?

Log in

styrofork
04 May 2011 @ 05:18 pm
I'm running a game at Wayfinder this summer. It is called The Terrors of the Earth, and I'm very very excited about it! I wrote up a little teaser for it, and I put it on the Wayfinder forums, here-

http://wayfinderexperience.com/forums/index.php?topic=588.0

Read it and get pumped!
 
 
styrofork
06 June 2010 @ 06:13 pm

                “Suzie, this car is armored with hardened steel plate and two different layers of kevlar. On all sides. The shutters are down on all the windows except for the windshield, which is bulletproof glass. I’ve seen this car take an RPG. Admittedly, it was from behind, but I don’t think this fuckwad with the nine is going to somehow magically teleport himself to a position where he can shoot at us from in front. Especially now that we’ve hit our cruising speed of ninety miles per hour."

Read more...Collapse )

 


 
 
styrofork
09 February 2010 @ 06:18 pm
Eel  

                Eel was sick. It didn’t understand what sickness it was, specifically, or whether it was treatable. He knew that, if it was, treatment would not be wasted on an old eel like him. He didn’t even know if anyone else knew he was sick. He knew because he could feel it in his fin, in his long body of shaped muscle. It wasn’t a sickness he could ever name, like a cold or a stomach flu, but an all pervading sickness of his entire being. Eel did know one thing about his sickness, besides the violence it caused him in the mornings, and the sadness it caused him in the sleepless nights. It was going to kill him.

                Eel was living out what he knew were his final days in a nursing home that he was put into by his spawn. They were only a few years out of the Sargasso Sea in his mind, but in reality they had matured years ago. In reality, they were waiting for him to die. They had spawn of their own, who were shocked every time they visited and found that he was still alive. Most of the time, they forgot about him. They only remembered when they visited and the stale water of the nursing home passed over their gills, bringing up the memory of their last visit. They would smile at him and ask him how he was doing, and he would rasp that he was fine. When they left to go eat some smaller fish, he would ask his spawn to be taken out of the nursing home, to go back home. He knew he could take care of himself. Besides, it would only be a few more days before the end. He didn’t say this last part out loud, but they heard it anyway. He would cry sometimes.

                When his spawn’s spawn returned, he would return to his old image, carefully crafted to avoid shame. After all, there was no shame in being an old eel. In fact, he deserved to be honored for having reached such an incredible age. He still understood, though, in his old brain, that his spawn’s spawn had no reason to love him, or even to like him. To them, he was the thing that made them go to the unpleasant place with the bad fish. They knew that when he died, they would not have to return to this place, so they looked at it with some excitement, or at least satisfaction. In the meantime, Eel worked hard to maintain his composure in front of them, to allow them to retain this illusion of him as a happy old eel, doddering but kind.

                In reality, he was anything but kind.

                He remembered the old days. The days when his body was still strong and sleek and he would flash through the water and catch a smaller fish in his strong jaws and devour it. He remembered the awkward transition stage from tadpole to glasseel, to yellow eel, then finally to white. He remembered the long journey from his native waters to the warm Sargasso Sea, and the sweet romance that overtook him. He remember bringing home fish for his spawn to eat when they were just tadpoles in the cold waters of his home. But more than any of that, he remembered the few perfect moments he had had. His first kill. His mating. The strength and confidence and perfect, perfect happiness.

                He lay on his back on that last morning, wracked with pain, his world reduced to a hazy blur in front of him. His body was a prison. He couldn’t even swim anymore. In a panic, his mind reached out for a final memory, and he found to his mild astonishment that there was nothing left. There was only one thing he could find. It was the look in his spawn’s eyes. Just a look, a look at him. Not sad or angry as he had become accustomed to, not even bored. It was something he hadn’t known in a long time, but it was familiar like a tune he used to know. He died with its’ name on the tip of his tongue, not quite said.


 
 
styrofork
09 January 2010 @ 11:51 pm
Stolen from the inestimable Messrs. Feder, Grant, and Mulligan:

If I were a summonable creature, what kind of ritual would you craft to summon me?
 
 
styrofork
25 October 2009 @ 09:26 pm
The bloody charger on my computer's broken again. I may not be able to chat or email as much. Please forgive me.
 
 
 
styrofork
21 September 2009 @ 08:47 pm
I will always carry a memory with me from my childhood. I do not know if it is beautiful or useful, but it has stayed in me like a chemical, and now I will sweat it out like a boy going on his vision quest.
Read more...Collapse )
 
 
styrofork
16 September 2009 @ 06:19 pm
This is one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard.

http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=2693546/
 
 
styrofork
28 August 2009 @ 04:47 pm
Sorry I kind of left anyone who was reading my journal hanging. I've tried to contact you all personally, or you've tried to contact me, or whatever. Anyway, the reason I stopped posting was that I had to pass school, then summer happened, where I was alternately too lazy or too busy to post. But now, school has started, and I like it.
~Dylan
 
 
styrofork
08 May 2009 @ 12:14 am
#7  
broad palm
baked black and cracked with wrinkles
broken by work and sun the fingers are long
some fingers twist
broken and healed wrong
a blow that he missed
or couldn’t catch in time

These hands
no rings
no tattoos
they’ve belonged to a thousand men
all worried they would lose
and in this game, losing is death

These hands have gripped
the hilt of a sword
the handle of a gun
they’ve placed stocks on shoulders
and reached deep in scabbards
and cartridge holders
They’ve pulled back on bow strings
pulled back on spears, ready to let fly
never seeing the target until-

These, my hands
sweaty grip shaking
holding a gun
finally I see
“What have I done?
What have I done?”
 
 
styrofork
07 May 2009 @ 12:04 am
#6  
Fruit trees are in bloom
each white petal is a new scent
floating on a kiss

Wastrel cut adrift
ice-crystals blown in his eyes
Eery-lit by the moon

Grainy lazer light
colors darkness red on red
seen through bloodshot eyes

Monty Python's Fly-
-ing Circus really has too
many syllables.