Hello!

Here is the final and third day of “Poetic Pile-Up”. To finish the tour, we present a long poem crafted after the concept of mental fortresses and spiritual warfare:

There’s Just that Trigger Waiting …

Every day, ambition may wander
There are things and those who will pick you up,
Others that will force you to give up
The planters and the antagonists, the weary and their inhabitants

Forefront inspiration fights for successful continuation
The bulwarks and combat within—this battle is not of flesh and skin
The origins external, digging harmful burrows
Attempting to purge the mentality, eliminate foundation and buds of the inner city

Comments like fiery tridents,
Procrastination infecting, reminiscent to atrophic poisons
Unwise (usage of) time, neglect to defenses and progression
Doubt fuels the resolve of each enemy agent

They seep between the fortified walls, cleverly setting traps to stall
Wrenches in the gears, generation of rusting tears
Minefields in the corridors, the bulwark is slanting short
When all their weapons come to bare

…

Will you cower amongst shards of broken steel and glass,
The shattered remnant of hope past
Shining light and its people, shrouded in the misty abyss
The binding chains of numbness, with fear securing the locks

The enemy’s agents will drag you on, a purposeless husk,
Mind dampened without the positivity of the sun
Survivors lose their sparks,
You may wither in the dark blankness, poniards of pain and reality all that lead you forward, or maybe just round a relentless circle?

But what often lies in despair, waiting for courage to rise and ensnare,
Rebellion, the will to reclaim and reconstruct
The fortresses of ambition prior lost
To engage in skirmish, bent on regaining our inspiration

In the depths of gloom and uncertainty,
There is a flare, patiently waiting, the burning signal of revolution
Against the forces of inertness
The igniting piece to restart the drive to live, not simply survive

To overthrow the powers of depression,
Fear, procrastination, self-doubt,
All the wearisome factors and notions
Fuel for the turmoil

They can, every one of them, be shunned
The abyss of the enemy, the turmoil of animosity, washed away
You can rebuild, you can plot onwards
You can bask once more in the embrace of the sun
And one day, long and far in the possibility of bright future
You might look back on truly living from this point,
Escaping and purging the dark from all sight
Realizing you fought the good fight

You can grasp the signal weapon, the flare,
Breathe the light of life,
Into the bounds of the sky
Let the stars return your cry

