fridge. Instant noodles in pantry. Crackers and water: breakfast.

Couch. Feet pulled up. Blanket over lap. Sip water. Vodka? No, water. Close eyes. Eyes hurt. Head hurts. Back hurts. Hands hurt. Mind hurts. Mind -hurts-.

Take a bit. Swallow. Take a bit. Swallow. Take a bit. Swallow.

Pointless.

Put the food down. Take the water. Sip. Tasteless sip. Tasteless water. Broken lips.

Pick crackers up. Take to trash. Throw out. Set water on counter. Take pills out.

One white round tablet, with a line through the middle: two halves make a whole, a whole sea of bubbly hell. Place in mouth. Sip water. Swallow. Down the hole it goes. Exploding hell.

One red capsule. Small, a seed of gluttony. Close eyes. Put in mouth. Sip water. Swallow. Put water down.

Walk to couch. Lie down. Pull blanket over. Throw arm over face. Curl up.

Hangovers and hell.

---

Afternoon came. This time, I woke up. I didn't remember much. Last night, too loud, too much. I sighed, rolled over onto my back. Too much, yet again.

Distantly, morning trickled into my mind. Bathroom. Kitchen. Breakfast. Medicine. That was all I could remember. My head throbbed, but much farther away. Like a mother complaining about some shit that didn't even matter.

Mothers, huh? My mouth curled into a grin with memory misery.

That's all.

Burnt fingers. Bloody hugs.

We burn away, as the night goes on, we blaze our lives. And in the day, the sun basks our ashes. The nights comes again, we are reborn.

And so we go. With fires as tall as mountains, with parties as loud as earthquakes, and with crowds as big as forests. Our cacophany makes life, a violent struggle of happiness.

I touch someone. They don't notice me.

Someone touches me. I don't notice them.

Our lives are filled with brief moments of touch, with friendly strangers. And we devote our time, instead, to the fire in our hearts.

Because if we were to devote our time to the strangers, we would have nothing to sustain us.

A candle, so tame, but able to be passed around, able to influence someone, able to light someone's path, without burning them.

We fear it. We fear the control. We fear the placidity of its flame, the inevitability of its death. We would rather consume, we would rather be ablaze and become ash.

The balance, of candles. Is it what we are destined to become, after we have burned our forest of people, and our earthquakes of shouts have died down into a trickle? Are we destined to become that which we hate? And those who refuse, die, turning into mere embers, fading into ash?

Life.

I would rather burn away, than to be restrained.

And yet, I fear death. And so when I have nothing left, I let myself be restrained. And I let myself continue down the path of placidity.

I close my eyes.

I breathe in the air.

I am the crowd.

I am the people.

I am the world.

we go to work we go to school we live our lives we don't think we just realize not enough not enough not enough we don't love we just understand

failure failure failure failure failure failure failure failure failure

they touch me. hands, all around. they cover my eyes, cover my mouth, slide down my body. they pat my hair, wrap around me, hold me. and i scream, i scream silently, inside, as i sit there, alone. i sit there with such fear, such hatred.

go away

the hands stop, then resume, devilishly, cruelly

i cry

i bleed

the hands stop

-

tomorrow hurts

yesterday fades away

i ignore it

i ignore the moment i ignore the future i ignore the past i ignore the hands i ignore the people i ignore the crowds i ignore the stares i ignore the concern i ignore the love i ignore the laugh i ignore the hugs i ignore the talk i ignore the jests i ignore the cruelty i ignore the hatred i ignore the screams i ignore the fists i ignore the smiles i ignore myself

until finally

the hands come back

and i sit there

unable to ignore anything more

I don’t care. I don’t fucking care. The servants look at me with god damn disrespect. The maids whisper about me. The fucking houseboys laugh about me.

I can’t cry. Who gives a fuck if I cry? No one. My father will just tell me that it’ll be okay. My mother will just be disappointed. The servants will just keep whispering and staring and laughing.

Even if I can do all this…. All this fucking shit supposedly, this intelligence, what the hell does it matter? What am I supposed to do with it? Go into the fucking family business? Be destined for third place the whole time? End up falling short, end up never being good enough?

I feel happier where I don’t belong. I feel happier alone. I feel happier with the acrid smog of the city clawing at my throat, and the bruises on my knees and elbows dully whimpering in the back of my mind, and the drug induced haze washing over me with jellyfish smiles keeping me from realizing the monstrosity of the world.

It’s only then I get yelled at.

