My contest entry (easily the worst thing I've ever written)
Aug 12, 2015 22:29:11 GMT
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Post by cargocultist on Aug 12, 2015 22:29:11 GMT
[In my defense, I wrote the whole thing in about three hours on very little sleep. Don't think I'm fishing for compliments, this is earnestly bad. I just think I'll win by default, since nobody else submitted anything.]
(Ed. note: This note was found in a snowed-in cottage in the middle of the Wisconsin wilderness, on an unidentified person's skeletal remains. It baffles everyone who's heard of it and forms the basis of many conspiracy theories today.)
Synthaya draws its name from the words ayahuasca (a potent psychedelic brew whose use stretches back far before recorded history) and synthetic. The ayahuasca part refers to the initial high one gets when first imbibing it, that is to say, the heightened sense of animism and interconnectivity of everything on one’s native planet. I think you know what the synth part refers to.
I used to run a synthaya operation in Hydrodome Colwyn. Before the inundation of the market with cheaper, more potent substitutes, one could make quite a healthy living selling complex chemical concoctions to aspiring psycho-cosmonauts. In the case of synthaya, it was mainly used for, and I quote, “the transmigration of the soul to other planets in exchange for new life.” With statements like that, it’s no wonder people didn’t take these guys seriously. I mean, at first. Then they started bringing things back.
It started as simple rumors. Good old “I know a guy who knows a guy that…” tales. Someone would, during a trip, have a strange encounter and come back down to to find everything in their house mysteriously rearranged. Or maybe they would wake up and find themselves with missing fingers and the vague memory of dealings on a cosmic scale. Stuff like that, old urban legends and shit. But then they escalated into tangible things: Intricately carved stone bas-reliefs weighing hundreds of pounds just appearing out of nowhere, impossibly shaped sculptures growing out of the ground, and strange orbs that glowed with colors nobody had ever seen before implanted on their foreheads. It was at this time that the government, driven by a rightly terrified mob of people, cracked down hard on the manufacture and distribution of the stuff.
But naturally, others craved the strange hallucinations and experiences the drug afforded them. So a niche but profitable illegal market sprang up almost overnight. And I was one of the sellers. I had never actually taken it myself,
There always comes a time when the police are literally knocking down your door in search of illegal items. It’d happened to me several times before, I had been dealing various drugs for a while. This time, though, the timing could not have been worse. The toilet was clogged, the water wasn’t running, and there wasn’t enough time to stash it away somewhere. I know of the old adage that you should never consume your supply set aside for dealing. But in this instance, I had no choice. I wolfed down what black-as-sin powder remained from my recent deals.
The first sensations I felt were of a deep spiritual connection to the Earth. Everything breathed, had life, had a soul. I felt the sacred monad, enveloping and spitting out the very fabric of existence itself.
Then, an immediate severing. I floated up until eventually I left that jumbled chaos of sound and feeling far beneath me.Next, away from the heat and motion of the world was the infinite and perfect blackness, writhing with activity both beneath and beyond me.It was there, existing in a place where nothing else like me existed, that I heard voices.
It was more of a direct transmission of thoughts. But I call them voices, for the thoughts were not in line with my own. Like I was a node in a vast communication network, and several beings were using me to transmit information to each other. One by one several streams of thought flickered and died, until at last there was only one addressing me. And doing it directly. It made clear several of its intentions. 1. It wished to strike a deal with me 2. It would give me one of three choices of boons in my next life, none of which were transferable 3. In return, upon the termination of my current existence in the material plane, my soul was to provide sapience to one warmachine for no less than a period of seven thousand years 4. When I returned to where I came from, a “sacred rune” would be on my forehead, as a sign of our covenant.
Now, I know at this point that you think I’ve lost my marbles. Or maybe you’re thinking I’m lying. Maybe you’re even thinking that you want some of what I had. Regardless, I experienced it, and I have something to prove the truth of it to me.
Once the different benefits I could receive were elucidated and expounded upon, my course of action was clear. I agreed to his terms, and in exchange I would receive enlightenment and ascend to a higher cycle after my period of servitude. Then, the drug started to wear off.
I woke up in a stranger’s bed. My hands were a stranger’s hands, and my eyes not my own. Evidently I had been deposited in the wrong body.
I scrambled to the mirror to find myself completely different. Nothing was similar. The face was impossible to see: It was covered by a strange red conflagration of glowing lines. They seemed to conform to no geometrical pattern that I knew of. I looked at my feet, the floor was deeply worn wood. The room lacked any furnishings save a white-topped bed and a stool.Then, my eyes turned towards the door, crudely painted brown, which still had a key in the lock. I tried to push the door open, but it was jammed tight.
