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varokai · 1 year

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BOOP - Dec 15th

in which, following a short beach vacation, we are able to prioritize new goals designed from the materials available (and possibly reclaim our balls).

Little Doom Guy stared longingly at the football lost in the not-so-distant void.

"Doom," he sighed.

Dek sat in the midst of the sorted pieces, boldly assembling some unorthodox new shape, while Boop carefully moved the [sculpture?] away from the day's dormant flap above.

"So it's settled," Dek decreed, "From now on, only Little Doom Guy gets to talk about 'doom.'"

Mr. Winkle's wits slowly returned to his bucketed head. He kept looking for answers from the people who had asked the same from him. The world as he knew it was upside down but there was a stubbornly superficial aspect of himself that may have been Mr. Winkle's only anchor. Pity for such a frivolous thing was never going to be an engine for change.

"You..." croaked Mr. Winkle, "you have... unAssembled me..."

plunk.

Down he spilled, always to be caught off guard by others' self expression.

"If you recall," Dek reminded him while picking up a sandy wedge, "we never got around to Assembling you in the first place. Goodness, Mr. Winkle! It slipped my mind! Slipped my mind for days at a time..."

Dek trailed off distractedly. The small, random assemblage appeared to be satisfactory and ready to combine with something larger.

Boop was carefully inspecting the [sculpture?] for any damages from the move but had managed to half-listen to the discussion at large.

"Boop," Boop flatly warbled.

It may have been blunt but it really wasn't an insult. It just felt obvious.

"Boop makes a good point," Dek grunted, bending over to continue the build, "you've done nothing but insist that we be instantaneously, completely, and solely responsible for making sure that you turned out precisely how you arbitrarily decided you ought to be."

"I AM THE WING CULL AND I CAME WITH INSTRUCTIONS!" Mr. Winkle yelled, muffled by the [snow?].

Mr. Winkle felt this was also obvious. Dek thought it entirely irrelevant.

"YOU are literally insisting that the entire universe remold itself around YOUR ideal for it and expect ME to make it happen," Dek summarized.

The persistence we maintain is flavoured by its source. What if there is no other font but existence and no other stream but balance? What is our duty towards the single-minded and intolerable?

"Even Boop had to build Boop," Dek recounted.

Dek shoveled Mr. Winkle back into his waiting bucket.

"But... YOU Assembled Boop..." said Mr. Winkle, attempting to trace the limited logic, "...you MUST have..."

"Nope," Dek corrected. "I told you before: Boop was already here when I dropped."

Dek handed the shovel to Boop.

"Boop," Boop happily reminded Dek.

"I just shared my facehat," Dek remembered fondly. "Boop was already Boopself."

The fifteenth flap FWUMPED unceremoniously. Whatever it was meant to be, it could wait. Boop and Dek focused on completing their contraption while Little Doom Guy hopped in eager anticipation.

"What are you doing now?" asked Mr. Winkle.

"Exactly what it looks like..." Dek replied honestly.

Boop released the new tool while Dek swung it out over oblivion.

"Doom?" Little Doom Guy guessed with perceptive cheer.

Their contraption terminated in a long, shovelled finger. Dek guided it smoothly to the waiting football.

"...helping the universe with its balls." Dek confirmed.

———————-

DEC 16th:

concerning what may constitute a horrorshow, no matter how brief or beloved.

or just start over?

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varokai · 1 year

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On a lighter note.

The main reason I ever wanted to write a Hungarian mythology-based urban fantasy is that I needed to see someone do Bread Magic in a mundane modern setting.

Bread Magic shows up in a variety in Hungarian fairytales. It works like this: when someone evil, usually the devil, sometimes a dragon, wants to come into your house and hurt you, usually by taking your children, what you do is put a loaf of bread on the windowsill. It will speak for you.

When evil demands admission, the bread will say: First, they buried me under the ground, and I survived. When I sprouted, they cruelly cut me down with sickles, and I survived. They threshed me with their flails and I survived. They ground me to flour with their millstones and I survived. They put me in a bowl and kneaded me, then they put me in a hot oven to bake me, and I survived. Have you done all these things? Until you do all these things and survive, you have no power here.

This is pretty powerful magic I think, and it makes sense in a country where wheat is the staple crop and bread is the staple food. If you have bread, you are alive, if you have no bread, you are dead, therefore bread is life. It was customary to refer to wheat as “life” well into the twentieth century, and not in high literary circles either: rural seasonal workers negotiated their wages in so and so many sacks of life.

And I totally want someone to do bread magic with a shitty store-bought muffin.

#bread magic #urban fantasy #hungary #hungarian mythology #mythology #folklore #bread #indestructible toast #please tell us more about the bread magic!

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varokai · 1 year

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BOOP - Dec 14th

in which, to make up for lost time, castles are made in the sand while old acquaintances check in.

The long arms of friends encircled Dek, head still spinning.

"I'm okay, Boop. Really!" promised Dek. "Inverting an undetectable void between physical planes only makes you a little dizzy."

Boop could not let go. It is difficult to lose friends to nothingness, even for an instant. This had been hours that felt like years.

"boop," Boop's whimper choked, caught in the chest.

but that might have been the only place you could hear it.

"ENOUGH!" Mr. Winkle continued to stumble his way across the printed tundra. "You have fractured the fundamental laws of nature for the last time! I refuse to be trapped in your endless loop of lunacy!"

It is a bold accusation to condemn the ones braving the boundaries we ourselves pushed them to test.

The thirteenth flap was quite late. That day truly had been longer than the others. The only one who noticed was not even looking up. And no one else would have if they had.

