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rainbowfic2015-06-26 10:46 pm
starphotographs) wrote in rainbowfic2015-06-26 10:46 pm
Folly 20
Name: starphotographs
Story: Corwin and Friends
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Self-Insert Weekend, Summer Carnival)
Characters: Spenser (POV), yours truly
Colors: Folly 20 (At least things can’t get worse.)
Word Count: 896
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Spenser meets his maker
Note: My entry in the self-insert challenge. Meta as fuck. Not canon. Not canon at all.
God From the Machine
I’ve never been one for religion, and as long as I’m being honest, I’ve always found the concept pretty improbable, and, if I’m still being honest, nigh unto worthless. There’s no miracle that could change my mind. No, if anything could make me reconsider, it’s the bad shit. The shit that practically grinds you to a pulp, day, after day, after day. Several times in the past few years, I’ve wondered if I wasn’t the personal plaything of some malevolent god. Not seriously, and never for very long, but just enough for me to think it might explain a few things. And yeah, “I make some stupid fuckin’ decisions” might be a more reasonable explanation, but I’ve known a lot of stupid people, way stupider than me. And none of them went through half the bullshit I did. No, something must be singling me out in particular. Lying on my futon, staring at the ceiling, I willed it to show itself. Nothing happened. I decided to ask it out loud.
“Hey! I don’t know what your goddamn deal is, but if you’re out there, and you’re actually fucking with me, at least say somethin’ already!”
A blue light shone from the other side of the room. Don’t ask me how, but my computer had turned itself on. I never decided to stand up, but before I knew it, I was walking over to my desk, sitting down in that squeaky janky-ass chair I’d pulled off the curb last month. On the screen was what looked like a video call, but I didn’t even have a program for that. Well, program or not, I guess I’d just connected with someone. A woman with short hair and rectangular glasses. She didn’t look happy.
“…Dammit, I knew one of you was going to do this some day.”
“One of…?”
“One of my characters.”
“…Wait, this is a prank, isn’t it? You’re tryin’ to fuck with my sense of reality.”
“I control your sense of reality. I did pull a pretty elaborate unreality prank for April Fool‘s this year, though.”
She laughed to herself. I was still confused.
“Fine. If I’m, like, made-up or whatever, it’s your job to prove it.”
In that moment, was feeling very smug and sure of myself. She wouldn’t be able to find anything that could convince me. She would come up with some fact she got looking me up on the internet, or, if she was really dedicated, following me around on the street. I may be nuts, but I’m pretty fuckin’ smart, and I can see a hoax coming a mile away.
“Alright.”
She started typing, and before I even realized my hand was moving, I’d punched myself in the face. Hard.
“…Oww!”
Seemingly indifferent to my pain, she smirked slightly.
“Now do you believe me?”
“I… I guess I do… Hey, do that again!”
“…If you say so.”
She punched a few keys, and I punched myself, straight in the nose, with enough force to send blood running down my shirt. I heard the crunching inside my skull.
“…Shit. I think it’s broken!”
“Hey, don’t blame me. You’re the one who did it so hard.”
“You’re the one who made me! Aren’t you, like, supposed to control everything I do or whatever? Ow…”
“The characters write the plot, man. Anyway, I need to have you in working shape. You’re going out on a job tomorrow.”
A couple keystrokes later, the pain subsided. The bones realigned, noisily snapping back into place. The blood on my shirt didn’t go anywhere. I guess I just needed to be passably healthy, not particularly clean.
“…Do I have to? Can’t you make me do something else? I hate all this organ shit!”
“No can do. If you did something else tomorrow, I’d have to rearrange the entire story.”
“But why have me go through any of this in the first place? Why are you torturing me?”
That might have sounded a little melodramatic, but I think the situation warranted it.
“What, you think I singled you out or something?”
“…Maybe?”
“Well, trust me, I didn’t. I have a ton of other characters, and some of them have it a lot worse than you. Speaking of which, I can’t just sit around shooting the shit with you forever. There’s this guy on Mars, and I need to get him on the train home from work so I can make his lung collapse in a subway terminal, so…”
“Wait, Mars!?”
“Goodnight, Spenser.”
“But…”
She started typing. Suddenly, I felt incredibly tired. About to drift off to sleep right where I sat, fall off the swivel chair, and crack my head open. I prayed, though I wasn’t even sure if she was actually a god, that she hadn’t written anything about that.
*****
I wake up on the floor. Apparently, I did fall out of my chair, but I didn’t crack my head open. I’m alive and well. And I’m more rested than I’d been in years. I guess I must have been really out, to wake up feeling so fucking great. Which probably explains that crazy dream. Of course that’s what it was. Just a crazy dream. My computer is still switched off. My limbs only move under my own command. No gods or authors here.
Just a crazy dream.
Then I notice the blood on my collar.
starphotographsStory: Corwin and Friends
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Self-Insert Weekend, Summer Carnival)
Characters: Spenser (POV), yours truly
Colors: Folly 20 (At least things can’t get worse.)
Word Count: 896
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Spenser meets his maker
Note: My entry in the self-insert challenge. Meta as fuck. Not canon. Not canon at all.
I’ve never been one for religion, and as long as I’m being honest, I’ve always found the concept pretty improbable, and, if I’m still being honest, nigh unto worthless. There’s no miracle that could change my mind. No, if anything could make me reconsider, it’s the bad shit. The shit that practically grinds you to a pulp, day, after day, after day. Several times in the past few years, I’ve wondered if I wasn’t the personal plaything of some malevolent god. Not seriously, and never for very long, but just enough for me to think it might explain a few things. And yeah, “I make some stupid fuckin’ decisions” might be a more reasonable explanation, but I’ve known a lot of stupid people, way stupider than me. And none of them went through half the bullshit I did. No, something must be singling me out in particular. Lying on my futon, staring at the ceiling, I willed it to show itself. Nothing happened. I decided to ask it out loud.
“Hey! I don’t know what your goddamn deal is, but if you’re out there, and you’re actually fucking with me, at least say somethin’ already!”
A blue light shone from the other side of the room. Don’t ask me how, but my computer had turned itself on. I never decided to stand up, but before I knew it, I was walking over to my desk, sitting down in that squeaky janky-ass chair I’d pulled off the curb last month. On the screen was what looked like a video call, but I didn’t even have a program for that. Well, program or not, I guess I’d just connected with someone. A woman with short hair and rectangular glasses. She didn’t look happy.
“…Dammit, I knew one of you was going to do this some day.”
“One of…?”
“One of my characters.”
“…Wait, this is a prank, isn’t it? You’re tryin’ to fuck with my sense of reality.”
“I control your sense of reality. I did pull a pretty elaborate unreality prank for April Fool‘s this year, though.”
She laughed to herself. I was still confused.
“Fine. If I’m, like, made-up or whatever, it’s your job to prove it.”
In that moment, was feeling very smug and sure of myself. She wouldn’t be able to find anything that could convince me. She would come up with some fact she got looking me up on the internet, or, if she was really dedicated, following me around on the street. I may be nuts, but I’m pretty fuckin’ smart, and I can see a hoax coming a mile away.
“Alright.”
She started typing, and before I even realized my hand was moving, I’d punched myself in the face. Hard.
“…Oww!”
Seemingly indifferent to my pain, she smirked slightly.
“Now do you believe me?”
“I… I guess I do… Hey, do that again!”
“…If you say so.”
She punched a few keys, and I punched myself, straight in the nose, with enough force to send blood running down my shirt. I heard the crunching inside my skull.
“…Shit. I think it’s broken!”
“Hey, don’t blame me. You’re the one who did it so hard.”
“You’re the one who made me! Aren’t you, like, supposed to control everything I do or whatever? Ow…”
“The characters write the plot, man. Anyway, I need to have you in working shape. You’re going out on a job tomorrow.”
A couple keystrokes later, the pain subsided. The bones realigned, noisily snapping back into place. The blood on my shirt didn’t go anywhere. I guess I just needed to be passably healthy, not particularly clean.
“…Do I have to? Can’t you make me do something else? I hate all this organ shit!”
“No can do. If you did something else tomorrow, I’d have to rearrange the entire story.”
“But why have me go through any of this in the first place? Why are you torturing me?”
That might have sounded a little melodramatic, but I think the situation warranted it.
“What, you think I singled you out or something?”
“…Maybe?”
“Well, trust me, I didn’t. I have a ton of other characters, and some of them have it a lot worse than you. Speaking of which, I can’t just sit around shooting the shit with you forever. There’s this guy on Mars, and I need to get him on the train home from work so I can make his lung collapse in a subway terminal, so…”
“Wait, Mars!?”
“Goodnight, Spenser.”
“But…”
She started typing. Suddenly, I felt incredibly tired. About to drift off to sleep right where I sat, fall off the swivel chair, and crack my head open. I prayed, though I wasn’t even sure if she was actually a god, that she hadn’t written anything about that.
I wake up on the floor. Apparently, I did fall out of my chair, but I didn’t crack my head open. I’m alive and well. And I’m more rested than I’d been in years. I guess I must have been really out, to wake up feeling so fucking great. Which probably explains that crazy dream. Of course that’s what it was. Just a crazy dream. My computer is still switched off. My limbs only move under my own command. No gods or authors here.
Just a crazy dream.
Then I notice the blood on my collar.
no subject
He literally asked you to do it and THEN he sassed you.
I just.
I love this. Thank you XD.
no subject
I DON'T KNOW WHAT HE WAS EXPECTING.
no subject
no subject
Thank you! :D
no subject
This is why poking gods and other powerful entities is not always a great idea.
no subject
SUCH A BAD IDEA. AND I AM A TERRIBLE GOD.
Thanks for reading!
no subject
Poor guy on Mars
no subject
Thanks for reading.
no subject
*points and laughs at Spenser forever*
Seriously this is awesome.