There’s Just that Trigger Waiting

~~~

I hope you’ve enjoyed this three-part pile-up series.

With sincerity,

~ The Esoteric Wisp

Salutations!

Day 2 of the Poetic Pile-up, featuring a spacey poem and hyperboles. :3

–

So, tell me know
Where the vortex led,
Where the poison stemmed
The furnaces of time and space
A blue box, for the key to keep safe
Where the first bout grew, and where the weariness of adventure was bestrewed
Within and beyond, traveled to the many points of extinction
It spins, held back only by the weight of two burdened hearts
Where the vortex led,
Where the poison stemmed
The furnaces of time and space
A blue box, no one can quell

–  (Can you guess what this was inspired by?)

Hyperboles:

The lawn was mowed with such fierceness, you could hear the screams of every blade of grass scream out in terror from the widespread slicing.

As the eventide waves crashed against the rock shore, they sent thunders that rippled over the closing halo of light, breaking the spectrum and echoing shivers in the hollows of our souls.

The impact of the train cars felt like the collision of two bullets fired from a set of railguns, one mutually destroying the other in a fray of metal, sparks, and contorted sound.

I flicked on the overhead bulb, and the fall of my shadow upon the unkempt floor carried the weight of all memory it had swept up in my wake. I stumbled to remain upright, and my silhouette followed. The smooth floor splintered beneath.

~ TEW (pew pew, poem ammo!)

Hello, blog inhabitants and otherwise visitors!

A fair while has passed since I posted material here, and now that time shall come to a temporary close. ^^

I’m posting two successive posts following this one, each containing poems or poetic-like content. Here is the first installment, a series of three freeform poems I was inspired to write as an abstract writing exercise with Kdrew’s song “Circles” as the inspiration:

Ding dong, welcome young one

Circle in the ground, rivets here to run

‘Round and ‘round,

Pride dodging the sun

Follow the shadows, ring in the rays

Follow the paths, recover what belongs in a rightful place

Beyond walls of etched glass,

‘Round and ‘round

Sprint until every locket is found,

Pride dodging you, catching 22’s

Blast the shards, sprinkle the prismatic doors

To crumble the maze,

Obscure the haze

Bells again, the ways spent

That noise, it’s bearing down

Searching for a way to move on,

Welcome to the second round

‘Round and ‘round

The circle is coming up from the shadow

See the sun, cower from the solar absorption

Heads down, we’re sprinting back,

We’re falling far, far beneath

Zig-zag,

Drop the beat,

‘Round and ‘round

Harmony is a melodic crown!

Some way to avoid the thrice upheaval

It’s burrowing, I’m seeing the signs

The quakes are aural, the trees sway in time

The clocks are in circles, hands spinning in the inconsistent time

Calling the light, shunning the blackness

Ink and whitewash eraser,

Clash at the midway

Oooohhhh

Oooohhhhoh

Color combat combines, the circles mix with inconsistent time

Basked in the likes of both

Spread of speckles to all

My final string, the crescendo note to all

~ TEW (pew pew, poem ammo!)

Section #1 of a HAWK3N-verse-inspired bio I wrote/am writing. Enjoy. 🙂

[Note: This may not make complete sense, if you are not knowledgeable on the story of HAWK3N. I apologize.]

–

Patron File #913453 –

–

MPC Affiliation: Prosk Industries

Status: Military AXE Pilot

Callsign: Wi2P

Alias/Sobriquet(s): Wisp, Rose Blush, the Healer

(Real) Name: [Unknown]

Mark: [Undisclosed]

Gender: Female

Height: Approx. 2 ½ ft.

Eye Color: Hazel

Coat: White

Mane: Variably-bright ginger

Species: Unicorn

=

“Wi2P” originally appeared in the sights of Prosk due to a series of events at the Redstone Training Facility, where she committed acts of vandalism in attempts to cease the influx of new pilots, and prevent “the fuel of war from burning” (as one scrawling described). Her calling-card was an azure “W”.

Three subsequent weeks of intermittent “artistic assaults” followed, during which approximately two dozen pieces of graffiti were found, logged in record, and removed. The nature of these (so-called) cautionary messages remains undisclosed, excepting the knowledge of the witnesses present before the material was redacted. (-See RTF report file [H319]-)

Midway through the third week, Prosk and Sentium Officers became involved in the vandalism prevention program RTF Staff had patched together, which aimed to cease the occurrences and their effects by tightening security, encouraging quicker removal of graffiti and keeping public calm. Both corporations insisted it was necessary to manetain their continued safety, the safety of new pilots, and RTF staff.

After two days, with only minimum improvements on the situation, Prosk decided to lend an extra hoof. “We’re cracking down, before this facility cracks up”, Knurl Weaver—seasoned Patrick-V2 Predator pilot and CSD Officer—explained to RTF security manager Every Key. “If this was an average series of vandalisms, it’d be over and out by now. We have to think beyond prevention and clean-up, to the lasting solution: Find the catalyst, and the bomb stops ticking.” (-Note Reference Log [H319]-)

Knurl was authorized to fly in the immediate members of his Co-Ops Squad to Redstone, where their four B-Class Stealth Axes assembled. Several hours later, after notifying Sentium of the plan (to avoid a stir), Prosk initiated their strategy, codenamed “Shimmering Stakeout”.

Positioned in key locations around the Facility, the cloaked Predators objective was to discreetly observe the area at ground-level; each was equipped with an advanced detection system alongside the standard-issue Infrared technology. Aerial-view support was provided via watchponies stationed on top of RTF’s roof.

Com silence was strictly manetained, until approx. 01:00-hours. Unit [REDACTED] noted unusual movement at the rear loading docks to RTF’s primary hanger, and proceeded to investigate. The subsequent actions of the Squad resulted in the capture of the delinquent.

“It took three Preds and support from Op-Com to corner this feisty filly,” Weaver later commented. “I didn’t expect our catalyst to look quite like that. But as far as we’re concerned, the bomb is now diffused.”  (-See Field Report –H319—for full operation transcript.-)

Wi2P was relinquished of her belongings (which consisted of saddlebags, various items used to draw and several that had been employed in making the graffiti, a small pouch of rations, boots, a velvety-purple doll, and a peculiar device she carried on her back) and was placed into custody in an RTF holding chamber, until she was moved to Prosk Dropship-J19 the following morning. (Officer Weaver had negotiated for custody with SM Every Keys and Officer Greave Fallon—representative for Sentium’s RTF department—only hours before, by order of his superior. – Note: Prosk neglected to include certain details, chiefly that of the strange saddle-mounted device. Sentium released their say without full knowledge of what they were consenting.)

Dropship-J19 returned to the Prosk military center promptly after Wi2P’s transfer.

–

[Further Sections to-be noted.]

–

Fun Facts:
Wi2P enjoys the language of “leetspeak”, which (in-part) explains the nature of her callsign.
[More trivial tidbits to come.]

File Note, Archive Director: Placid Bookmark – Subject: Possible Corruption –