The thirteenth sloughed away.

"What are you complaining about now?" Dek argued, falling from Boop's embrace. "Isn't thisi YOUR world I'm repeating temporally and now physically?"

THWUMP. The the 13th [cocoon?] landed squarely in the middle of their argument, its chart fluttering perfectly into the Wing Cull's waiting [hand?]. Eyes wide, Mr. Winkle breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

"THERE! I recognize form 13!" he exposited. "And in the interest of all of YOUR futile attempts, hitting spectral brick walls and improving NOTHING therewith, WHY NOT Assemble? See how things might come together?"

Boop and Dek regarded the self-contained mess. Bright accents of red and aquamarine stood prominently from the sandy wedges.

"Look, it's got a shovel and a bucket. Pretend you're on a beach vacation. Even YOU can't desecrate that!" reasoned Mr. Winkle.

It was a curious collection, maybe the first of these forms to include anything familiar. The Assembly chart claimed the completed character to be quite obvious in construction. Yet it was so incongruent with their circumstances.

"Whales are much bigger in person," the Raisin Man might have said from the distance. No one was listening.

What else was there to do?

They built it. And it took no time at all.

Dek chose to take the chart literally and was putting the last pieces in place while Boop fussed with delicately balancing the bucket and shovel. With all the new pieces accounted for, Little Doom Guy stared longingly into the void. His soccer ball was agonizingly close yet unreachable.

"Now that really wasn't so difficult at all. Was it, Duck?"

Mr. Winkle strutted victoriously around the conglomerating 13th form. It was really was almost picture-perfect!

"Well golly, Mr. Winkle! You were right! I guess the magic was inside me all along," Dek replied sarcastically.

This was lost on Mr. Winkle, who was beginning a mild search for his missing torso.

"Excellent! I can help you with the next Assembly after you (re)Assemble my own holy form," he said, excited and distracted by the progress.

Boop was attempting something different with the shovel, but it didn't look like it was going to stick. Dek was unreadable, staring through the 13th form at the self-assured dreamkiller.

"Hold on..." Dek insisted, "now let's wait for the universe to recenter itself around my beach vacation like some whitecollared drone..."

The song left Mr. Winkle's step.

"...what?" he said, looking over his [shoulder?] for clarification.

Boop, Dek, and Little Doom Guy were standing at mock-attention, waiting patiently as Mr. Winkle laboriously looped back to the stagnant sandcastle in the snow and proceeded to check every corner of the proud model. There didn't seem to be any mistakes.

"doom," punctuated Little Doom Guy.

After all, everyone was waiting.

"I don't understand. What's supposed to be happening?" asked Mr. Winkle after some pause.

"boop," Boop said quite flatly.

"Obviously nothing," Dek agreed.

There was the Wall, looming tall. There were the edges, itching closely. There were all of the ragged, open doors, standing empty.

There was the world again.

Same as it was when they changed it yesterday.

Same as it was going to be when tomorrow's door opened.

"Gosh, Mr. Winkle, sure doesn't look like my summer holiday fixed anything at all!" Dek gestured flippantly to the sandcastle. "What do YOU think, Little Doom Buddy?"

"Bwomp!" he replied eagerly.

Now THAT sounded fun! And then everything happened fast.

"ohgoodnessno..." whimpered Mr. Winkle from under the sudden shadow.

" 'Bwomp!' hehe," chuckled the Raisin Man afterwards.

In less than a blink, the 13th form had been reduced to scattered pieces. Robot pants had been cast every which way. Mr. Winkle was no longer wearing his own pair. His head had landed perfectly in the bright red bucket and was proceeding to stumble its own way back from incoherence.

Little Doom guy would never admit if that had been intentional or not.

"Wow, Little Doom Guy! I'm so proud of you," Dek said, patting him on the shoulder.

"BWOMP!" he boasted.

"BOOP!" Boop agreed, utterly impressed.

"I... um... ummm..." sputtered Mr. Winkle, "madne... flaps... I... ummm..."

In fairness, Little Doom Guy had declared precisely what he intended to do and, at the moment, was only concerned with studying his accuracy and grouping. Boop and Dek were trying not to let the head in the bucket dampen the mood.

"Boop?" Boop noticed.

"Yeah, he still won't stop talking. That's tenacity right there," granted Dek.

"...oodness..." Mr. Winkle rambled tenaciously, "...the... ummseembly. It's... I'm the winkle... I'm..."

Boop carefully picked up the bucket and carried it away from the pants and wreckage.

"The... uhhh... the pieces effs, extra... extra pieces...shouldn't," over and over he folded through his fears and memories.

The others helped pick out a nice, clear spot for Mr. Winkle right near the Wall. They felt it suited him best.

"OH! I... I'm... Um. wait is that's? this," he [verb?]ed. "you are the fourth teeth?"

Overhead, the fourteenth flap flipped forth.

"Ohgoodness."

WHUMP.

And, once more, Mr. Winkle was mercifully quiet for a little while.

———————-

DEC 15th:

concerning who does and does not get to talk about "doom."

or just start over?

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varokai · 1 year

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Moomin, Down the Well

a (complete :) fan-comic done with genuine love and all the haste that only comes with daily stream-of-consciousness sketching.

THE END :)

1 strip or drawing (almost) every day

iPhone 13 + my favorite cheap little stylus/ballpoint combo

Adobe Fresco (color panels)

Autodesk Sketchbook (B+W strips)

I do not do this for a living but wish that I could

I was reading Moomin for the very first time while drawing this and feel quite lucky to be experiencing this wonderful world now. I can only imagine that it hits much differently than if I had read it as a child.

