I’ve had a fun 2015 blogging, and looking forward to an even better 2016.
A Happy New Year to everyone!
Here’s an excerpt of my year:
A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 7,300 times in 2015. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 6 trips to carry that many people.
Click here to see the complete report.
The queen gave her grunting scream once more. It was a signal.
The surviving white death worms approached her. Each reared its frontal segments. From the belly of each, a rod-like section of tissue emerged, as if drawn by magnets.
“They are going to fertilise the queen!” exclaimed Kwango. “She has more vaginas than they can cope with. I hope our lady is not frustrated!”
The queen was not frustrated. The white death worms penetrated her methodically from head to tail, flinging themselves uncaringly across her heaving underbelly so that the tumescent rods slammed down into the waiting orifices with the apparent force of pile drivers.
-The Death Worms of Kratos; Edmund Cooper
Seriously? Tumescent rods?
What an awful book.
The innumerable dead swarm within the fog; grey within grey. Swirling tentacles of intangible loneliness and loss lick at the warmth and life that radiates from the home only to evaporate unsatisfied. A besieging army of ancient resentment. The dead loiter at the boundaries, hungering for a word or a touch that can never come.
From inside; a wail, a cry of grief freshly discovered. Movement ceases amongst the restless; a memory of breath held in anticipation. A newcomer joins them in terror; howling a soundless scream that gives no release.
The fog retreats; they retreat with it.
With pain-filled eyes he walked around the wreck. This was his creation now uncreated, and not through accident but through inattention. What he had wrought with love, effort, and time, he had now let fall to ruin. Another casualty of procrastination; another victim in a long line of lethal lazy. He circled the crushed corpse of his work and his heart ached. No-one mourns like a murderer.
Squatting by the the ruins he picked up some scattered pieces; a bent cog here, a stripped gear there. Was there enough for another attempt?
He owed it to himself to find out. Continue reading
“Don’t worry. Trust me. I can do this.” His own words now echoed in his ears, taunting him with the prospect of failure. His confidence had weak lungs apparently; blustering at the bottom, it had begun to gasp the higher he got. Here at the top, his bravado had entirely expired in a pathetic asthmatic wheeze.
He looked down.
Down, down, down, and down some more.
He cursed his knocking knees and cursed the cheering crowds more. Supporters and deriders; many had come to watch him soar, but more had come to watch him fall.