savage glow

There’s all these people walking by me with a light burning in their eyes and a radiant glow screaming off their faces. Then I look at myself, and I move aside piles and piles of thorns, but I can’t seem to find it, I don’t know where it went. All I’ve got is this one candle lit up by hope, it shivers with each passing breeze but it hasn’t given up. It will keep fighting until the sky of my eyes is filled with lanterns. They will drift along the coast of each stranger’s mind, touching it with light in a way that darkness would never be capable of conquering.

I actually posted this under my former blog. Reposting it here because this fits today’s prompt for #shepardweek so much more than anything else I could come up with. Hope it’s okay that it’s not a ‘new’ work. 

It was hard to write, is still hard to read even for me. Heavy angst but if you’re okay with that, I think you’ll be happy to make it to the end :)


Supergiant - the largest star in the universe that burns the brightest but at what cost?


The argument had taken place on the bridge, loud enough for the whole crew to hear.

Shepard stormed off to his cabin.

Out of sight of everyone, a bone weary fatigue crashed down on him, feet stumbling through the dimly lit cabin towards the bathroom. His hand paused at the switch, afraid to shine a light on the irrefutable proof of the monster that lived inside his body and his mind. A monster slowly taking over his life.

The hand dropped heavily back to his side, too tired to fight even a small battle such as this. It seemed like all his life he’d been fighting something.

The cracks in his skin pulled tight with the smallest of movements, the fissures having grown alarmingly after the latest mission. They ached continuously, a throbbing pain he’d still not become accustomed to but pushed aside with sheer force of will. Even breathing caused him pain.

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I was walking down Argyle Street when I heard a group of intolerably jolly children singing the song that accompanies this piece of trash book, one of the most useless and warped holiday missives we like to cram into the cortices of impressionable youths every year, repeatedly, apparently until the end of time.

What is the moral of this horror-fantasy tale? What values are we trying to instil?

Rudolph, a genetic anomaly that lives on the outskirts of some sort of arctic sweatshop, has a radioactive nose (likely the result of whatever toxic runoff the unregulated toy factories up the road are producing). He lives a lonely and emotionally void half-life, perennially abused, mocked, and bullied by his more hale and hearty reindeer kin. 

The lord of the land, some bloated slavedriver who uses Rudolph’s tormentors as free labour, of course turns a blind eye to this kind of behaviour, as alleviating the suffering of even one reindeer might cause the others to begin questioning their own lot in life and possibly think of unionising. Rudolph’s abuse continues, unabated, for years.

The only reprieve from a life of cruel servitude in the frozen north are reindeer “games” which the bullies will not even allow poor Rudolph to “play” lest he gain a moment’s respite from his life of abject misery. He is called a bevy of cavalier and callous names, ostracised and abandoned, left to weep savagely upon the glowing, inescapable reminder of his shame and isolation, in a cave or a fen somewhere on the outskirts of town.

Then one foggy Christmas Eve, the ONE NIGHT PER YEAR the fat sack of shit who runs this torture carnival actually bothers to work, weather conditions prevent him from effectively navigating the treacherous route to countries where things like labour laws exist. He is struck with an idea, and sends for the mutant with the lamp for a schnoz, who was probably busy trying to fashion a noose with his thumbless hooves at that very moment.

“Rudolph, with your nose so bright, won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?”

And of course Rudolph says yes. How could he not? He’s been neglected, tortured, and harassed his entire life. He’s a creature on the edge, a monster in the woods. Abasing himself before this apparent display of camaraderie he sacrifices any hope of bargaining power to immediately surrender his precious labour to the one person who could have alleviated his suffering the whole time. For free, he hitches himself to the sleigh and uses his mutation to guide Santa to the houses of the “worthy” children of the world, and solely because of this, not because of any inherent virtues of personality or out of some sense of horror at their behaviour toward him, do the other reindeer suddenly decide that Rudolph is worthy of their affection and good cheer.

Then they all love him, and and exclaim how he will be remembered throughout the ages for having such a useful mutation. He basks in this disgusting reversal of bile, eagerly soaking in the new-minted and patently false adoration of those who have for years made his life a living hell.

Yes, sing, children! Laugh and rejoice! Spread the story and learn from it:

If you are different, if you are not beautiful and fit, if you are deemed unworthy by those with social authority no one will come to your aid. Nobody will attempt to stop your suffering unless somehow, by miracle, you are found to be useful to those in charge. You will receive no apologies, nor will your wounds be tended. You will simply enter the circles of popularity you so desperately longed for in your isolation, and be grateful for the opportunity. You won’t even have the presence of mind or the strength of character to demand redress or to help those in similar situations. You will become what you hate.

Welcome to the machine.

Ho ho ho.

ganmabuster  asked:

(For Alain or Makoto) The creature in the middle of the street is not a Ganma, though it has similar energy. It has the form of a savage, glowing hound, nearly six feet tall. It is staring down at a young woman in a grey uniform, who holds out a glowing hand towards the beast. "You're coming with me, Baskervilles." She shouts, firing a blast from the gauntlet at the hound.

(;27):  “You’re a fool if you think that hound will come with you.” A royally dressed, but good, Alain spoke, striding towards the two as he calmly affixed his Brace to his left wrist.  “And it appears you’ve tackled more than you can handle in that spirit..”

and in the twilight’s plucked and vaporous rose discerned
  tall trees that loomed to right and left, carved skillfully,
  for each tree on its trunk depicted a new face
  so that serene, sad, savage masks glowed in the dusk
.