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O. Captain

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O. Captain last won the day on December 8 2017

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About O. Captain

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  1. Exquisite Corpse March 2018

    —chaos as departure from a norm, as deviation from bell-curve existence—
  2. heuristically programmed algorithmic computer

    Logan this is so good I love this so much I really need to watch 2001 again or read it
  3. Exquisite Corpse February 2018

    to fall into the underwater-cave-depths of your moonlight eyes would be an end
  4. It’s centuries later, but when you see her, it feels like it was just last week. You’re in Massachusetts for the month, like you always are this time of the year. Just to Boston, just to the countryside. Never back to town. You’re not an idiot, not after all this time, and you’re not enough of a sentimental fool to take the risk. You might’ve been in your youth, but even the suggestion of sentimentality for years on end has made you sick to your stomach. She doesn’t see you; too busy looking in the sale aisle. You’re there for the coffee; it’s the cheapest in the city, surprisingly enough. The Starbucks CEO must not pay enough attention to this joint. You think, for a moment, that it’s not just a coincidence that she came into your bookstore, the one you always come to when you’re in the city. But then you remember it’s a Barnes & Noble, the only one in the district, and virtually everyone shops here. You let out a shaky breath you hadn’t needed to take. You calm down, and let your coffee grow cold watching her as she passes in and out of view. She doesn’t look more than twenty-five, you think, jealous. You have a hard enough time getting people to believe you’re out of high school. It’s a pain in the ass when you try to meet girls. If you can manage to scrape enough money together you might get plastic surgery, to save yourself the trouble of showing your ID every time you walk into a bar. She’s got on a dress, of course, a long, dowdy thing, sleeves up to her wrists despite the weather. You wonder what she’s hiding and think of the scars on the curve of flesh over your hipbone. Her face is pretty and composed, like it never was before, not even when you were both children. She isn’t smiling. Finally, drawing your gaze from her lips with some difficulty, you find her eyes, and nearly spill your coffee out onto the floor, or worse, onto your laptop. Mary Warren’s eyes are old, centuries old, like yours, but different. You’re sure it’s her, now, if you weren’t before. Despite yourself, you find that you’re afraid of her. Not for your life, or whatever you call it, but for something deeper—whatever is left of your soul. The eyes look up, and snap to yours, and her face breaks. She takes deep breaths, closes her eyes. You stare openly, watching Mary suppress the full-body tremors that threaten to shake her. She turns around, and without looking back, walks out of the store. You’re dumbfounded for a few, long seconds. Panic rises in you, seemingly without cause. You look to the barista, Clyde, who has been keeping an interested eye on the exchange, since you’re the only one in the seating area. He doesn’t get too many late-night customers. Clyde looks at you pointedly, and nods toward the door. You flash a grateful toothy smile his way, swiftly gather your things, and head out after Mary. You find Mary smoking by the pier. Her back is to you, and she’s looking out over the water. The dock light shines on her hair, cut short, right to her chin. You swallow your fear; it does not go down easy, and walk up to her, your tread silent on the wooden planks. “Hey,” you start to say, and Mary starts, dropping her cigarette into the water. She stares at you, open mouthed, eyes wide in fear, fear, still, after all this time has gone by. You put up your hands, back away. “How in God’s name are you still alive?” Mary asks after a few tense minutes. You grin wide, showing off your teeth. She starts again, and almost takes a step back, but she catches herself. “Ah,” she says, lips pursing. “Witchcraft.” You bite your lip and glare at her. Your fang draws blood, and your tongue laps it up. Mary’s face twitches, and you curl the corner of your mouth up at this victory. “Strictly speaking, vampirism and witchcraft are entirely separate things,” you drawl, cocking your head and smiling sweetly at her. “If anyone here is a witch, why it’s you, Mary Warren. How ever did you manage to make it into the twenty-first century?” Mary blanches, and you narrow your eyes at her. “Well?” You demand. She looks away, back out over the water. You snarl at her back. “Tell me, or I’ll rip out your lying, traitorous throat.” “Alchemy,” Mary says softly. If it weren’t for your keen ears you wouldn’t have caught it. “After lead into gold, it’s only natural to turn back to life from death. Very few have mastered immortality, and fewer still are willing to part with the secret of it.” “How’d an idiot like you figure out how to live forever?” “I worked for an alchemist once I left town. Someone down in Georgia, on the border of New Spain. It wasn’t a well-paying job, but I was destitute after I moved, so anything was good enough. I cleaned and cooked for him an’ his apprentice, Dion. The alchemist was working on the immortality formula, all the while I worked there. When they’d perfected it, he made one for Dion and one for himself, but on the day they were to take it, the alchemist caught Dion sneaking around seein’ one of the village boys. He didn’t take kindly to the discovery, and I found the elixir thrust into my hand. I didn’t give it much thought then. Thinkin’ now, I suppose I made a mistake. Not the first time I’ve done that,” she glares at you, recalling the times neither of you will ever, ever speak of out loud. “Been a long, long time, hasn’t it, Mary Warren. But sometimes it’s like it’s been no time at all. I know how it is,” you tell her. Your eyes roam over her covered arms. “Can you be killed, Mary Warren?” You ask, eyes meeting hers again. You know the answer is under her high collar before the last word leaves your lips, but you want to hear her say it. Mary runs past you and back into the city. You laugh, long and loud into the night. You hope your laughter follows her all the way back to her hotel. Quieting, you reach one hand up to your own neck, feel the faint scars. The other hand goes to your hip and fidgets absently. You look into the water and see your own reflection there—you’ve been able to since silver-backed mirrors went out of fashion, but it’s still a shock. The Abigail in the water smiles back at you, and winks. Same old Mary Warren, you think, chuckling. You wonder—and it’s strange to you, that you wonder—if you’ll see her again. The part of you that’s still the girl from Salem hopes so. [Author's note: my online friend had to do a similar assignment so we watched The Crucible together this week; his assignment was a bit more strict, but since I didn't actually have an assignment I added vampires.]
  5. Me, three mini-essays deep in Grendel classpect analysis: this is going to be my conference presentation, isn't it?