I adore Moomin now.

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varokai · 1 year

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BOOP - Dec 13th

in which, even after a setback, getting a head can take one over the edge.

Their little world was still and silent. Mr. Winkle stood stupefied by the clownish countenance of his misplaced mystic, pants asunder. Boop and Little Doom Guy made a game of the misplaced mystic's ball, flippers engaged. Dek stared out at his head, clearly contemplative.

"You seem mercifully quiet," Dek noticed. "Are you finally coming to terms with your attitude?"

Mr. Winkle wasn't. He expected order and had convinced himself that he was its champion or, at the very least, its proctor. The changes spilling from the Wall challenged his very sense of self and continued to leave their marks on him. Tradition filled his confusion with endless complaint.

"This is a disturbing paradox," complained Mr. Winkle. "The Oracle has always revealed himself FULLY Assembled and much later than this. He was meant to do us a wisdom. Do us a profundity!

"You use words weird," Dek determined.

Thoughts can sometimes choke on themselves. It is difficult to grasp disarray when the tools to sort it feel non-existent.

"Why not relax like Headacles over there and talk about literally anything else besides your flappy obsession?" Dek suggested.

"BECAUSE YOUR STUNTED MUTT DROP-KICKED MY BLESSED PROPHET CLEAR OUT OF CLAREVOYANCE!" flailed Mr. Winkle.

"Bet he didn't see THAT coming," Dek forced a smirk.

The Raisin Man felt familiar to Dek. Not a face remembered from the past, only the expression upon it: weary, resigned contentedness. The Wall showed him dancing, but he was stiff and clearly out of place in the snow. Behind the mask, he was basically anonymous. Beside him; some cold behemoth winked knowingly. Beside the winking behemoth; what was left of the Wing Cull.

Mr. Winkle paused his disappointment and looked across the tiny wasteland, carefully averting his eyes from Boop's blasphemous frolicking with Little Doom Guy. They were simply beyond his logic.

"Has he spoken you any revelations?" Mr. Winkle dared to hope.

The Raisin Man softly opened his mouth.

"Does the Big City have a big zoo?" inquired the Raisin Man. "I like the giraffes."

Dek half-smiled. It seemed genuine.

"See? He likes animals." Dek felt a glimmer of hope.

"Imbecile." Mr. Winkle dismissed the both of them. "But even your own profound idiocy should NOT have been able to alter the Order of the Assembly!"

"Well, who was he SUPPOSED to be?" Dek protested.

"Doom!" happily chirped Little Doom Guy, lost in his own little game.

"Boop," Boop had to choke back a joyful tear.

The little guy was so deft on his feet, even while wearing commandeered flippers. They had even fashioned a makeshift eyepatch from one of the drool-guards to make Little Doom Guy look as tough and cool as he deserved. Boop squeezed a(n) [extra?!] flipper in proud delight. It was such a precious sight.

Mr. Winkle wouldn't have thought so. Mr. Winkle wasn't watching.

"Who are YOU supposed to be?!?" vented a frustrated Wing Cull.

Dek hesitate.

"I... I don't know... Dek..." Dek guessed. "I think my name is 'Dek.' I can almost remember saying that word a lot for a while… no real reason… just 'Dek.'"

No one had called Dek anything at all before. No one would tell Dek anything after.

It is just not a question many are prepared to answer from the ends of the world.

"I don't even remember why… I was confused and alone for a long time after I dropped. My first thought was pretty much "weapon" (look it up!) but then I found something already there. Waiting…"

Dek did not turn around. It didn't really matter if anyone was listening.

"After a while, there was nothing to do but try to make sense out of my only company..."

Boop was blissfully lost in the little game with Little Doom Guy, warping the [extra?!] flipper between two proud [hands?].

"Then there was this moment, when I was 'Assembling' Rol3Pol3... and suddenly, I could understand 'Boop' for the first time."

"I like that word," smiled the Raisin Man.

Something in the great void might listen, even if just to a single name. As good as a bell.

"Someone was talking," said Dek, "and I was no longer alone."

Dek remembered a lot of things. Dek felt a little better for a little while.

'Go ahead, put anything.' this place keeps telling you.

"I apologize, Duck, but you are so much more than just a lonely creature..." he had only been half listening to Dek.

"ohm wee keecho..." Little Doom Guy had only been half listening to Mr. Winkle.

Boop's grip loosened on the [extra?!] flipper.

"...you're an insane and dangerous creature without precedent." concluded Mr. Winkle.

Mr. Winkle was disinterested by any emotions not written on the Wall and was determined to return to that idyll mural. With a final glance at his lost prophet, he marched purposefully across the [snow?].

"Your pattern of chaotic blasphemy will not steer us through this Build and it is time for structure, order, and above all: wisdom," he proselytized.

"duckduckduckduckduckduck..." Little Doom Guy had gotten a word stuck in his little head that suited the quickening speed of the game.

"Boop," quacked Boop, innocently trying the word out.

"Bwomp," honked Little Doom Guy.

What else is there to say when you suddenly lose your only ball and it rolls into the neighboring abyss?

"boop," sighed a startled Boop.

It was beautiful while it lasted.

Dek regarded Mr. Winkle as he waddled just shy of the edge.

"Do you fear a wisdom?" challenged that Bronze thing.

Dek wondered at the odd phrasing. The question unfolded just as strangely.

None of them could understand the repulsion crackling like a terrible itch at this boundary. A single step further had been inconceivable. Anything beyond it, even within eyesight, felt lost. This was a prohibitive place.