And so, after digging around in the floorboards I found a stack of paper, a pen, and some ink. As death from starvation approached I hastily wrote everything except this sentence.And now, we have caught up presently, and I am nearly out of ink. So--- (Ed. note:It becomes illegible after this point.)
(Ed. note: This note was found in a snowed-in cottage in the middle of the Wisconsin wilderness, on an unidentified person's skeletal remains. It baffles everyone who's heard of it and forms the basis of many conspiracy theories today.)
Synthaya draws its name from the words ayahuasca (a potent psychedelic brew whose use stretches back far before recorded history) and synthetic. The ayahuasca part refers to the initial high one gets when first imbibing it, that is to say, the heightened sense of animism and interconnectivity of everything on one’s native planet. I think you know what the synth part refers to.
I used to run a synthaya operation in Hydrodome Colwyn. Before the inundation of the market with cheaper, more potent substitutes, one could make quite a healthy living selling complex chemical concoctions to aspiring psycho-cosmonauts. In the case of synthaya, it was mainly used for, and I quote, “the transmigration of the soul to other planets in exchange for new life.” With statements like that, it’s no wonder people didn’t take these guys seriously. I mean, at first. Then they started bringing things back.
It started as simple rumors. Good old “I know a guy who knows a guy that…” tales. Someone would, during a trip, have a strange encounter and come back down to to find everything in their house mysteriously rearranged. Or maybe they would wake up and find themselves with missing fingers and the vague memory of dealings on a cosmic scale. Stuff like that, old urban legends and shit. But then they escalated into tangible things: Intricately carved stone bas-reliefs weighing hundreds of pounds just appearing out of nowhere, impossibly shaped sculptures growing out of the ground, and strange orbs that glowed with colors nobody had ever seen before implanted on their foreheads. It was at this time that the government, driven by a rightly terrified mob of people, cracked down hard on the manufacture and distribution of the stuff.
But naturally, others craved the strange hallucinations and experiences the drug afforded them. So a niche but profitable illegal market sprang up almost overnight. And I was one of the sellers. I had never actually taken it myself,
There always comes a time when the police are literally knocking down your door in search of illegal items. It’d happened to me several times before, I had been dealing various drugs for a while. This time, though, the timing could not have been worse. The toilet was clogged, the water wasn’t running, and there wasn’t enough time to stash it away somewhere. I know of the old adage that you should never consume your supply set aside for dealing. But in this instance, I had no choice. I wolfed down what black-as-sin powder remained from my recent deals.
The first sensations I felt were of a deep spiritual connection to the Earth. Everything breathed, had life, had a soul. I felt the sacred monad, enveloping and spitting out the very fabric of existence itself.
Then, an immediate severing. I floated up until eventually I left that jumbled chaos of sound and feeling far beneath me.Next, away from the heat and motion of the world was the infinite and perfect blackness, writhing with activity both beneath and beyond me.It was there, existing in a place where nothing else like me existed, that I heard voices.
It was more of a direct transmission of thoughts. But I call them voices, for the thoughts were not in line with my own. Like I was a node in a vast communication network, and several beings were using me to transmit information to each other. One by one several streams of thought flickered and died, until at last there was only one addressing me. And doing it directly. It made clear several of its intentions. 1. It wished to strike a deal with me 2. It would give me one of three choices of boons in my next life, none of which were transferable 3. In return, upon the termination of my current existence in the material plane, my soul was to provide sapience to one warmachine for no less than a period of seven thousand years 4. When I returned to where I came from, a “sacred rune” would be on my forehead, as a sign of our covenant.
Now, I know at this point that you think I’ve lost my marbles. Or maybe you’re thinking I’m lying. Maybe you’re even thinking that you want some of what I had. Regardless, I experienced it, and I have something to prove the truth of it to me.
Once the different benefits I could receive were elucidated and expounded upon, my course of action was clear. I agreed to his terms, and in exchange I would receive enlightenment and ascend to a higher cycle after my period of servitude. Then, the drug started to wear off.
I woke up in a stranger’s bed. My hands were a stranger’s hands, and my eyes not my own. Evidently I had been deposited in the wrong body.
I scrambled to the mirror to find myself completely different. Nothing was similar. The face was impossible to see: It was covered by a strange red conflagration of glowing lines. They seemed to conform to no geometrical pattern that I knew of. I looked at my feet, the floor was deeply worn wood. The room lacked any furnishings save a white-topped bed and a stool.Then, my eyes turned towards the door, crudely painted brown, which still had a key in the lock. I tried to push the door open, but it was jammed tight.
And so, after digging around in the floorboards I found a stack of paper, a pen, and some ink. As death from starvation approached I hastily wrote everything except this sentence.And now, we have caught up presently, and I am nearly out of ink. So--- (Ed. note:It becomes illegible after this point.)
