wytchcroft: heavent sent (vortex)
recently recovered piece of nonsense...

And now we present this year’s exciting episode of Voyage to Wherever!

Strap in and belt up as our heroes, Captain James ‘Torch’ Beam, Lummy and Titch prepare for blast off.
Can they solve the mystery of the disappearing think tank? Do we care?
Are we supposed to believe that anyone even noticed? Find out now!

Read more... )
wytchcroft: heavent sent (JC)
Extracts from The Deep Stuff a sequel to The Solar Windmill re-edited and posted for a prompt from here
and see also here


Falling, it’s extreme. Some people make a sport of it.
Dress it up any way you like, spread yourself, use whatever you’ve got, some fancy jet, a ret-board, a parachute, wings, it’s still falling.

“No, it’s not, it’s flight. What, you think you fall... with wings - how butt crazy is that?”  Halley, of course.

“Whatever.” and Eva sulking.

“Whatever yourself grll-fren', you can fall all you want. Me - I’ll be flying.”

"Woah! Halley, cheese much? You practiced that one in the bathroom huh?" and Eva laughing. "Well, ok, ok, you fly – then if I fall you'll catch me.”

Read more... )
wytchcroft: heavent sent (solaris)



She remembers the old saying; dead men tall no tales. But people are fools and a dead man can tell a lie just as well as any other man. Karin looks at her hand. It has frozen in mid-air.
I was to going to strike him
, even her own inner voice sounding dulled, numb now.

It must be reaction, such an irrational urge, as if she could slap him back into breathing, like a mid-wife.
She had played that role once; her older sister Rheya sharing the same cramped compartment and with one child already to show for the affections of her husband. He was a good man but she had barred him from the occasion, exiled him to the same small cupboard as their fractious mother. She was wailing loud enough for them all.
“Dear God, another child! What shall we do? How are we to cope, to raise another one - infants, children? My God!” 

All the while her sister gasping like a steam-press but calm, issuing out her instructions; more towels, more water, fetch a painkiller, fixing her with wild, wild eyes. “And remember Kari’, slap him, a good smack mind you, on the arse, ok? He – gasp! – has to – gasp! – breathe!” A shriek then, the last subterranean motion and suddenly Karin is holding something red, slick as an oil fouled bird... 
...and her free hand had frozen for some reason, she just couldn’t do it, could not make the hand connect with the slippery thing clutched so inexpertly in her arms.  

No, she couldn’t do it then and she cannot do it now. All she can do is stand and watch that hand of hers, frozen in mid-motion, perfectly stilled, not even a tremor. Her nails, she can see, are remarkably clean – all things considered.

And then the long elastic moment reaches its end at last - and time snaps back into action.
She is a metal girl again, once more carrying out her task like a machine, like a robot.
Brushing the dust from an old chair she seats herself before the disused control desk, scanning the dials and switches then twisting and clicking them one by one, row by row, and at the last, the lights. 
Such a complete darkness.

“Honestly,” she chides, “you are becoming a melancholic, we’re shut up like a couple of old cats!”

Her fingers are fumbling for the lever. Ah, here it is. “Probably a lovely day outside, come on, let’s see shall we?”
The windows of the apartment fly open their shutters and the blind whirs away back into its slot, the bright sunlight pours in.

“See? Now, that’s enough of your silliness Harry, it’s time for breakfast!”

She smiles indulgently as she turns to him where he sits looking pale and bemused at his own sudden end.

wytchcroft: Knife album detail distortion by me (bird man)
After making a cheap crack at his expense in a previous entry, i decided to pull down Jung's Memories, Dreams and Reflections from the shelf last night, and - just to rub his synchronous point home to me - what do i find?
a story i've been piling through sundry volumes elsewhere trying to locate!

the story in question turns out to be contained in a case history that i had woefully forgotten:

an anonymous fifteen year old girl becomes mute and is sent to a sanatorium, under Jung's treatment she gradually begins to communicate and tells him the following tale of her experiences...
Read more... )
wytchcroft: dot dash (vail)

In every dream home a holiday:

Mrs Norbitt always looked forward to the holidays. Two weeks dedicated to the pursuit of rest, hang work, hang the chores, feet up and fingers curled round a decently fortified iced tea. She could look forward to chatting with friends – or ignoring them all together. There would be the fun of lazy meals cooked at scrappy times or even ordered in, and of course there would be restaurants. Maybe even the theater, oh it had been so long that it was a definite effort to recall when last they, the Norbitt’s of Inchwood Heights, had taken to the town. Mrs Norbitt had flounced to her hearts content in a new dress and fresh heels before sitting in the seats (somewhat uncomfortable, truth be told) of the Grand Theater to catch the latest show. And in the holidays there was always a real buzz, everyone getting a kick from it, no surreptitious snoozing in the dark.

Read more... )

wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)


Like the breaking of a fever, the thing called time - fractures, cools, ebbs away, a wave in retreat. There is debris left behind all the flotsam and jetsam washed up. There are husks of butterflies everywhere; dropping like leaves from the edges of windows, from the fronds and trellises of bush and plant, from the walls and the trees. They crunch under foot.

“Ugh,” the girl exclaims twisting her foot to peer disgustedly at the sole of her boot, “disgusting!”

She looks up again and at the old man. “What is it?” she asks with an exaggerated wrinkle of her nose.

The man waits, toying with a broken I.D. disc – one of the objects found in his evidence searches, of itself just a small piece of twisted metal, the old man has decided to give some meaning to the object, to the name stamped on it – Lee Chuang.

The girl blinks and asks slowly. “Who – are – you?”

It could go on forever like that.  

wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)
Today I am uniquely awake, I look out across creation and it is good.