"Hey guy," smiled the friendly Raisin Man from beyond the edges of reality as they knew it.

Dek wanted to help. Dek really wanted to help the Raisin Man.

The itch radiating from the edge was intense.

Dek lifted one foot and pushed it into the glossy darkness.

It was burning...

...but Dek's foot landed in [snow?].

It was their same world laid out in full. There was Boop's [sculpture?]. There was the Wall; spent doors wide open with no new vacancies. Was that Dek's own door so high up? Has it been so long since then? How long had he gone?

Dek could see the others at the [far?] edge. They seemed surprised.

The itch was beginning to subside. A quick look back confirmed that [nothing?] had changed. There was a... fading glitter... to the eigengrau behind whatever had always been out there. The sight of it was making Dek nauseous.

The others were racing across the [snow?].

"Poof!" exclaimed a wide-eyed Little Guy.

"BOOP!" cried an extremely distraught Boop.

"¿¡¿THAT'S A THING THAT CAN HAPPEN NOW?!?" Mr. Winkle was bewildered.

Dek felt tired. The world had been spinning.

———————-

DEC 14th:

in which everyone catches up on the things that can happen now.

or just start over?

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varokai · 1 year

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BOOP - Dec 12th

in which harsh reality is more than preference enough for some but, looking back, the goodness channeled into even the most "deviant" of efforts is the only way to affect any kind of growth.

"You've made your point, however devolved and perverse it may be," Mr. Winkle spat impudently, "so now you WILL return form 11 to its correct state and you WILL perform the proper Assembly of form 12!"

"Nah, I'm pretty sure 'form 11' is a lot happier as Little Doom Guy," Dek said, proudly watching the game. "I mean, lookit that adorable face!"

Asymmetrical and ebullient! There was life behind those eyes. There were now eyes to have light in them. Mr. Winkle seemed to find this irrelevant. This world may have expected something different, but Mr. Winkle was the only one keeping score.

"Abomination. Harbinger of despair," Mr. Winkle shuddered.

"And a very good boy!" Dek was more than happy to finish the list for him.

Boop and Little Doom Guy were totally engrossed in a game they were making up with an arm they had found. You could get lost in the energy.

"Boop?" inflected Boop with loving cheek.

Every day should be defined by such moments. It is important to create them.

"Doom!" Little Doom guy chirped brightly, dancing over the beautifully abandoned plans someone had laid down for him.

Dek felt sick at the thought of unmaking something so bright.

"Why?" growled Mr. Winkle. "WHY won't you just Assemble the forms as written?!?"

It was getting difficult to take Mr. Winkle seriously. The passion of conviction is lost without connection. The forms. These "charts." They weren't making sense. They were just… there. Falling down but never adding up. It was like building a tower from an attic without a roof. The foundation must be down there somewhere, right?

"All of this stuff comes from nowhere and offers nothing," Dek sighed and reflected. "It is not even mine to begin with."

"Well, in that case, GIVE ME BACK MY ARM!" shouted Mr. Winkle.

There is something to be lamented in ceaseless, prefabricated variety. Minds (many minds) and hands (many hands) had filled their world with brackish colors and clumsy shapes that could only hint at vague memories of anything outside themselves. Half-finished and nearly ready to almost be what they almost were, then handed off without ceremony. "Clear, simple instructions," Mr. Winkle had promised with such assurance. In truth, Dek COULD see the reasoning behind it, but only if one never stopped building, even to look where they were going.

Yet, here they were in the attic at the top of the tower.

Like clockwork!

But then what?

"This is an outrage!"

Mr. Winkle was flailing again as Boop made a wild and acrobatic show of skillfully tossing the arm from [hand?] to [hand?] and Little Doom Guy gleefully hopped from [foot?] to [foot?], anticipating the perfect, spiraling arc.

"Boop, with those feet, I don't think Little Doom Guy is going to be much good at fetch anyways." Dek relented.

The dance came to an abrupt end. No one had intended any harm, but a body should look after its parts with more diligence.

"Disowt wage!" Little Doom Guy huffed, kicking the wrinkled plans over to the self-professed dream killer.

"boop?" hummed Boop hesitantly.

Mr. Winkle settled down a little. He would only be what everyone made of him and never more than he asked, if even that.

"Existence as we know it is in the throes of unraveling!" he repeated for good measure.

"Uh huh," Dek acknowledged. "You keep saying that but have yet to explain to me how it's actually tied to these psycho pantries."

The Wall would open into its own disposable disarray. Lately, the doors had been following the [cocoons?] to the ground. "This. Make THIS," they pointedly demanded. Mr. Winkle certainly said so. But all that was left afterwards was another hole above; another day gone in ragged memory. There was nowhere for it all to go and no one was going to answer "Why?"

Boop reluctantly fussed with re-arming Mr. Winkle. Dek didn't much care for the thought.

Little Doom Guy was fixating on Boop's [sculpture?].

Dek remembered the 7th.

....

Today was the 12th. Boop struggled with the symmetry of reattaching Mr. Winkle's lost arm who, as yet untrusting of any present company, supervised from over his [shoulder?].

"Perhaps you could attempt just one single Assembly rather than continuing to add to your menagerie of freaks, hmm?" he insinuated.

"For the 12th time, go ahead and tell me why I should..." Dek challenged.

The 12th flap sloughed and hovered overhead. Like clockwork.

Little Doom Guy watched intently as Dek traced reverently along the edges of Boop's [sculpture?]. These pieces had all meant something, each here because they weren't anywhere else. Every connection was its own discovery and, even now, the sum radiated with residual celebration. Dek could relive every moment of its birth as if it were always happening.