Every log and report ID has been replaced with the tag “H319”, and the file rejects all attempts to amend it. This is more than a foolish typo. Please send someone from the technical department to scan the system and properties of file “913453”.

– Director Bookmark

A continuation of the Prologue I entered in the Halloween contest.

Feedback, thoughts? Let me know! :-]

(And yes, this is an unusually short intro…)

–

Recovery came slowly.

She didn’t know where she was, or her name. She couldn’t even open her eyes for an unidentifiable span of time, and seemed to slip in and out of sleep and a state in-between it and awake. Attempting to think or wonder about her current circumstance—whatever it was—did not occur to her.

Her sense of smell returned first, her brain finally beginning to reboot her body’s systems. The familiar scents of consano healing salve and lingering sterilization chemicals registered.

Hearing came next. A quiet but steady beeping noise, miscellaneous sounds of machinery, the sound of her own restful breathing. But no voices. She didn’t know why that seemed odd to her, but it did.

Her eyelids raised slightly, and then dropped again. They tried a second time and remained half-open. She was staring up at a pristine white ceiling. Feeling was seeping back into her limbs, and that combined with her currently limited range of sight told her that she was lying on a bed of some sort, laden from just below her neck onwards by blanket, sheet and seemingly some clothing buried beneath them. Around her were some medical devices and a tall white curtain connected to the ceiling, which surrounded the space where the bed sat.

A hospital? She wondered, the ability of intelligible thought processes gradually returning.

She tried to move, but immediately found the task beyond her present strength. A sigh, unbidden, escaped her. She waited a minute more, then attempted movement again. This time, she was able to flex her fingers, which were hidden beneath the sheet and blanket. It was a meager action, but somehow felt… wrong. As though the small body parts were foreign to her. Her eyebrows scrunched, reacting to her brief confusion.

After pushing the odd notion aside, she subsequently endeavored to use her arms. To her surprise, she was able to pull them from out under the hospital-type coverings on the first try. Though, something felt out-of-place with them, as with her fingers. She made the effort to shift herself into more of a sitting position and leant up against the substantial arrangement of white and blue pillows and the bed’s headboard. She inspected her arms, which were now uncovered and lie atop the blanket. The right one had an IV stuck it in, but aside from that, her upper limbs carried not a single—visible—blemish. They still felt wrong, in some way. But she couldn’t put her finger on it, so to speak.

Pushing the covers from her, she bent her knees and then swung her legs over the side of the bed, then paused there, exhaling deeply as the tiredness in her bones continued to recede. She reached over with her left arm and pulled out the IV by executing a quick tug.

The subsequent reaction caused by the momentary stimuli of pain was shocking. Everything came back to her, all in an instant of furious, deafening recall inside her skull.

Jocose released an involuntary shriek as her memories resurfaced as if bursting from a locked box which key had been found and inserted. The influx of knowledge, images, emotions and other was an overwhelming plethora. Learning how to fly once her wings matured enough when she was a child, the grasslands of Kalpana stretching out into the sunset-dominated skyline, an autumn’s clear morning riding birdback, the enticing smells of various foods prepared for the annual winter Sanctuary Feast, the trips aboard hydro trains to reach island locations off the mainland, studying at the New Primoris Private School, her first day at FIRE Academe when Instructor/Captain Dreg made his introduction to her class; the painful day a flight training exercise… cost Jocose her ability to naturally fly, the time her grandfather who had served faithfully as a shipmaster went to his final resting place, the evening years ago when the Insurgent Corps brutally bombed the United Legation and killed thousands to make a statement, the afternoon her best friend Frese died and the absolute despair she experienced…

But one scene in her mind’s eye stood out among them: The rift incident. The malicious dark cloud beating at her, helplessness as her consciousness failed her, desperate to save a civilization that was foreign to her, the antagonizing torment of being unknowingly to whether or not she had succeeded.

The cloud… She could feel its abuse, re-experience the maelstrom of muddled emotion, drown in the mounting fear. It was so real and so terrible. Everything else dissolved, fading away to give prominence to the frightful scene she was unwillingly reliving…

…

Jocose woke to the feeing of linoleum-type floor against her cheek.

She jolted upright on the floor and gasped, looking about frantically under a canopy of reddish hair that had draped itself over her face when she jerked up. She ignored it for the moment, hysteria still gripping her attention. But after a quick glance about, she realized where she was.

She had fallen from the bed when the recall struck her, and now stood where she had just before been lying, still within the concealment of the ceiling-to-floor curtain. How long she had been out was uncertain, but the remnants of tearstains and mucus left on the floor were a sure indicator some of her time spent there was crying. She touched a cheek with her hand and felt streaks caused by saltwater droplets that had run down and dried. She sniffled and sat down on the bedside again, confused and indignant. The IV had fell to the floor as well, and remained there. She stared at it, a small, somewhat bloodstained needle connected to the nearby machine, which had gone silent. The tiny incision it had made in her arm was already scabbing.

The recall she had experienced was irregular. It was unnatural. She had never felt something quite so like it; memories could be intense, but that was bringing it to a level Jocose wasn’t privy to. She had never attempted to shut a rift by her lonesome either, but that was by choice. The recall was an action she had had no authority over. She glanced at the IV again. A minute second of meager pain caused all that?

The only explanation she could offer was it being a “freak occurrence”. They had taught her in the Academe that abnormal mental activity had the possibilities to be the result of many variable “catalysts”. Anything from the uncomfortable notion something, or someone, was in her psyche, to the simplistic and disheartening fact she may very well be in the beginning stages of insanity. Damn psychologists. Many of the psychiatrists and psychologists in FIRE’s HR department weren’t known for their courteousness when explaining the metaphorical minefield of mental scenarios. It was often straightforward, no nonsense with them. For being faeries professed in the medical studies of the brain, they certainly didn’t seem interested in mind-games, even if those games were for the benefit of their patients. Jocose made a note to look into it when she returned to HQ and file a complaint.

