Something like a greyish porridge flecked thickly with umber. Jansen was about to think, “That’s not right,” when his observation was preemptively justified by a large and wet explosion.

When it got in his eyes he grimaced—and it got in his mouth. It had quite the sour sting. He hastily purged his face with a menthol scented handkerchief (already bearing many other smears and smells from that day), and blearily looked to assure himself that the West Satyr candle was still alight; it had taken him three attempts and several hours to make it burn. There seemed to be a blot of the miscarried goop which had landed on the very wick of the candle; however, it sizzled and popped away, the flame remained bright, and Jansen stopped sweating.

2023/03/30 #DailyCreatedOOM

Tinker on the falling sill, craters fleck the washer’s hoe, broken under the hasty brow. Trucked into the mouth of drain souls, the arched sounding-board of the atmosphere takes credit at its foot, and never places an even dime on the ring of Matterhorn. My will be turned in the handle of the pit, and look out for me in the rainy dust, dregs of the summer cup, pinched and blown into fealty’s screw deepened, tapping into the abyssal rim.

2023/03/26 #DailyCreatedOOM

A pride of yellow jackets, honeycombs of dry grass nests, forming the pate of a domed monolith. Lightning hums in the cloudless summer sky, the hearth of coming times, the tuning pins that tighten day by simmering day. Mazes of uncut stony walls, dusted with gnats, lichen, and smells from unseen sources. Beards of lifeless plants perspire from every post and sign and beam. Linked arms in the clouds of dust, kicked it up to clothe the air in motion, kicked it up to shade us from the heat, the coming days, and years, to sprinkle us in the shady “today”.

2023/03/21 #DailyWrittenOOM

The masses, dolls of pastel neon pixels in a little crowd, beneath the sides of a conveyor overpass. Some woke from their program, and cried out, scaling the sides of the overpass. Their heads were cut off by the crouching overseers on the bridge – but the hairless pixelated oval head of one waker, still screaming, fell inside another man who walked below.

In the hall he faced the choice: to turn left and leave the fight, or to go around the corner and face his training companion. When he faced her, and they began to spar, he caught her fist, and she could not escape his grip; he swung the fight around, and found he was spinning them not on an anchor point on the ground but on an axis he chose.

On the airship they had found the basket fan they needed: a rod with radiating angled metal strips. They banked too far downwards away from a cliff, but pulling all the way through it was alright. Looking down on the level brown coastal sand, they had room to maneuver, but few visual landmarks to guide it.

Seen through a cracked periscope, the film peters away to empty clatter.

2023/03/20 #DailyWrittenOOM

Kalamity, kalamity: the fall of apeman’s ring. Power duct failure feature entry stream. Withered on the doorstep of a flagrant domicile, the smell of old car upholstery fills you. Dream in the face of the wondering meal, for the stretching of Lancaster’s autocratic pile. Leaping tresses under stained kanopies, they rail the flying fair with brash “hi there!”s.

Winterness grovels at the pointed toes of you; pain pencilled in the fresh burg on reel. The wildness mask is crumbling away: they trucked the shambling planks across to the receiver, in high trust of dance. Kept it within the ring.

2023/03/19 #DailyWrittenOOM

They stood on the trampoline; he laid his hands on the shoulders of the boy, and began to make the boy and himself bound, more and more slowly and forcefully, and he chanted invented words of an Arabic style. As they landed over and over the rolling ripple down his clothes changed them from suit to suit – not the intended power, but curious. He flicks small spiders from their thread in the muddy hollow copse.

2023/03/17 #DailyWrittenOOM

Two half wheels with many knobs and no spokes, raised as wings for the Fleur-de-lis, the black cat in the headlights. The bowing carpet, the dry enveloping wave, down over the whiskers that stab outwards, each penetrating slenderness feathered and frayed with tasteless sparks. Western halves jointed to the parting path, the minute thoughts that shine indistinctly with the colour of its eyes in the headlights. The raised catapult of joined wooden leaves would stray, but wrapped in forgetfulness will flash out and disintegrate.

2023/03/16 #DailyWrittenOOM