"I built Rol3Pol3," Dek remembered.

Dek remembered a lot of things.

"Do you understand? I built Rol3 p3rf3ctly according to his 'Assembly.' | didn't even give him a face like I did with Boop. But it turned 3vil, "bw33ping" madly into the autumn moon or something else similar in po3tic villainy. Why did that happen, Mr. Winkle? What do your stifling "forms" have to say about that?"

Dek turned sharply, choking back the urge to shout.

"You don't know at all, do you?"

Dek wanted to yell.

"doo moo?" playfully parroted Little Doom Guy, following Dek's gaze to a woefully disadvantaged Winkle.

Dek was proud of not yelling.

Mr. Winkle's only response at the moment was the gentle sound of his own hand filling one of the larger holes on his backside. Boop stepped back to let Mr. Winkle loosen up and finish adjusting to himself.

"...How dare you! I don't have to answer to that!" Mr. Winkle falteringly trumpeted. "And I can assure you that absolutely NOTHING that comes out of these holes is evil or a villain."

THWUMP! thwumped the twelfth flap, falling to the floor.

"What was that sound?" said Winkle from the ground.

A sack with a dark, wading scuba thing and more.

They unpacked the sack and tried to tidy up as they went. It didn't make today any easier.

This was a person.

There was a head. The head had a face. The face was much like Dek's own, but weathered, pale, old, and frozen in a subtle stiff smile, even when it eventually spoke. The face did not regard any of them for some time.

There were [extra?!] pieces.

Boop was the first to speak.

"...boop..." Boop tried to keep it concise and clinical, then tried on the hat.

"How profound, Boop. We really are all the same on the inside..." Dek said, looking down at the grinning face, "except this man is a bleached summer raisin footballer with three flippers and, coincidentally, one more pair of robot pants."

Mr. Winkle's eyes frantically darted across the towering Wall, counting and recounting the open and closed doors. There was some answer missing that he was having difficulty accepting.

"This... isn't right. That's not form 12..." Mr. Winkle stared in shock from atop the slim waist of his own robot pants. "He shouldn't be here yet... but yet we MUST//"

"Bwomp." interrupted the Little Doom Guy.

The Raisin Man took one luxuriously glacial blink and began to speak.

"Wow! So this is the Big City!" rattled his warm, hollow, geriatric voice.

It was neither a question nor an answer. He didn't seem to expect a response.

Dek breathed steadily and assessed the receipts of the day. This was unlike anything that had dropped from the Wall. There were no instructions, just a flat portrait of a "complete" person, mask and all. Almost a punishment against improvisation and self-discovery. Daring you to make anyone different than they "should be." The [cocoon?] even included an extra flipper and a second [drool guard?].

An insult.

"Listen, as long as..." started Mr. Winkle, dogmatically.

"Bwomp." Little Doom Guy interrupted once more.

Something felt wrong. This man had been complete once. Long enough for someone to snap a picture, take him apart, seal him away, and summon the audacity to expect a stranger to put him through it all again.

This was a person. He looked so tired.

"What's that, a little guy?" the Raisin Man could barely turn his eyes.

Mr. Winkle began to panic and waddled closer, determined to complete this task.

"Do you want to be my friend?" the Raisin Man almost whispered. Always the same exhausted cadence.

Little Doom Guy flexed his [toes?].

plink

"¡Wow, nice followthrough, Little Doom Guy!" Dek smiled.

The head of the Raisin Man rolled over the edge of the known universe. If there was going to be a problem with him remaining WITHIN its boundaries, then THAT problem had now been solved.

"Boowoop!" Boop cheered.

You could almost completely reenvision the arc of the head from that sound alone! Mr. Winkle, however, did not appear to be enjoying reliving the moment.

"THat... wasn't supposed to be his door..." he attempted once more to explain in his vague, dramatic way.

"And so el DeeGee restored order with his head-altering feet," Dek was optimistic and pragmatic (progmopstic?), "What's the problem?"

Little Doom Guy stared dejectedly at the head, which could have gone a lot further into the abyss if he had lined it up better.

"HE PUNTED THE ONLY ORACLE OUT OF OUR REALITY, YOU GUFFAWING CLOWN!" Mr. Winkle was furious. "The answers to the great mysteries of The Build may as well be on the neighbor's roof in an eldritch cul-de-sac of insanity!"

He was beginning to sound like a mad rambler, reading from half of script that he refused to share. It was another declaration that he expected to be self-evident. The urgency he implored was robbed of its legitimacy. As if there were some toggle for 'understanding.'

The Raisin Man rocked softly a few meters past the edge of the world, staring calmly into its [sun?]. He did not seem to mind the new circumstances and continued just as he was.

"I like making new friends," yawned the Raisin Man.

This was unacceptable to the Wing Cull.

"SOMEONE is going to have to retrieve him." ordered Mr. Winkle.

The edge of the known feels prohibitive but reality will not abide a vacancy.

———————-

DEC 13th:

in which we seek the wisdom of walking through spectral brick walls.

or just start over?

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varokai · 1 year

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BOOP - Dec 11th

given the circumstances, why not instead make a new friend?

"Okay. Technically..."

That Bronze thing couldn't help but look up to Dek and Boop.

"Boop?" Boop suggested with a sly wink.

"What?" Dek shrugged. "I did what he asked to the letter. It's like he doesn't appreciate ANY help."

What one first defines as 'complete' is usually lacking the minutiae of important details. When left to a stranger's [hands?], it is important to ask politely, be specific, and take whatever you are given. Maybe it's all you needed? Maybe you can try again later?

"Ohgoodness," huffed the Bronze thing. "Is it at all possible for your primitive brain to take any of this seriously?"

"Would you like my very serious answer?" traded Dek, taking advantage of another rhetorical.

"Or is it that you fools simply require..." Bronze grunted, "SIMPLER instructions to do these simple but gravely important tasks?"

Even the purposes of the grandest of works cannot be made inherently obvious. As of yet (and as far as anyone could tell), Trust had not descended from the caves looming above.

"Baby steps, huh?" Dek clarified.

"Boop!" Ha, Boop got it. Such a bright, full laugh!

Oh right, it was the 11th: Slough... WHUMP! Tinkle. Odd new shapes and bold new colors! It was refreshing.

"Please tell me what this is supposed to be," said Dek, picking up half of an orange cylinder, "And you're not allowed to use esoteric references."

What is a souvenir to a desert? Boop poured the rest of the [cocoon?] onto the waiting snow, scattering the pieces in a neat pile at their feet.

"Exercise caution with those!" barked the Bronze biped. "They are precious and irreplaceable, you walking blasphemy!"

It was not an answer. It was not necessary or helpful. But at least it was prejudiced, genuine, and almost original.

"Boop," Boop booped, crumpling the empty cellophane.

In all things, Boop gave back better more than Boop received.

Dek took a deep breath and began sorting the detritus without turning to address that nameless Bronze thing.

"Why do you talk like someone threw a bible in a blender?" Dek asked.

It began a monologue because of course it would.

"See the gaping maw behind you?" it started.

"Herewith, my tasked duty for time immemorial hath been to shepherd and assure that the Walls shall remain the firmament upon which order shall multiply. I am the culler of those wicked and winged dreamers who would see it torn asunder."

Everyone needs a hobby.

"Uh huh, I think you're using some of those words wrong," replied Dek, stepping through the trash. "What's your name, anyways?"

"The words must be true!" the Bronze thing retorted. "Why else would those before you call me 'Wing Cull' ?"

"Okay. Nice to meet you, Winkle," greeted Dek overshoulder.

Winkle paused for a moment as he fumbled with the 11th chart.

"It... sounds strange when YOU say it," he said, squinting as well as he was able.

"Must be my accent," Dek muttered.

"Oh, sorry," said Mr. Winkle.

He righted himself and hoisted the Assembly chart up to his chin.

"But as such, I demand that you Assemble the 11th form in all proper accordance," he demanded.

Dek had been considering the possibilities of the more unusual pieces. Calmly turning, this became a simple fact.

"Sorry, Mr. Winkle," Dek confessed, "But I see this place a little differently than you seem to."

Boop watched in proud wonder as Dek built something different.

"Boop!" Boop squealed in delight as a delightful form took shape.

Dek carefully adjusted one of the odder wedges.

Mr. Winkle was horrified.

"But... I have the Assembly chart right here..." he stammered, "...it could have been so easy..."

"And the 'Assembly' was stupid," Dek riposted, carefully pronouncing each syllable, "So I made a little guy."

Mr. Winkle buried himself behind the neglected chart, eyes darting frantically from the lifeless and rigid diagram to the cheerful abomination animating before him.

"...and you gave it wings it wasn't supposed to have..." he whispered in shock.

"Well, Mr. Winkle, I kinda HAD to after all that spooky nonsense you felt the need to share," Dek admitted, satisfied that all the pieces had found adorable places. "What do you think, Boop?"

They all stepped back as the new little guy took a few furtive steps and gazed at his new home with wide, confident eyes. Boop almost couldn't find the words, but desperately wanted to say anything.

"Boop." Boop kept it short, but always profoundly sweet.

A warm [hand?] softly rested on Dek's shoulder.

"Thank you, Boop," cherished Dek. "I feel like I had some good inspiration."

And all of their eyes: Tearfully proud Wide and confident Calm and bright and in the back, frozen in terror.

A happy birthday!

"Ohgoodness," lamented Mr. Winkle, "You've doomed us. You really have."

"Boop!" cheered Boop.

"Hayup!" agreed Dek. "Welcome to the Big City, Little Doom Guy."

"Bwomp!" bwomped the Little Doom Guy. "Doom."

words echoing across eternity ;)

———————-

DEC 12th:

in which questions are answered out of order and maybe set aside for a little while. Isn't that right, little guy?

or just start over?

0 notes

varokai · 1 year

Text

BOOP - Dec 10th

not long after someone has run away with all the instructions, it is difficult to take a nearly discarded head seriously. But at least we still have today, right?

"Do you know what?" posited a voice from inside the [snow?] cave. "I could summarize your dark predicament quite succinctly."

Their world curtained in the latest fashion of impenetrable void, Dek and Boop listened mildly with all the silence expected of a captive audience. What is the point of a rhetorical question that you were promptly going to answer anyways?

"You two have not been following the rules," posited the Bronze, besweatered bust from between its bifurcated embrace.

The grave adjudication was calmly underscored by gently folded hands left just out of reach. This had not been intentional, but Dek was glad of it nonetheless.

They had partially assembled then further disassembled that Bronze thing, carefully curating the resulting collection into the curious corrugated cabinetry that had once contained it, and sandwiching half a portrait from happier and less-harried days. Boop was right: there WAS a certain symmetry to those robot pants.

"There is a very clear order to this place," it continued.

The 10th door began to slip from the top of the wall. All of the doors' seams seemed to slough, strangely enough.

"A child could follow it without even choking," it continued to continue.

This door began to wilt from its frame, contents spilling like a viscous syrup.