Now, she realized. I have to figure out where I am… and how I survived. She suspected that she was aboard Regent VII, and where she had awoken was not a hospital, but the starvessel’s infirmary.

Thoughts of the recall still ebbed in her mind, but she pushed them back and composed herself. She couldn’t remain sitting here like a distressed child awaiting the return of a doctor who would reassure her that everything was going to turn out alright and she could go home soon. She would not allow it. Her pride and dignity forbade her from appearing helpless and weak. She found herself oddly glad no one had, apparently, been there when she had had her intense recall and collapsed. To anyone else, it would’ve appeared as though she had done so because of the slight pain from removing the IV needle. So where is everyone else? She quietly slid off the bed, grabbed a section of curtain, and peeked out to get a view of the area beyond her little space. A long, sterile white and blue room occupied by closed curtains every few feet which were uniform to Jocose’s own. Light fixtures in the ceiling illuminated the room, but some seemed unusually dim, as if running on emergency power.

Jocose hadn’t seen this room aboard Regent VII. But then, she hadn’t seen many of the I.D.O.S.’s rooms. She wasn’t in the afterlife; that she knew. No theorization or interpretation of heaven, hell, or any other religion’s and otherwise parties hypotheses and descriptions said they had the appearance of an infirmary section.

Still, where has everyone gone to? Minus the various medical machines droning, the silence was eerie nothingness throughout the room. Some of the curtains swished gently with the invisible breezes emanating from low vents in the walls, and one of the overhead lights flickered, then returned to normal just as quickly. It was subtly disconcerting.

Jocose stepped out from behind her curtain and began walking deliberately down the aisle of other curtains, as though checking the floor’s structural integrity, turning her attention to the slightest noise or movement. It’s just a smidgen of paranoia. She told herself. You endured maltreatment from a sentient black cloud while suspended in space before a hazardous dimensional rift, then experienced a racking memory recall that resulted in fainting. You have the right to be cautious, even if it proves superfluous. Instructor/Captain Dreg had once told she and her class that it was “okay” to have fear, but not in the way that that fear overcame you. He said this as they were about to begin a live underwater training session, standing in the main “compartment” of a mockup of a Helix Dropship suspended two hundred feet above the large training pool, which was a decent sized lake in its own right. “If you must fear—which most every sentient creature does at some point in their lifetime—use it as fuel, turn it around. Make fear into an asset, an item in your toolbox, and you can wield one of the greatest weapons this universe and all other universes have ever had. The trick is learning how to tame yours.” He promptly shoved one of the trainees nearest the edge off the mock Helix, into the water below, and then gestured to the others with a wave of his free hand. “Begin training exercise.”

Jocose smirked, despite herself. His prep talks consisted of some of the better entertainment and morale boosting aspects of her time at Academe.

Distracted by the reminiscing, she suddenly made a misstep with her footing, tripped, and fell face-first towards the floor near the end of the room she was making her way to. She was barely able to raise her hands in front of her before colliding with the linoleum.

She cursed herself for being so careless, though it was, in actuality, a petty thing. Worry was what set her off. Worry about if she may have just possibly disturbed whatever or whoever resided in here with her, unless she was alone. She hadn’t decided to check what was behind the other curtains; fear could be tamed and utilized as a tool, but she didn’t have to endorse it. So she had ignored the prospect of checking.

Now she wondered whether or not that was such a wise choice.

She lay as still as possible against the floor and waited, eyes and ears attentive for any indicators of hostile or otherwise presence. A minute passed without noticeable change throughout the room. She exhaled sharply and began to get off the floor… again. Why are you so jittery, Jocose? This needs to cease. You’re a capable cadet in FIRE, for Kalpana’s sake! And you’re lying around like a frightened animal in thi—

Her train of thought stopped and dead. She had caught sight of something—moving—in her right peripheral vision. She jumped back and spun around to face it.

There, only a few feet away, stood a shocked and frazzled looking little girl; she couldn’t have been anything more than a tween. She wore a white infirmary gown dotted with blue spots, which was obviously a few sizes too large for her, like an oversized bathrobe. Atop her head, falling from her shoulders and draping down her back like a river of red was a mess of voluminous, vibrant reddish hair that was very nearly long enough to touch the floor. Her skin was pale, but not to the degree in which it was opaquely so. Her face was speckled with the remains of freckles that had once been many, and her young cyan eyes shown like centerpieces. Her expression held scrutiny, stupefaction and mounting consternation.

Jocose tentatively opened her mouth to say something. The other girl mimicked her movement exactly. No words came out. No…

She raised her arm, slowly, wary to confirm a fact she would’ve rather left well alone. Again the girl followed her action without blunder. No…

Jocose hesitantly stepped forward, and the girl matched her pace as they approached one another. She and the other girl extended their hands simultaneously, and they met. Except what Jocose felt was not flesh, it was a smooth pane of glasslike material. A mirror.

A full-length mirror containing an image of herself.

My completed entry/prologue story.

…

Space. A wondrous light-speckled expanse of dark vacuity, yet filled with life and energy.

When Jocose was first brought into training at FIRE Academe, her instructor—Captain Dreg—told her that space wasn’t the only mysterious expanse, that “space isn’t the last frontier”. Most FIRE Academe students went into their high-level classes unknowingly to the intense and mad truth about FIRE. And no one outside of the Academe knew what it stood for:

Faery Interdimensional Research (and) Exploration.

They were students of space and time and everything in-between. Pioneers into worlds in the folds of worlds and dimensions stacked on dimensions; trained to research and explore the infinite frontiers of the multiverse and beyond.

Her instructor told his students time after time how at a glance and by the enchanting descriptions bestowed it, the task of FIRE personnel seemed a whimsical journey of the fondest likes. Then, he said, “If that’s what you’re here to experience—what you expect to experience—you are unfortunately mistaken. And unless you can rectify that thinking, I recommend you leave… now.”

This startled most of them when he first announced this at the introduction meeting, and as Captain Dreg had continued, some actually did leave.

“… Ours is a journey of hard-pressed insanity through experiences many don’t return from intact, whether physically, mentally… or both. No, ours is a journey of interdimensionally-induced psychosis through paths formerly untraveled, and those treaded by things only the most cognizant can fathom, and that which the weaker in mind and spirit are broken by. The primary reason the public is kept out of the loop about our workings, is because they can’t take it… But by the time we’re done here, I will have done everything in my capacity to ensure you are.”

Though Academe students had been warned before how difficult their term would prove to be, Jocose and her fellow learners were astonished at the sheer weight and complexity of knowledge and training drilled into their everyday lives from that point: Rift research, advanced quantum science, artificial limbo and stasis exercises, factors of atomic deconstruction, how to navigate while traveling through unstable wormholes, etc. If they hadn’t already been advanced-level students, the term’s tasks would’ve been impossible to achieve; even so, it stretched their mental aptitude to the very limits.

Only half of Jocose’s class had the capability and ambition to “survive” the first tenure of four years under the intensive regimen, herself included. Those who were successful moved on, and personally, Jocose had decided to attend the next four year term. If she came out of Academe with an eight-year degree, she could operate in almost any task classification FIRE had.

Midway through her fifth year, a crisis within the organization occurred. Personnel and four-year-successful-and-up-students of FIRE were notified of a catastrophic malfunction with a massive array of Universal Paradigm Influencer machines. UPI machines were the backbone of FIRE travel, devices which allowed their time and dimensional exploration vessels and other modes of transport craft to do just that: Time and space travel. UPI’s could also be utilized to send objects, people, etc. throughout the multiverse, and bring them back.

In the case of the malfunction, hundreds of UPI’s had backfired on themselves, resulting in the creation of tears in the Fabric of reality—rifts—that obliterated the FIRE facilities and ships that had them, and also threatened to expand and cause further damage. FIRE scientists even theorized that if the tears were not repaired in quick fashion, their collective destabilization affect could begin to unravel the Fabric. And it was plain to everyone what that meant: The death of the multiverse, the death of everything in existence.

FIRE had immediately put into effect a cleanup plan—codenamed “Clampdown”—to repair the multitude of rifts. Thankfully, though many were gone, the organization remained with a formidable fleet of space-and-time-ready vessels. But they had lost a great many craft and personnel nonetheless, and due to this, every able four-year-successful-and-up student was assigned tasks to assist in Clampdown. Academe itself was transformed into a command center for the cleanup effort, which corresponded with FIRE HQ and other temporary centers across the known expanse.

Jocose had been assigned as a field unit aboard the Inter-Dimensional Operations Station (IDOS) Regent VII. Her primary job was as a Spacewalker, one of thee most dangerous tasks field personnel could have…

Oct.31, Rift Site Near the Colonization of Effervesce

Space. A wondrous light-speckled expanse of dark vacuity, yet filled with life and energy.

Jocose hadn’t thought her first field missions would involve spacewalking to accomplish rift-repair, but since the malfunction, all her plans in life had undergone detours. Mainly, the fact she was unable to complete her second term, which frustrated her greatly. Regardless of her wishes, here she was, soon to perform an extremely dangerous yet seemingly simple task in deep space, only inches from coming into contact with a tear in reality. It would’ve almost proved at least somewhat amusing, if she wasn’t privy to what direct contact with rifts could do to her—protective gear or not.

Before her was the rift itself—an uneven-looking streak of shifting color, as though some divine being or other had taken a sword and slashed a cut in the universe, and the universe was bleeding. In fact, metaphor aside, it was bleeding. The tear was radiating rift energy that pulsated out from it in sporadic expulsion waves, creating streams and clouds of energy that appeared like gases suspended in the quiet vacuum of space. It was serene, vividly beautiful and foreboding altogether.

Jocose glanced behind her as she was nearly to the rift. There, proudly basking in the rift’s light, was the FIRE starvessel Regent VII, which she was connected to via the invisible tether the space and dimensional anchor system generated. It and her pack thrusters dictated her movement accordingly and served as necessary precaution against possible incident.

Beyond the Regent, in the not-so-far distance, was the Effervesce Dyson Shell, a megastructure completely encompassing a young star which name had been lost long ago. Effervesce constantly harvested energy from this star, providing infinite power to the colonies residing there, and also to the home planet very far away, which received a share of the power output through a colossal spacebridge spanning the voluminous, otherwise empty void between the two bodies.

The Dyson Shell, spacebridge, and the species whom built them were not of Faerykind. Rather, an intelligent and prosperous alien race. Albeit, despite their strong intellect, it was highly unlikely anyone living on (and in) Effervesce knew of Regent VII’s presence. The rift was in obvious view, but FIRE had ensured that no one would interfere with the rift-repair operation.

Seeing the alien achievement of incredible architecture and knowing there were millions upon millions of sentient, living creatures who called it “home” reaffirmed her perspective on the present and reminded her that what she was about to do could mean life or death for all those residing there. It also made her feel sick. All those lives in her hands… she would’ve never asked to hold such a responsibility—but now was not the time to complain, and it was certainly not the time to form regrets by screwing this up.

“Stopping you… here,” Her ‘Tether Master’, Ren, announced through the two-way communications link, using the anchors and tether thereof to halt her in front of the rift. Jocose recognized its true enormity, now being right up to it. The tear could have swallowed Regent VII a dozen times over with its size. “… Be safe, stella calcator.”

‘Stella calcator’ meant “star treader’ in their native dialect, which was often substituted for English when speaking. He had told her that twice now—once at the first rift site and now here—but she didn’t really take anything by it. As far as she knew, it was simply a phrase used by Tether Masters to their Spacewalkers.

Steeling herself, Jocose activated the one-way filters on her gauntlets. These allowed magic flow from her hands to access the space outside her suit and still prevent the vacuum and dangerous rift aura from getting in. When she did this, she trusted the advanced exploration suit with her life, really. Direct contact and unprotected exposure to rift aura was extremely dangerous, if not fatal. Generally speaking, it could unpredictably affect her entire molecular structure. And if she physically touched the rift itself, it was likely to disintegrate her and spew the scattered atoms across several different plains of reality, or possibly drag her into wherever lie on the other side of the tear, if anything at all. She didn’t plan on testing any of those outcomes by breaching protocol. FIRE had discovered these facts about rifts because of past personnel mistakes, one’s she did not plan on repeating.

The green ‘clear to proceed’ signal lit up in the upper left-hand corner of Jocose’s Head’s Up Display. “You may begin rift-repair phase one.” Confirmed Ren.

Jocose flexed her fingers inside the gauntlets, beginning to feel the on-so-familiar tingle of active magic flowing towards them through her body as she focused. You’ve done this a thousand times in training with a 96% average success and once without incident in the field. You. Can. Do. This. They chose her as a Spacewalker for Regent VII’s missions because of how focused, unfaltering and steady-handed she was; and, also, for her impressive magical strength and stamina. All of her work, training and discipline shown through these attributes (albeit her magical capability was a natural gift honed over her years).

Jocose raised both her hands, now teeming with energy from within her, and released two separate bursts of magic which consolidated as they touched the rift, then spread across it. Those were to create a buffer of sorts that was there to help prevent what she was about to do next from unintentionally splitting it open further.

She subsequently brought both hands together at the level of her sternum and the underside of the gauntlets touched before she shot a stable beam into the rift’s epicenter. This generated a ripple effect athwart its surface, much like when a stick is poked into a pond, except far more brilliant. Jocose felt the power gradually siphoning from her body as the beam poured into the tear, but she could hold it, at least until the task was complete.

Rifts were typically created when something or someone tore holes in the fabric of time and space, like crashing through walls instead of using the door. And every time you broke down a wall, the structure’s integrity became more unstable, until finally it came falling down. In a sense, it was the same with the rifts in the multiverse: Create too many and it would collapse.

Repairing the “broken walls” was a tedious errand, but wholly possible. Pouring specifically-toned magical mass into the rift caused a reaction which diverted the forces that were expanding it to have the reverse effect: Closing in on itself and ultimately mending the tear. It was a strenuous task that required the ‘mender’ to remain solidly focused on generating the correct mass-tone while steadily providing the magic itself. What Jocose was doing only constituted as phase one rift-repair, which was the hardest of the three to four required phases because she was establishing the stalwart reversal, fighting against the expansion pull.

Perspiration began forming on her forehead, both due to the strain and the increasing emission of heat produced by the reactions of beam-meeting-rift. Her suit’s internal climate control systems kicked into full-drive, trying to keep her cool. Through her visor, Jocose noticed the glowing of external hardlight shielding projecting from her armor, all over it, like fluxing illuminated outerwear. Her HUD notified her that the hardlight was inhibiting a good deal of the burning emission from reaching her substantial armored suit. Her bio-readings were doing alright as well, though it was obvious her body did not appreciate being in such close proximity to the intense temperature.

She gritted her teeth. Keep it together, Jocose.

She expected Ren to speak up about now, with some useless modicum of encouragement or petty comment. But it seemed he knew better, from the last time, when his interruption had quite nearly made her overcharge that rift when he had startled her. But that was in the past, and the rift was mended despite the incident. Still, she had wondered why they allowed him to remain as her Tether Master. The assigned Captain of Regent VII was Dreg, after all, and most of the crew consisted of former students of his. They all knew how unkindly he treated failure and protocol breaches. But Jocose also knew he gave second chances to those he saw greatness in. She had experienced it for herself, once and maybe more…

A beep, not so much as to deter her complete attention from the task, notified her of an issue. A small red blip flashed in the lower right-hand corner. She blinked twice, rapidly, at it and a notification appeared: Regent VII’s scanners have identified an increasing number of unusual activity spikes coming from the rift. Caution is advised. Please be notified th—

Suddenly, her suit’s warning sensors flared to life, cutting off the message. The hardlight shielding buckled under a particularly strong burst of emission waves, briefly jarring her. She struggled to retain the beam in that brief moment of abrupt movement, but it held. Dammit! What was that?

As if in response, another notification appeared without her actually bidding it. New notification: Rift is showing signs of intermediary transference occurring. Aka: Something was trying to come through from the other side, and that was causing the tear’s structure to fluctuate atypically.

“Jocose, the site is becoming notably dangerous! Readings have spiked to the point where standard protocol says I must take you back in.”

Protocol… “No!” She hissed through clenched teeth. “Keep me where I am!” He had done the stupid thing of startling her once; he could do the stupid thing by letting her proceed.

Whatever was attempting to travel through the rift, it didn’t belong on the side Jocose found herself trying to seal it from. How it was coming through was a puzzle in and of itself. Only high-end Excursion craft had the capability to survive rift travel, to the extent of her knowledge, in any case. Even so, most Excursion craft were never seen again after entering universal tears. You had to be mad, one hell of a good pilot and have access to rare and well-guarded FIRE tech to even consider pulling such an impossible stunt—and coming out alive to tell the tale, for that matter.

What Jocose knew for certain is that it didn’t belong, and she had to expend herself further than she had ever tried before. It had to be mended now. Something crashing through it from the opposite end had the theoretical potential to critically destabilize and obliterate everything in this sector of space with the immense energy discharge. Regent VII and all those lives on Effervesce… She was accepting a high-risk chance with variable outcomes, but she didn’t see any favor in the option of backing-off. She ignored the constant warnings from her suit sensors. There won’t be safety for anyone if the rift goes discharge-nova.

“Jocose…”

She really had no time to banter with Ren at the moment. Most of her magical mass reserves were already gone and she was gradually falling to the clutches of fatigue, focus failing…

“… The emergency stimulants!” He exclaimed.

It took her a second to process what that meant. Then it dawned on her.

The stims! Every Spacewalker suit was equipped with built-in emergency stimulant injectors that shot magic-infused drugs into the wearer’s bloodstream in case of dire need. Jocose turned her eyes towards the HUD icon for the emergency-functions menu and quickly opened it, which brought up a list. She scrolled through it with more eye movements and located the ‘Stimulant Injection’ option. With three blinks she selected it.