The girl is losing temporal balance, slipping into the past, the various pasts, moments crashing into her like waves, drawing her in, the undertow dragging her further and further.

The old man is rounding a corner when she approaches him, unexpectedly and out of nowhere. She stands firmly despite her awkward boots and tells him. “I've come to collect my library book.”

The old man waits. The girl falters. “No, I mean I'm here to collect my... I -...”
Read more... )
wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)


There's a scraping, he is, a scraping away, I can hear it, I can see him, scraping. He thinks, I have never been so awake. I have never been so aware. The pale girl is staring at him as he scrapes at his plate with the blunted cutlery. She says, “I think something bad happened here.” But it doesn't feel that way to him, it can't do, must not do - this sensation, this miracle awakening. That's all he has to hold onto.

That's in the kitchen, if it is a kitchen. Somewhere else there is a garden of sorts,, a neglected scrub of green at least, and there are cliffs, a wide lake. Sitting by the edge she says the same thing again.

No,” says the old man. “I don't know about that...”

Read more... )
wytchcroft: heavent sent (glau)

This, uh, 'impressionistic', piece first came to life as an article in the early 1990s while Alien3 crawled round cinemas in the crappy version it still was back then.
I say crappy with the benefit of dvd comparison to the ‘Fincher version’ but my initial view of the movie was positive – despite glaring faults and obvious production interference.

This was definitely something of the minority view and so, after a few fierce arguments, the article was pretty much forgotten by all and sundry (i.e. me). However, after Alien IV came out I rediscovered and rewrote the thing to include some of its scenes and characters.

Then put it back to the mercy of cryo-sleep.
Read more... )

quick fic

Jul. 20th, 2010 11:47 am
wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)

A  Translator Speaks:

This interview transcript is reprinted here c/o Syswatch Productions and with only minor editorial adjustment is almost entirely verbatim.

Is this – are we recording? So strange a device, you must forgive me, I am used by now of course to a human, that is a living, amanuensis. Indeed I am rather inexperienced with words in this manner, I mean words alone.

Oh yes, introductions, forgive me I thought you had already… certainly;

My name is Rotteiger, Horence Rotteiger, and I am part of the translation body here at the Martian reliquary. My particular field, my specialism, is the deduction, simulation and/or reproduction of those scents key to the library of what we somewhat simplistically hail as the Martian texts.Read more... )

wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)

These are two quick pieces; one is science fiction and the other is decidely not.

Station Five:

Station Five woke up one morning to discover itself some 17 feet underground and 153 years in the past.

What had caused so odd an event, so dramatic a shift such an outrage to the norm and the Stations comfortable routines? A cataclysm possibly, or some sort of terrible failure – a temporal experiment gone horribly awry, or was it simply a shift, a rupture and entirely unavoidable, cosmic mischief some apalling quantum caprice?
Read more... )

wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)

Part four:

 “You really think it can be done?” I’m staring into the monitor, into her eyes, willing it to happen, willing the possibility to solidify and become real.

Read more... )
wytchcroft: heavent sent (view)
Part three:

It was something we had in common, unexpected and delightful a shared love of ancient music. All the riddles and mystic from way back when. We discovered by accident a mutual passion and that was good, we needed something else to distract us.
Read more... )
wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)

I am studying him, the Detective, as he paces slowly and self-consciously around the chamber space, a performance; but whether for him or for me I am not certain.

He drops his helmet with a soft clatter, runs grateful hands through the sweat dampened grey at his temples.

"So," he drawls, addressing me by name, "MAGAI. You gonna tell me what we got here? You gonna help me - or just sit there scratching your ass?"

I have studied the human mind and all the known language articulants it can muster, and I understand both the concept and execution of humour and yet I cannot tell if the remark is funny or not.

"How may I be of assistance Detective?" I ask.


Read more... )

wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)


Part one;

Hackers in the system we’ve got hackers in the system we’ve got shadows moving out of synch detaching from the blackness flickering through entry passages, pipes, moving like assassins, like thieves, like raiders.

Separate they move though with a unity of purpose, some plan - hacking into the system, dancers almost, their movement precise and economical, ninjas of the future, hackers in the system.

She plugs her hands into a cortex, clutching the soft gel and wiring, head spasms under the cloaking hood.

He drops down onto the relays, dodges the sliding panels and ceiling cameras, still functioning in this mausoleum.
Read more... )


wytchcroft: heavent sent (BnB)

Watching a flag get trampled in the dirt always brought a tear to Jerry’s eye, it was the romantic in him; Even if the flag was the United Colours of Benetton.

Squinting through the astringent smoke and with his ears ringing to the piped strains of Anarchy in the UK, the last of the musician assassins watched as the stubborn defenders of the accessories department finally gave up the ghost and arranged themselves in an artful display of splashes, drips and smears; Abstract expressionism at its very best, look good on a billboard too, one day.

Maybe in the past.

He squeezed off a photo just in case.
Read more... )

wytchcroft: heavent sent (muse)
so comes the clock so comes our time
could be a dream at the crossroads
that familiar sign
for this is the place
where the days meet the radio waves
Read more... )
wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)
could have been that
dead man walking
turning to gold
shaking loose
that Lazarus lump
Read more... )
wytchcroft: heavent sent (aleen)

I am I

Am I not

What I am

What am I

I is another

I did not say that

Then who

Who am I
Read more... )

wytchcroft: heavent sent (aleen)
Extracts from the personal journals and recordings of Phillius Joyce; being in the way of a rude account of my ventures to the heartland and my exploits therein.  

17 at the outpost.

Strange to be reporting from an outpost in the interior.

In any case such is where I find myself after withdrawing from the remains of the Raptors and my night vigil.
Read more... )


wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)

September 2017



RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 20th, 2017 02:29 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios