not-fade-away

Some parts of the webway are entirely unknown to entities of Chaos or other mortal beings. Some doors within the endless maze of corridors and swirling, spiralling tunnels lead to unimaginable horrors and abominations which would wrack even the bravest of immortal minds with fear. Others lead to fantastical, fluffy paradises so incredibly beautiful their only visitor has simply had to leave as not to spoil them before he could determine what rightly to do with them. Other doors yet lead to nothingness: empty pockets within the dark so far removed from any other section of space they can only be conjectured to be moving outwards on the edge of

EMERGENCY INT. WAITING ROOM - NIGHT Alfred, a middle-aged bachelor in a dead-end office job, awakes on a white lino floor beside a row of chairs. He looks around the waiting room, which is dark with one or two fluorescent lights flickering off in the corner. Alfred's clothes are covered in blood, stemming from a wound in his chest. ALFRED (grunts) Ugh... Alfred catches the shadow of a large man closing the door to an office before his gaze focuses on a clerk who sits at the counter on the far end of the room. The clerk is obscured and blurred in Alfred's haze. CLERK You there. Clerk beckons Alfred over with a clawlike finger. As Alfred

Who is the Travelling Android? Hello, world. You may be wondering why I handed you this. It is likely this bears a strong resemblance to other fliers that are given by peddlers of religion or political ideals upon the street. This is not the case. I do not hold ideological bias, nor do I attempt to persuade you to do the same. It has been my observation that such approaches are ineffective methods at communicating the intended concept. Statistically speaking, you are more likely to dispose of this paper than you are to read it, even though it is in your possession. This is a behaviour which continues to perplex me, as it indicates a logical

In Memory of Roseanne Westcott, 1931-2004 Setting:    A quiet, quaint park split by a lake on the edge of a small       industrial suburb in Sydney, 2011 Characters:  MONTY – 82; a former army officer living out his twilight years   in a dull routine   BRIAN – 33; a small, nervous accountant at a small bank in    Sydney's outer suburbs.   JOHN – 42; the manager of Brian's bank. Lights up. Brian is setting on his favourite bench, beside a picturesque backdrop of a park in the outer suburbs of Sydney in 2011. Tranquillity settles in on Brian while Monty approaches, assisted by a walking stick and clutching a brown paper ba

          FADE IN:          Suburbia. Does it matter where? It's a bunch of one-floor          houses on a flat, parched by a hot summer but cooling down          in autumn. There's city off in the distance. It looks like          Sydney.          EXT. SUBURBIA. DAY.          No. 13 Leat St, a house in the suburbs. The yard's in good          shape. The garden's nice, the paint is still good.          INT. LIVING ROOM. DAY.          Inside's a disaster. Papers and clothes and old fast food          containers litter every surface. Dishes are piled in the          sink, clothes are strewn over the back of every chair.        

A cube man in a cube world attempts to hold a sphere in his cubic hands, and wonders why he sees a cube but it just doesn't feel right He sees only what his mind can see and spheres do not exist; the closest representation is another cube with the same weight and sheen His hands fumble this impossible object and the cubic sphere falls, shatters on the flat ground spills into creation a curvature and the poor cube man falls down his flat feet just can't grasp that complex shape.