Are you certain you wish to proceed?

She wanted to scream “Yes!” at it in irritation, but it was futile anyway, and her helmet was purposely not set up with voice-control and recognition features. She blinked at the ‘Yes’ icon, which generated another window, the last in the series, which asked what level of dosage she wanted. This was consuming time, and she knew it.

Regardless, she hesitated, for just a moment. In order to pass a certain class, she had been required to have an average dosage (judged by her weight) of stims. They offered a very substantial stamina boost, but typically left the user in a fairly disheveled state after the effects wore off, especially if they were new to the drugs—their body unprepared and untrained to handle them. That wasn’t Jocose’s problem now, though.

What she realized was that a standard dose wouldn’t be enough. It generally took three to four fully-rested faeries to mend a rift over three to four different consecutive phases. An average amount of stims for her wouldn’t cut it. I have to take all of it. She surmised. The dosage might ultimately kill her, but she was probably going to die anyway, if whatever it was in the rift made it through. If I survive this, I think I’m going to really hate myself afterwards.

She selected ‘Full Injection’.

Small stabs of pain directed at key vein and artery areas across her body signaled the initial release of the magic-infused meds into her bloodstream. Then nothing, for a few moments when she wondered whether or not they were working.

The boost suddenly ignited like a fire of vitality inside her.

She took authority over her newfound energy, surging it up her arms and out her hands to reinforce the faltering beam. It brightened with the fresh power Jocose was feeling. She pressed harder. Instead of a stalemate that wasn’t going her way, the radiant tear reluctantly surrendered its expanding force, and then gradually began shrinking with increasing speed.

She was so preoccupied that she almost missed the yelling coming through her helmet speakers. It was Captain Dreg. “… Listen to me, unit! Cease your beam now!” He must’ve understood what was happening and had seized the anchor control booth from Ren.

Jocose was sorry for ignoring protocol and now disobeying his direct commands; even so, she had to do this. And it was almost done, so close to being mended. Finding her voice, she managed, “It’s closing time, Sir… and I’m locking the door.”

The gauntlets were barely holding up, not designed to undergo the extreme strain for the duration Jocose needed to complete the rift-repair by herself. She desperately hoped the filters could endure it a bit longer. The temperature was rising to a shocking degree. The hardlight and internal compensators were on the brink of failing. Just a little more time. FIRE built some of the best equipment, and now she was relying on it to keep her alive, just a little bit longer.

“Unit! Jocose!” Dreg was still attempting to dissuade her from the task. She knew—despite his gruff-and-rough demeanor—that the Captain cared about his personnel. She had to disregard his command, and it stung. She held deep respect for him.

The rift was degraded to more than half its former size now, close to being more a sliver than streak… a sliver with a blemish of a dark spot on it.

Jocose squinted at the speedily approaching blackish, indefinite form. It must just be the stimulant overdose messing with my perception… She thought absently; albeit she had never heard of stims producing hallucinogenic affects. Whatever, it was—figment or not—her proximity sensors were failing to pick it up. Maybe the extreme heat had finally scrambled them, rendering the scanning technology useless. She couldn’t tell.

The suit’s system warnings were still quite active, though. Hardlight shielding, respiration mechanisms, internal climate control, gauntlet filters… All fading. The realization came that if she had gone out in an Mk.7-type Spacewalker suit, none of these warnings would be flashing across her HUD. But no one had expected this circumstance would present itself, especially not her, so she wasn’t fully—properly—equipped for it.

The suit wasn’t the only function failing. Her vision clarity was deteriorating and the heat building inside the confines of the Spacewalker gear were making it difficult to breathe. Drops of sweat gathered and fell into her mouth and drenched her hair.

She was aware that the dark form had progressed further. If it wasn’t a trick of the mind, then perhaps it was the “thing” traveling through the rift. Then it won’t come through. Jocose rallied the vestiges of her foci, determined to succeed in what she now considered a race of sort.

Her helmet speakers only spat static at this point. She was alone. And Regent VII couldn’t pull her back in unless she ceased her beam. If that factor weren’t present, she’d already have returned onboard against her will. She checked the distorted HUD for confirmation that the anchors tether was still online. It was. Of course it was. Without it, Jocose was likely to have been sucked-in by the tear and disintegrated in a moment.

The rift was near to fully succumbing. The radiance it shown was in far lesser glory than it had once been, like the final rays of sunlight peeking forth from the horizon at the end of eventide.

The blackish shape seemed to have noticed and put its forward effort into full drive.

Jocose hadn’t stopped to think about what would happen to it if and when the rift closed before it came through to her side? Would the form be trapped in the rift pocket between worlds? Was she damning it to an inescapable prison of constantly shifting vortex in the sealed veins of the universe? What if “it”, was actually a “he”, “her” or even “them”?

No, she couldn’t ponder of those questions. She was saving her people, not looking out for the welfare of unidentified travelers who were either ignorant to the impending harm they could cause, or were intentionally planning to trigger a discharge-nova. Pangs of guilt still struck her. It was a part of her faery nature, that which—in the modern times of their society—was struggling to survive. Many of her species had intrinsic morality about how to live, as if possessing enhanced consciences. Nonetheless, many were devious and had no issue dealing in such ways that contradicted those previously mentioned. Types torn by beliefs and inherent truths. Their state of affairs wasn’t unlike any other society Jocose had ever seen or learned about, unfortunately.

Suddenly, amongst the cacophony of warnings, one stood out from the others: Rear Hardlight Shielding Down!

Jocose was abruptly aware of a weight pressing on her back that hadn’t been there before, accompanied by a feeling that something was… tearing at her armor? She referenced the HUD suit external layer readout. Something was trying to breach her Spacewalker gear, but she couldn’t see it, and couldn’t move to stop it, either. The dark form had yet to exit the rift—so what was attacking her?

Pangs of guilt were replaced with immediate fear.

She quickly remembered the helmet’s rear cameras and brought up the feed from one of them. It was barely discernible from the grainy image she was receiving, but there—attempting to burrow into the upper-back area of her suit—was a moving, dark cloud, not much different in appearance from the blackish form.