    1. O. Captain

      O. Captain

      If anyone wants to read them they're here!

  6. siren

    I love this line so much!!!
  7. different coats for different folks

    I love this so much!!! I love your character of Death.
  8. the Siren (part I)

    Day One. There is nothing but sea and loneliness for miles. I look to the east, back to the sun, which doubtless has already burned my back. I still revel in its warmth, while I have the time. Nichola told me how cold it gets on the beach at night. “Build a shelter, and soon. Bury yourself in the sand, far up the beach. Don’t go into the woods in the dark. Don’t be seen from the shore,” his words were hurried, a fitting companion to my desperate packing. I sigh, knowing my only hope is that the local wildlife were wary enough of my intrusion to keep away from me, at least for the first night. I shake my canteen and sigh again. Nearly empty, and no stream on this side of the island. I look at the pistol, lying heavy in the sand. I look away, out to the sea. I don’t regret it. Theo was the most annoying son of a bitch I’d ever met, and I’d have wanted to gut him even if I hadn’t seen him murder my sister. Captain didn’t see it my way, never would. Murder is murder under the Jolly Roger; vengeance takes a backseat to camaraderie. Theo’s buds had wanted me killed. If there’s anything I’m happy for on this godforsaken rock, it’s that they didn’t get what they wanted. Oh, slowly dying on an unmapped island is a gritter, more trying death, assuredly, but the point of the matter is that they wanted it a different way, and they didn’t get it. It’s getting colder now. I shiver in my thin shirt, worn from the wind and sea spray. If only we’d sailed more in colder waters. If only I’d packed my coat. The singing starts around midnight, and it tempts me to stay awake and listen, but my body, aching and more tired than after boarding a huge merchant ship, protests, and I am slung back into sleep. On the edge of consciousness I hear the singing stop abruptly, with a noise of annoyance. And then, like magic, it’s morning, and the sun is rising. I’m not dead, so I keep going. **** Day Two. There are enough fallen branches and ones thin enough to break that I can build a lean-to on the edge of where forest turns into beach. I take them with me after I build the structure and disassemble it, because I’ll be damned if I have to walk halfway ‘round the island for water. As I turn to leave, I feel a pull, out toward the sea. I look east, into the sun, and I see something glint in the golden light. I think that it is fish, and I am grateful. I start walking, pulling my feet from the sand that, inexplicably, almost pulls at them in return, wanting me rooted to that spot. I shake the sand from my feet, and think no more of it. I find a spring, near the center of the island, and I walk from the spring until I see the sand, and there I reassemble my shelter. My canteen is full, and the sun is high in the sky. I take out my knife, and return to the spring, where small fish and frogs are frolicking in the clear, cool water. Maybe tomorrow, I will make a net, to catch those glimmering sea fish, but for now, this is enough. I wake up when I hear the singing. It is more present, somehow, but more distant. It is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard, and I stand up, straining to hear it. It’s some trick of the night, of my lonely mind, already decaying into a wild, primal state, but the voice feels tangible, racing along my skin, fire and ice and the chill of the sea. I shudder, and it stops. I look out at the sea. It is wild, tossing and turning, showering me with spray. Distantly, my brain still bogged down with the sweet singing, I somehow recognize the boiling, frothing water as a warning. It is telling me the sea is dangerous, is poison. I watch the sea for a while, and my mind clears. I think this island is more dangerous than the captain could have ever imagined. **** Day Three. The next morning, I lay on my stomach in the shade of my lean-to and sleep. At the sun’s zenith, I awaken, and I begin work on my net. Long strips of fiber from the coconut trees and the spines of long, wide leaves, woven together shoddily; I’ve never had my sister’s gifted hands. I just hope it will stay together long enough to catch fish. The net and I sit in the water for hours, until the sun is almost touching the sea. I realize then how foolish it was to dawdle in the shallows; my clothes won’t dry before the sun sets, and I’ll have to spend the cold, dark night damp and uncomfortable. The net, by some god’s grace, has caught three fish of middling size. I bury two in the sand, and cook the third. I sleep through the night; perhaps by the same grace, no haunting melody disturbs my rest. I awake, and stretch my limbs, and amble to the beach, to cast my net again. **** Day Four. On the shore, one of the fish has been dug up, and filleted. The bones were taken out, and they surround the fish, in a ring, all sicking up out of the sand. If I hadn’t noticed it, I would have hurt my foot on all the sharp pieces. Beside the fish, the water has nearly worn away what might have been a skilled sand drawing of a face, of a mouth with too many teeth. I unbury the other fish, and burn it on a fire, offering it to whatever gods will take pity on me. I cast my net and wait. I must have slept, because when I am next aware of my surroundings, my net is beside me, and full of fish. I cook as many as I can, and hang them in the sun to dry. I douse them in the water, hoping it will salt them, so they’ll keep longer. I bury the rest, save one, which I offer that evening. I shall get sick of fish, eventually, I think to myself. But I’d get more sick from starvation. The singing is closer, tonight. I wake up and it is coming from the beach, just beyond the trees. I can see the beach, but the water… whoever, whatever is singing, they are just beyond where I can see, just at the edge of where the water gets too deep to stand. I am at war with myself, half my mind on the storm, the warning, and the other half soaked in that voice, a stupor rum could never replicate. I [follow the voice // go back to sleep // move inland], moving in a trance through the trees. As I move, the singing becomes more distinct, and I hear words. “That’s right, closer, my darling,” the voice croons. It’s all around me now, and the presence of it is all around me, tugging at my wrists, my ankles, making me almost stumble forward, ever toward it, ever closer to the edge of the sea… [Author's note: my friend gave me a one-word prompt, "siren," and it wound up rather longer than I thought it was going to. As she was the one who prompted the piece, the she was the one to make the choice about the course of action the story would take. I might not post any more of this here; hopefully I'll put it up in full Somewhere, at Some Point.]
  9. Welp That was another week

