aqouli's Stories

The end of days

2007-11-06T15:48:24Z

The end of days was like one final hit

with the gods, or what gods were left

going drunk with ecstasy

the last of their followers engaged in an orgy of prayer

never had they believed so hard

never had they wanted something to whisk them away so badly

what did the gods do?

they sat back

drank it all in

and got high off of it. But really, what could they do

you try doing anything in the middle of an infinite light-speed orgy of belief

prayers went unanswered

and slowly, the thrill faded, and joy, and bliss

and then, there was no one left to do the believing

the high was over all too soon.

Fair Trade

2007-07-28T18:15:56Z

“Why the hell should I? I already breathe smoke.”

He believed me. Or he believed the cancer hissing in my voice, the coffee rotting in my gut. He took the cigar back, and continued as he lit up. “More for me”, he said, and put his heart into his laugh. He puffed blue smoke. “So what other vices have you?”

You never own vices. The tobacco, the caffeine, the ethanol; they don’t know you by name, but as one big mass, sucking away at their many nipples. It mothers you. You belong to IT.

He took my silence for reluctance, not reflection. “C’mon, boyo, no time to be shy. Here.” I can’t tell you where the whiskey came from, only that it was in his hand. I have never drank in my entire life. Smoked, never drank. Went thirty years with the excuse “Least I don’t drink”, as if it’d excuse me puffing away.

I traded one lesser evil in for another when I took that flask, had a swig, and felt fire in my throat again.

The flask went back and forth, and we never said a thing throughout.

Best conversation I ever had.

Diary of a collapsing star

2007-07-03T16:03:26Z

i.
Ah, about time this happened.

ii.
I remember making a bet with Saturn (it wagered the rings) that the little things on that one little watery planet would try to put a stop to this, or at least delay it. I didn’t think that I’d actually win.

There’s a little blotch on me now from their little warhead. Kind of like those moon craters. Honestly, you’d think they’d let me go gracefully.

iii.
And they blew themselves up. I won’t miss the little buggers.

iv.
I’m glad that everyone else seems to be taking this rather smoothly. The whole red giant thing a rather trying process, but they seem happy enough to be reduced to their molecular components.

v.
I was wrong. Pluto sling-shotted not too long ago – said he was going to see the universe. Eh, we never did think that well of him either.

vi.
That whole expanding deal took long enough! Now I get to curl up nicely into a hyper-condensed ball of mass. Never a more divine rest, can’t think of a better ending.

Saturn’s rings are delicious, you should try them.

Snatches of conversation from a coyote's lips

2007-06-25T20:57:36Z

“When cockroaches are born, they’re this semi-translucent shade of white, pure and virginal. And over time they turn that hideous shade of brown. Some folks have hair that’s that shade of brown and most of us think it’s just lovely, and when it turns white, all we want to do is taint it again, turn it back into brown. I never got that. It never made any sense.’

The Veruppa, Fatalis

2007-05-25T14:27:54Z

The Veruppa itself was a steam bike, from ten years ago. Was it coincidence that the brain which powered the construct belonged to a creature that was pronounced extinct in the year the bike was sold? Kent certainly did not think so; he proposed to call it the Fatalis, after the aforementioned species of saber-toothed cat that was hunted off the face of the earth.

Brenda thought that was just silly and told Kent to let the bloody thing choose its own name, and promptly started the engine right on the spot. Miraculously, it sputtered to life, then proceeded to stall. It went something like “vuhroooop-p-p-p-pah”.

The name stuck.

When it neared completion, it was truly a monster. The former bike was a mere skeletal image of it’s current incarnation. Had it kept Kent’s suggested name instead, it would have fit perfectly. The fork that held the massive front wheel were saber-teeth, and pipes ran all along like sinew. Rivets dotted all along its back like a grim parody of the beast’s vertebrae. Also, it roared.

The Veruppa, Origins

2007-05-25T13:26:38Z

Before we continue the beast’s tale, we must describe its creation.

Mechanister had toyed with the idea of a machine that was alive for many a year before he would actually attempt the feat. He would sketch it out, but most of the time the ideas would only sit in his head, bouncing, bobbing. Like balls in a raffle drum.

