A.Journal

Checks

151 checks

Medium

Did PSEUDOPOD defect to EMTERR... for a disc?

Medium

Music can transcend ideological divides!

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A bartender spy -- the perfect position to watch and ask questions. Her cover must be deep.

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She is monitoring the situation around her as any operant would do... luckily, she's less experienced than you.

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She's saying it on sodium thiopental, so that must mean it's true...

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Rubbish for gold. You should take him up on this deal immediately, before someone else does.

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People who are into this sort of thing are always making flowers or birds, but... this doesn't look like that.

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Your cerebro-spinal fluid turns to liquid refrigerant.

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A jolt of fear snaps through you, writing itself across your face.

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This technology does not belong to your generation. You have stumbled by chance onto something that not even your grandchildren were meant to be looking at.

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Wonderful, she's so over the Crew falling apart and getting tortured that she doesn't even remember!

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These 'nightmares' are probably just that freak boyfriend molesting her in her sleep.

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The stereo system is facing away from the couch. Think about this suboptimal room layout for a moment -- it's much easier than looking at the blood.

Medium

Best to sound it out, just to be clear.

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The details are hazy. It was some years ago, you were in the city for work, he pulled you over for something bad you'd done.

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Astounding. Must've been harvested just a few days ago.

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Gäng don't fuck with ghosts. Scatter.

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Who are you to say, either?

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Do not entertain further investigations of what the smudge may be. It's safe to assume that you don't want to know.

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Looks like a shrine. Faces carved into mountain.

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A cold swell smashes into your ribcage.

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Uhhh... this just sounds like talking to HOLOCENE.

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The Steel Rod Night Bitch is sealed shut!

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Sweet mercy! That's no human waveform!

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A dirty little city bird. A winged rat.

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You know what he means, but you can't help it: an apple-sized dollop of lard melts between hand and chest as you massage grey-tufted folds of old skin.

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The last time you spoke was the day your network blew. You definitely called her back like you said you would.

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Your enemies are so close to you they can hear you breathing, let along talking.

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Look, when in doubt, it's always safe to assume the answer is yes.

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Stop this now. Human beings were never meant to do this.

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The mere sight of HOLOCENE's handwriting incurs a shiver of post-codebreaking trauma.

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QUIT, definitely quit.

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The mess of black squares swims before your eyes. You have no idea.

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Ocean, probably?

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Don't count on that. Keep your day job for now.

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You haven't tried this kind of drug before.

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We've fucked up a nerve in there somewhere.

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Not much else, though. Too dark.

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You know there's something worthwhile in there, but it is lost amongst the brambles of trash.

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Gäng don't fuck with ghosts. Scatter.

Medium

'Bleed Me, Baby', something like that. But not that.

Medium

Paint it in feces on the walls of our padded cell.

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You have not the remotest idea what you are meant to do with this information.

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A swarm of letters, uncountable.

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You meet this latest existential ridicule with nothing but resignation.

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That hurt. A lot. Expect mild bruising.

Medium

Perhaps they're running a writer-in-residence program on the wasteland mesas of Ile-de-Söze.

Medium

Maybe try... 'Violeta, Ultra'?

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They're all fine friends, obviously. Enjoying their day out.

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