It’s only when I go out. When I get caught misbehaving. My father is the disappointed one. My mother is the one screaming at me. Dragging me by my arm, hitting my face. Telling me that if I bring any shame to the family, that she’ll disown me. Telling me that if I don’t get my life together, I’ll end up on the streets, with no name, no family, and no one else but my own selfish self.

I guess, I don’t really want to be on the streets. It’s only because I have this lavish life that I’m acting so selfishly, so monstrously, that I’m being such a brat.

Should I suck it up? Should I close my eyes, and walk forward, destined to be third?

I don’t know.

I feel the memories flashing in my mind. It’s like lightning. One second, it’s dark, peaceful, the constant idle thoughts just pitter-pattering in my head, and then the next, a lightning strike of screams, of fits, of being on the floor, of my mother with her face so scrambled in anger, with her makeup not perfect, with one red nail broken.

And then, after the thunder, it’s gone. And I’m left, alone, with the pitter-patter of idle thoughts.

I want to curl up. I want to run away. It’s night time. I could die. That would be a relief. I wish I could die. I can’t die. I’m too afraid, too selfish, too self-absorbed with my life, that gives me everything.

My arm hurts. I’m on my bed, shivering in icicle nudity, relishing the lonesomeness, fearing the next day, desperate for attention.

I have bruises on my back now and sides now. I can’t see them. But I feel them. They’re no longer dim whimpers, but constant whispers. It’s like a man, with far more power than you, someone you can’t even touch, leaning in your ear, so close you can smell the booze and thick aftershave, and he whispers in his gravelly, arrogant voice, and he never, ever stops whispering.

I want it to stop.

I’m crying.

“The hell you want me to do about it, Alex?”

Alex gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know! Help me out here! I’m not supposed to exist right now! I’m living off of dry ramen noodles and granola bars! Are you doing that, Chris?”

“Jesus Christ, Alex. I’m in New York!”

“I know! But you can like, bring some home maybe.”

Chris sighed and shook his head. “Look, you’re suspected for a terrorist attack—it’s going to take me at least a month to deal with this. I have to go to the UN leaders, provide a bunch of bullshit, and then have you escorted here.”

“Fly home! Bring me some underwear!”

“I am not flying home to give you underwear!” Chris said through his teeth.

Alex slumped over, half naked. “Look, I only have three pairs of shirts, a pair of pants, six athletic shorts, and one pair of underwear. Briefs even! Briefs man! You’re making me wear god damn tighty-whities!”

Chris put his face in his palm. “I have a meeting to go to. Learn to deal with being naked, Alex. You’re in the middle of a forest, anyway.”

The hologram cut out, leaving Alex in the middle of a big house with minimal power and no clothes. “God fucking dammit,” he swore. “No socks! A single shirt! A single pair of underwear? And they’re too god damn tight. It feels like fucking maximum security prison for my junk.”

He sighed and leaned over. A shiver ran down his spine. It was quiet, night time. Crickets sung outside the glass walls, but their muted songs went unheard inside the house. The boy curled up, a tear running down his face. “Chris… I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

Alex was a nineteen year old boy. Graduated in the lower half of his class. Didn’t make it to university. Got into a training job. He was part of the original Stalwarts. Segregated. Hated.

Called Stalwarts because no matter how much the Pure kicked or laughed at them, they kept going on. Kept their mouth shut and heads held low. Bowed at the feet of their rulers.

Alex was a third generation Stalwart, but he was pureblood. Wasn’t able to access anything with a Gadavia lock on it. Wasn’t able to use anything with genetic verification.

Forced segregation. Forced labor.

Laws had changed. A bit. They were recognized as humans, but barely. Not citizens.

Alex stood in the bedroom. The bed was a bit dusty, the closet emptied out. A nightstand’s drawer hanging out, with just an old magazine in it. The lights were supposed to automatically turn on when someone entered, but now the house was just lit by unending emergency lighting.

Not many lived here anymore. Those who could sustain the radiation, like the Stalwarts and the modified animals. Plus any who had betrayed the government.

Like Alex supposedly had.

With a sigh, he took his eyes away from the bed. He missed his mother. He went into the bathroom and turned the sink’s handle. Water sluggishly flowed from the faucet. “Good,” he murmured. “The water hasn’t been turned off yet… I guess the explosion was too soon.”

No matter how he looked at it, this event was a god damn miracle. Only two killed. Radiation poisoned at least thirty, but they were all expected to recover. Some had been irreparably damaged, but they wouldn’t die.