Her rapidity of breath increased, which was not favorable for what happened next. Suit Breach! The HUD exclaimed. Integrity Compromised! She felt the vacuum of space forcefully enter the suit confines, ravenously choking every ounce of oxygen it could reach. The sensation only endured a moment, before auxiliary protective systems automatically kicked-in. A secondary respirator came over the lower half of her face, covering her mouth and nose to avert suffocation; a visor sealed around her eyes to guard them. She wore a full bodysuit underneath the Spacewalker outfit. So as long as it didn’t get “opened up” too much, she could survive. The HUD indicated that only a very small incision had been made. What disturbed her the most was that the “cloud” had vanished.

Then another, drastically different sensation occurred. From the place of the incision, Jocose felt something, as though a substance—both light and thick—was seeping into the suit, running between it and her bodysuit like a semi-insubstantial liquid. It began permeating the entire suit interior. She shivered involuntarily, despite the still-present hot emissions.

The cloud.

It wormed its way up and into her helmet—a dark, fume-like entity—blocking out her vision. This was her first real, in-field encounter with a hostile, or seemingly hostile, thing. No controlled environment. No on off switch. No mentors to help her through.

And she was genuinely scared.

Her sight was now nil. She couldn’t see the readouts or the rift. Just the blackness of the sentient cloud.

Something was exerting force onto her arms now, tugging at them. No! She realized its purpose. It was to stop her from continuing the beam and ultimately mending the universal tear. Then why didn’t the thing simply kill her?

She fought against it, using what strength she wasn’t pouring into the stabilization beam to keep her limbs up. The cloud was stunningly strong, though it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Jocose, had she been in a less disorientated state.

It did not take kindly to her resistance and became more forceful. It beat against her body from inside the suit and even hammered at the respiration mask. Jocose could hardly discern which way was up judging by her original position, whether she was still in her original position at the rift or not. Thinking intelligible thoughts became a laborious task. Everything was the relentless maltreatment she was receiving from the malicious sentient cloud and her muddled maelstrom of emotion.

The respirator cracked and immediately what assurance of breath she had began leaking out from it. The cruel fume-like thing did not cease its abuse. Her energy was on the brink of total exhaustion, her body weak and worn. Darkness ebbed at the corners of her vision, not that of the cloud.

With one final burst of magical power from her hands, Jocose succumbed to the blackness, embracing the numb retreat of unconsciousness.

Greetings, oi, ave and whatever other forms of salutation you might think of,

I’m back again for another Arbitrary World Post, to put an odd and ridiculous spin on otherwise simplistic update and info posting!

Today we’re going to visit the topics of a writer and story update, “The Poems” which will touch on the subject of my cryptic poetic writing pieces, and finally, the future of Arbitrary World Posts.

To begin, we’ll take a break!

Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis is the longest English word ever! Go figure! Now try to pronounce it. >:)

And now our unorthodox-ly scheduled update:

I am aggravated to admit, again, that things aren’t going well with TFS. Much as come up since I posted the WiP Chapter. In short, different aspects of life have been and are getting busy and/or complex. TFS is just not a priority because of all this; I cannot confidently continue, and I am sorry. :/ Maybe when things tone down some I can try. (Not as though it seems many pay attention anyway, but nonetheless.)

Right on to the next topic:

The Poems.

I was treading along a particularly difficult time, and the poems were my outlet for expressing it. I’m fairing better now than I was then, thank God.

I’ve decided to leave them up despite what they’re about, and the conflict therein. Most of their content wasn’t of significant value as written words (in my opinion), but I still feel that I should leave those posts where they are.

And now, the most ridiculous song you’ve ever read, without actually hearing it:

Don’t trust the feathers,

In your closet

Because they will come back to tickle you!

Don’t trust those messed up feathers,

That would like nothing better

Than to eat your fluffy mattress

And make your pillow

Scream in your ear at night

Don’t trust those feathers!

This song,

Sounds very cheesy

But it’s okay,

Because I had cheese for Lunncchhhh

Yeeaahh

– End. (These lyrics are not affiliated with anything resembling tolerable musical work – The Eardrum and Eye Protection Agency [EEPA], @ 2013. No rights reserved.)

And finally we come to the final topic of today’s post:

The future of Arbitrary World.

I have one or two (or three, or four; LOL. Indecisiveness!) ideas about what could be engineered for the future of AW. The only really solid idea I have is an original comic strip series that would be posted with AW Posts, and that–in general–this is easy enough to continue doing from time-to-time without interrupting other things or becoming troublesome.

And so here ends Arbitrary World Post No.3. If thee might find the comment’s box, I pray thee leaveth a message of sort for thy to ponder over. In any case, I bid thee well! :-]

~ TEW

Ave, peoples,

I haven’t much to say; the poem will speak for itself today.

Dithers progressed from uselessness

To something’s haunting

Splinters lodged in the world

Attempting to remind you

With subtle hints and focus-shattering tidbits

Pictures and personas split

Crossing over, these things you were meant to forget

Or, at least, that’s what she told you

In the library, they left a clue

In a book, something they drew

A granite picture, of someone you knew

And it scares you

Planting things you recall

From a time and place beyond these walls

In the twisted place,

Speaking without audible sound

The Dithers know,

Travelers between the haze and labyrinthine maze

Where you are from and why you are here

The damage done and the saltwater tears

…

~ TEW

Ave, peoples,

I wrote more poem.

What were you called,

How did they know you?

All that is behind, whitewashed from time

A mental block in the mind, or perhaps it never was…

Perception blurred, the past is barely heard

Only Whisper’s remnant, saves from self-abandonment

Damaged cries resonate at night, though why you scream, they cannot see

Split in two, these worlds askew

Running in your sleep, resting in the day

Lungs burning, heart turning

When REM stage comes, fermenting memories you’d rather not stay

You can’t recall a peaceful lay

Yet they reside, harming you astride

Scars will always remind

Threshold of dull agony,

Remembrance triggers inner dissonance

Spikes and sparks ignite flares

Esoteric uproar tears at the fabric of your reality

Feelings enigmatic, walls bleeding static

Breezes through void and veil of uncertain status

Cling to a hope between both

Some things remain the same

Endured the journey

Someone left behind—do you even want to go back the way you came?

…

~ TEW