the child of a writing exercise-- The Harvester
Okay, brohams and broskis, the godawful words below are the result of a writing exercise, like the ones your 7th grade creative writing teacher made you do. It’s ridiculous and poorly formatted, but it’s my writing, so I love it nonetheless, laugh at it with me. It’s like the opposite of show, don’t tell, it’s legitimately all telling. Also, be warned, mild fantasy violence.
Silver trickled down her veins. In a vampiric kind of way, but if vampires liked metalloids instead of blood. Each new victim, an opportunity, with potential to bait an even bigger catch, enormous compared to her meager victims, whose death’s she was using like stones in a river to reach her ultimate goal. No matter the resistance or insistence she got from the Others, she was sure, in the way that mule would insist the sky is purple, that the deaths were necessary. After all, to use others is the only way to reach your goals. She needed the strength, serenity, and perhaps stupidity which only came from a dragon’s tongue; practically encrusted with jewels, stronger than armies, the elements, magic, and most importantly, time. Her desperation, the cause behind her most recent victim, the growing need for a dragon’s tongue, is why she was arguing with a merchant about the minute mechanics of The Apparatus. She would argue the real crime was the price the merchant refused her negotiated offers, at such a reasonable price-- she got it for free, and he didn’t get the magic ripped violently from his body. She felt that it was a very fair price, as usually, it’s preferable to keep most all of your organs inside your body, at least if you’re human. Still, the merchant declined, and he did, in fact, get the magic violently torn from his body, like an extra sticky pore strip, she dug in all the nooks and crannies, through his guts, intestines, and the dark side space near his heart, so tightly pressed that not even a molecule of Reality could fit there, only the tricky, tricky magics that belong to a shopkeeper— No, it was a peasant kind of magic, the rough, coarse kind, that matches a farmer’s hands. The memories stored in magic always tasted different. The overflowing love he held for his wife, a litigator, tasted tangy; she didn’t like it. She pondered for a second time whether or not his wife would love him back with or without magic. She hoped for the merchant’s sake that some of his magic didn’t soak into the floorboards. After several frustrating experiences with some very odd Congressmen and a talking duck, she knew that orphaned magic stained wood like narcissism stained cheaters’ hearts, at least narcissism was sweet. But there’s was no time left to ponder, not even stained wood, so she left the shop The Apparatus in hand. She passed through the door frame. Didn’t bother asking the gods for pardon. What could the gods possibly do in their infinite uselessness, nothing, only create the Harvesters to keep their own flawed world running.