"Clean, simple instructions..." it patronized.

Boop and Dek had never actually been listening, waiting instead the unceremonious PHWUMP of the day's obligatory opportunity.

"Uh huh," Dek freely granted before taking stock of the sack, "THAT looks like a sack filled guns and somehow more of those evil ski-poles."

"Then build it with caution..." ordered that Bronze thing, eyeing the mechanical orgy as far as his broken periphery would allow, "...but you MUST still build it."

Of course Skelegun suddenly sprung forth from the sloppily sealed 7th flap, spilling the obstruction of the syrupy sack of [ski-poles?]. Why wouldn't he?

"Knock knock, non-ALL friends!" saluted Skelegun. "The Queen asked about that hat and....OH!"

Skelegun stopped when he spotted the sack of shiny sidearms just sitting there in the snow.

Snatching them straightaway, he swiftly receded into what must certainly be a cell stacked to its ceiling.

"Very pleased!" sang Skelegun. "Very pleased indeeds!"

"Wait..." Dek followed, too late.

Where was it all going?

"You should stop him, you know," bemused some Bronze thing in a different small hole.

Dek stared. Silence from behind the 7th flap, now frozen in a most ominous implosion. The Bronze thing broke reverie.

"I now find it mortally imperative to adjust my expectations," it murmured, hands still clasped, eyes still fixed.

Dek slowly paced across the unopened days, returning to Boop and the group.

"Yeah, who could have expected that Skelegun, the thieving skeleton who used to have guns, might one day seize the opportunity to acquire more guns? I'm as surprised as any rational person would be," Dek summarized quite succinctly. "What do you think it all means, Boop?"

The implications of arming the morally ambiguous range from innocuous to downright alarming, especially under such fluxing circumstances. Boop gave the matter all due consideration before reluctantly admitting the only course forward.

"boop?" Boop drawled begrudgingly.

It was bound to happen anyways.

"Do you really think that this guy might have the answers to questions from a reality that was undone long before he got here?" Dek queried, pointing a finger and an eyebrow.

That Bronze thing savored the ripe air of opportunity.

"I'm not saying anything else until someone arms me and takes down my pants," he resolved.

The words echoing across eternity again.

———————-

DEC 11th:

in which no one is brought into this world they way they expected. Right, little guy?

or just start over?

0 notes

varokai · 1 year

Text

BOOP - Dec 9th

in which awkward tests of confidence and competence leave much as good as it was while saying too much about too little. (Not everyone wears pants)

The 9th flap was flatly fastened; flush and firm at the foot of the wall. Tears from the fiercely torn 6th flap above refused to interfere with that fearful fastidious punctuality. Boop's newfound forearm foisted the flap aloft. A facsimile of a bronze figure had been defaced in some foregone frustration.

"Well at least this one can't fall on me," Dek judged. "Let's just get this over with."

Dek crossed beneath Boop's makeshift canopy, losing half a step in slow hesitation to a fettering glance at the bronze, besweatered glyph ahead. The shadow was a tangible sensation, even under hat.

"Boop?" Boop wagered a guess, airing on the side of positive skepticism.

Fingers finding purchase in that fresco of frozen festivities, Dek folded the 9th flap forward.

Formerly firm Wallstuff neatly sloughed away.

"Probably not," Dek answered. "Whatever's running this place, I can't imagine it being too creative about what's behind THIS madness flap."

An angry Voice suddenly challenged from within the diminutive cavern.

"MADNESS FLAP??" it barked.

Dek cautiously peered over the widening lip as the Wall continued to peel along even and lazily regular perforation.

"NOT CREATIVE?!?!" the Voice clanged. "How dare you?! I stand closer to the very heart of creation than you could possibly imagine!"

Nepotism for neighborhoods notwithstanding, Dek was unimpressed by this proclamation of presumptive artistic proximity.

"So it's your first time in the big city, huh?" Dek provoked.

"I see. Your mind is so small that you require pictures and short sentences," the Voice scolded. "If 'City' it must be then, yes: City very big. Release me immediately! (that means "let me out right now!")

Dek folded back the flap, hoping to fill the fissure with a flare of light and find the face of all this fuss.

"Look, I'm sorry. This place is so strange to me. Almost everything that has dropped out of these... holes... has been evil or stupid," Dek explained. "Not Boop, though."

"What in this City is a 'Boop?'" the Voice lobbed from the depths.

"Boop!" Boop booped brightly.

Any voice that attempts a name sings of the possibilities of friendship! Dek stifled the first hints of a smile and continued with renewed confidence.

"You seem to know more about what's going on," Dek searched in the faint illumination. "That Skelegun Ant-Thing keeps talking about tunnels. Is that how we all got here?"

"Ohgoodness..." the Voice convulsed, almost retreating.

A startled pause rippled reflections across the contents of the 9th flap. No one noticed the breathing of the 7th.

"Literally listen here, whoever's out there," the Voice commanded, "I should have been the FIRST intelligence to engage you in any form."

Dek remained politely and quietly unconvinced.

"Hasn't anyone been assembling the Assembly?!"

"'The Assembly'?" Dek parroted.

"OHGOODNESS! RELEASE ME IMMEDIATELY!!"

And Dek calmly remembered an oath to "...get this over with" as the [cocoon?] of the Voice slipped cleanly from its vessel into what sufficed as their open world.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!?" said the familiar Bronze face from the fractured facade. "Who among you is responsible for this?"

Reedy chimes rustled the wrappings with their sharp, accusing sibilance.

"Boop?" Boop inquired innocently enough.