Brenda saw the sketches one day, and that was when the love affair began. She expanded on the ideas that her teacher created, and through experimentation, brought them to fruition. Twenty months, a (living) rat’s exposed brain and a motor later, Brenda had all but stunned Mechanister, as she taught the creature to start the motor whenever she tugged at its tail, and rewarded it with a pulse of bliss to its pleasure centers whenever it succeeded.

The creature was a beast now, and she straddled it between her legs. And starting engines wasn’t the only thing it knew how to do.

The Veruppa, Indecision

2007-05-25T12:28:44Z

Kent sat down, made a steeple of his hands, and thought. But first he corrected the position of his pen. Parallel with the paper. There we go.

Now.

Brenda, his assistant (but not by choice, you must understand) had been working alongside him, and though he thought little of her initially, she had proven herself hardworking, but labor could be bought. No, it was to the wishes of a friend that insisted strongly that Brenda be his assistant, for he knew that Brenda was a complement. Kent was a man of method, where Brenda was one for whimsy, and open to suggestion when Kent would simply dismiss it.

He wished she were here.

He picked up the pen and jotted in skirls and indecipherables.

inform mechanister, because although he’d be unhappy with the news, he’d be of most help to Kent in trying to;
recover veruppa, obviously, and also, it’d;
save brenda, because Mechanister would be unhappy if he didn’t. Brenda was his brightest pupil.

Against his better judgment, he did the last item first.

Plotting the Map of Beasts

2007-05-24T03:28:24Z

“Here’s something to draw with.”

From the ceiling of the whitewashed room, a slot slid open a crack. A shaving razor slid through, landing on the porcelain floor, shattering the silence. Hank took it, and flicked it open as if it were a switchblade. The Narrator noticed.

“You’ve probably improvised with one of those before, haven’t ya, Hank?”

“This is a fucking joke.” Hank had to curse; his voice would stutter and shake otherwise. “Big, fucking joke.”

“You got the right idea, Frank”, the speaker barked at him. “Tee hee. Now draw.”

“On what, the goddamn floor?”

“All the materials are there. I have only provided the tool.”

“Christ. Who the fuck are you?”

“Haaaaaaank”, The Narrator purred at him. “I only have your best interests in mind. You know the map inside and out like the back of your hand. I just prefer it if it were on your chest.”

Hank hesitated, and The Narrator continued.

“You need to get past the security. They’ll take all you have. This is the only way. Yes, that’s it. Good, Hank. Good.”

The Veruppa

2007-05-24T02:51:37Z

“I think we could.”

“Honestly no way it could happen, Brenda. You’re putting too much stress on the gears, then the whole engine’ll come apart.”

“It’ll work, just you watch, Kent.” Brenda cranked her spanner one last time, and wiped her brow, reaching over.

“Oh, it’ll work for all of five seconds, upon which the coils will just crack open from all the steam, and I don’t want to be anywhere near that thing when it expl-”

Brenda turned the dial, silencing Kent with a loud click. He fidgeted nervously, and then took a few steps back. Nervous with anticipation, Brenda floored the pedals. It went brapp, then vriiip, then the coils began to hiss. Pistons fired, pumping back and forth with the vigor of debauched lovers. Steam flooded the room. Five seconds later and it still purred like a big, prehistoric cat.

Kent shouted over its cry. Something about not riding the thing. The Veruppa defied him with a squeal of its whitewall tires burning into the floor, and with Brenda in its jaws, roared into the night.

In the Past, Five Minutes

2007-05-09T23:15:06Z

Repent.

Here come the heathens, wailing and roaring. They thunder through the hallway, banging on doors, crying, screaming. The noise passes soon enough – they slam their fists on the next door, and the one after, until they’re seized at the end of the hall. So now it’s quiet.

She stirs, and asks me what the time is. I tell her it’s time to go.

2 hours ago, I didn’t know her name. I still don’t. 45 minutes later, we’re stabbing each other in a nameless highwayhome, we’re stabbing each other at the hips when all we want is to devour the heart, and have it ripped from us. Trying to peel the numbness away, trying to feel as if we matter.

She nods. She understands.

I throw open the door, and it’s like looking into a blender. The sky is a void, it’s a long, black tunnel, and beyond it there’s light, but don’t look. You never come back if you look. Save the best for last, and besides, He’ll show it to us when it’s ready.

And it’s ready. I look at my watch, and it’s going backwards. World’s reseting.