    I'll try to post something soon!! I recently finished a large fiction piece, I might post the first part of that here

  10. Writing has been pretty slow this week, sorry for bein away a lot! I hope you all are doin alright.

    1. queenie_flower


      lol don’t apologize I left for like a week straight and then slid into two RPs and just liked a bunch of stuff you’re 200% fine my dude.

  11. One day soon I'm going to have to do a found poem from Grendel because it's just such a pretty book

    I first read it four years ago and, although it took me these four years to realize it, it's influenced my writing style quite a bit ever since.

  12. Exquisite Corpse, January Edition

    dwarf-star-bright-shine-supernova, self-collapsing—
  13. iron & stone

    Thank you,,, I'm the English Major Kid who just really loves symbolism and Might Secretly Be A Vampire (I did wear fangs for like 4 months of school last year)
  14. iron & stone

    iron & stone one day, i will ask myself why everything i am is laced with Blood, dark red like the moment despair turns into anger, like the instant before you die pour it into the hallow places in my collarbones, feed them hemoglobin; drain your veins, build up your marrow. paint my skin with it, open wounds in my metaphoric cardiac muscle, drink deep unravel my history like a spool of thread (with a skinning knife) spill my guts in crimson embroidered organs, unhinge your jaw, find my death-(rattle) at the end, (snake) teach me how to dance in death’s arms, i will need to at my wedding (father-daughter dance), should someone ever fall in love with Blood over bone, flesh over wire-frame-posable-skeleton tear off my cult-robe and peel back my skin all at once, rip from me Witch, and Queer, and Flesh, but leave me Blood, and Bone, and Death you can’t, you see. my Self is tattooed onto the surface of my bones: Blood runes when you kiss me for the first time i want you to taste the blood from my chapped lips, be disillusioned from perfection, be grounded, taste earth and take root behind my sternum one day, i will tell myself why everything i am is soaked with Blood, dark red like the moment you fall in love, like the instant you decide you want to live [Author's Note: Sorry about the Heavy Blood Symbolism I took a Homestuck Classpect test in like 2015 and have been hung up on my god tier (Mage of Blood) since then I just really love the Blood aspect]
  15. Exquisite Corpse, January Edition

    have I so much worn away at your star that the fabric of spacetime has restitched itself, releasing me from your gravity? (or, did you wear away at mine)