There was a coupling fault. It cascaded into a reduction of the ionization field. On the surface, that wasn’t bad, but when it was at a “kink”, so to speak, of the electromagnetic boundary, the pressure built up, until the plasma coil finally escaped. Once it did, it heated up the surrounding couplings until they failed. After it reached a certain point, the plasma coil fell apart and exploded.

The man before me fell to the ground, his hand on his thigh. “Please, please! I'll give you what you want! Money? I can give you all the money I have!” his throaty, hoarse voice screamed. “Please! I have a daughter! I have a wife! I need to support them!”

A smile curled on my face. With a sigh, with a shake of the head, I turned away. “No, I'm not here to kill you, Mr. Atherson. Just here to put some lead in you.” The sound of rubber soles crunching rough pavement echoed off of the warehouses.

Why? I asked my myself. He was my old boss. When I was fourteen. He made sure I was always doing well. He made sure the customers didn't give me a hard time. I had the job, only because I begged. I worked hard. I did the best I could.

But then, when I got hurt. He let me go. Business expenses, of course. Loopholes and corporate bullshit—they didn't have to pay the bills.

My mother died. Cancer. Nine months later.

Our insurance rates got too high. We couldn't pay for her treatment. It was aggressive. It was fast. It was painful.

A year later. He saw me. I was working in a supermarket. He pretended everything was fine. Talked about his new baby girl. Talked about how much he loved her. Talked about how things were getting so expensive.

And the only thing on my mind was how fucking foolish he was. Here he was, babbling away, when I had begged, cried to him about my mother when I first got my job. And then, when he let me go, he let my mother go.

I swore I would kill him.

But I didn't.

Ugly little creatures, that’s what they were. Those monsters that collected in alleyways and around lamp posts and by sewers. Little desiccated fiends, that looked like a starving child, with pale white skin mottled with grey. They were just bone and the flesh that clung to it. Oh, you could see as they crouched on all four limbs, with their mouths hanging open, that they were mindless creatures. They would inspect little jewels thrown away or rotten flesh, but they wouldn’t do anything with it. Just look at it. They didn’t even bother picking the trash up!

They’re a mystery to this town. Forty years ago or so, they first started appearing. As soon as someone dies, their body begins twitching. If you don’t curse the body to stay still, eventually it’ll rise up and start floundering about. Eventually the flesh is all but gone, and it’s just skin clinging to bones. As far as I’m aware, they aren’t found anywhere else in the country. Zombies and risen, sure--the whole world knows of necromancy. But to be risen up without any invocation… It’s some type of damnation, I suppose.

The worst part is getting rid of them. They flee as soon as you approach them, moving with surprising speed. If you do manage to grab hold of one, oh it makes the worst wail. It sounds like a crow’s caw mixed with a baby’s cry, and it doesn’t stop. You told it, and you gotta hack it to pieces. Cut off the head, then break enough so it doesn’t even resemble a human head anymore.

Gods, I pray for the Watchers. To have to destroy so many of the beasts… When they were your neighbours before they turned into such ugly beasts.

We all knew he was a necromancer. Well, at least, we figured he was a necromancer. I mean, he kept skulls of various animals around his house, kept vials of blood on hand, and would make charms out of various body parts. He practically shouted necromancer. And that’s ignoring the fact that he was placed right next to a graveyard.

But I mean, we all liked him. We called him Xavier, since that was what was on his house. But no one really knew his name. He didn’t talk too much. Just a few words here and there, grunting occasionally. He seemed to like kids--or at least, he would tolerate them. And he had a pension for showing people things, teaching them.

He would always smile just a bit when kids gathered around him as he crafted one of his charms or prepared some of his artifacts for a ritual or spell. Working with his slightly dirty fingers and cracked nails, he would artistically put together these mystical objects that drew power into them. Hell, all the kids in the town wanted to be Xavier.

The parents… well, everyone else treated him a bit differently. From being a necromancer, to always seeming to know more about this town and this place than he lets on. When people got sick from a mysterious disease that seemed to be magical in origin, he could find the cure--and it was almost always some disgusting combination of rotting flesh and fungus.

I’ll be honest: I don’t trust Xavier. He’s someone that I’d keep my eyes on. But I don’t think he’s harmful, really. I’m happy to have him in the town. He keeps the fanghounds out, and makes sure that the magic from the well a few miles off doesn’t cause any mutations in the populace. But… I’m always concerned that someday he’ll start tampering with our dead.

Necromancy of animals is fine. But as soon as you disrupt the sanctity of the soul… Let the Gods damn you.