Even without legs attached, the Bronze thing could stand to be a bit more specific.

The Bronze thing insisted on immediate panic, as any being might invoke that had burst forth unannounced.

"Hear me immediately with all of your provided ears and compatible pieces," heralded this head, "First and foremost, I SHOULD NOT have been able to understand YOU..."

The barb from the Bronze head went over Boop's. The door propped above drooped indignantly.

"but…that…thing…" the Bronze thing gestured (as effectively as a trunkless head could) at Boop's revised masterpiece, "WHAT.IS.THAT.THING.PLEASE.RIGHT.NOW."

Confusion and misunderstanding had soured the air. At least a "please" was buried in there.

"Now literally listen to ME," Dek interjected, "It's important that you speak kindly about Boop's sculpture/device."

I did mention how divinely difficult that device was to define, didn't I?

"Boop? Sculpture?! DEVICE?!?" With each word, the Bronze thing pulsed nearer and nearer to Dek. "It is deeply disturbing how much doom you have been accumulating. For all of us."

Hovering, that voice whistled through the noisome plastic.

"Well I'm deeply disturbed that you can suddenly float," Dek stood firm.

Boop was distracted by the diagrams on above and behind the day's door, wondering if the sum of the pieces were worth this hole.

"I can assure that l am as suddenly surprised as you are. But l am glad to have disturbed you." The Bronze thing was making quite an ironic effort to present the gravity of something that seemed to carry heavy implications.

Hollow yellow disks leered through the snaking sack, anchored by the dead-weight of their unclaimed body as they searched Dek's face for... who could hazard to guess?

"How else would you have noticed that existence is slipping away?"

There was an entire wall missing...

"Have you failed to see with your provided eyes that the walls defining and protecting our reality turned mutable? Have even GONE, perhaps? Literally, look around you!"

But what was there to see? The sight of any careless void repels the eye.

"Has the thinning of the veil simply eluded?"

Skelegun suddenly surfaced and strode forth from the 7th door on the same errand.

"Are you stupid of something?" challenged the Bronze thing.

Then another familiar face.

"Don't mind me! Doo teedoo teedoo! 'Sugar for The Queen.' Duty duty do," sang Skelegun.

It seemed 'She' would never be satisfied.

"boop," Boop recoiled, dissonance tiptoeing behind frustration.

"What you've done here is beyond obviously unforgivable," the uninvited, floating Bronze head determined.

It seemed unlikely that a font of authority would reveal itself in such a way. Quite an endeavor to assume respect from inside a plastic bag.

"To be fair," Dek fairly argued, "Skelegun (the skeleton who was born with a gun) has been mostly harmless so far."

So far.

By Skelegun's earlier accounting, the grains of sugar in their all were the sole province of some unseen Regent; ruling as She might be from beneath a ground that must logically also be Hers. Accordingly and historically, any slave and subject could see themselves in the dirt (whether or not they chose). This was enough to put a song in Skelegun's [heart?].

"Sugar...HEY!" Skelegun stopped mid-verse.

At the sight of Boop's improvised umbrella, Skelegun's shovel pointed rudely at the flap.

"Boop." Boop was already exhausted within moments of eye-contact.

"This portrait looks like my legs!" Skelegun skelexclaimed, skelerecognizing the image. "The Queen must be informed with the greatest urgency!"

That Bronze head-thing spun in rage at the sound of tearing Wallflesh, but much too late to save face.

"Do not damage that precious material, you fool!" Bronze chastised indignantly. "If you damage my carefully detailed instructions, these idiots won't understand how I am supposed to get put back together."

Skelegun returned to rudely rending the Wallflesh until the 9th door beneath was barely hung any higher than its face-sake. Somehow, the dermis of this nightmarish world was soft, fluffy, and colorless.

Leveraging his weight from the peeling memory, Skelegun turned:

"You appear to me like a kernel of corn, which shouldn't talk despite its ears. I will continue with my royally sanctioned foraging."

Skelegun heaved.

"What are you?!?" the Bronze head could only look on in helpless horror. "From what parts have you sourced yourself? Show me your Assembly chart right this second!"

"I can answer those," Dek offered: "1: Skelegun 2: Everywhere 3: He won't know what that is."

"Stop that at once!" pleaded the Bronze head. "You are literally tearing away at the scales of the universe!"

Both "Assembly charts" were nearly free.

"THERE IS NO QUEEN." Bronze screamed in colonial vehemence.

Skelegun allowed the charts fall to the [snow?] and turned; his every appendage a natural inquisitor. Behind him: Nothing and Everything.

"It is a great shame that you have not known the true majesty of standing in Her presence, nourished by the cumulative awe of the AllColony™. Your disrespect is almost comical," Skelegun disparaged. "Almost."

He reached.

That Bronze thing recoiled but refused to give ground to any madness but its own.

"Don't you dare touch me, you juxtaposed cacophony!" cellophane tinkling as Bronze spat. "Return your parts to their original form and bring this 'queen' here for disassembly while there is still time!"

Most realities will defiantly resist any overlap to a fault. This poses a challenge because there happen to be a number of universally wrong things to say and almost as many opportunities to say them. But I guess some heads just want to roll angry.

"For someone who sounds like they want to be in charge, you really don't seem to be finding any common ground with anyone," Dek suggested, hoping to stymie even a modicum of antagonism. "Skelegun's just trying to make the most out of his own situation."

"Oh, I have no name apart from the ALLColony™," Skelegun calmly stated in selfless certitude.

a claw cradled behind a head

"...but ...'you'... will give Her Name the proper weight..."

yellow disks were fixed on hollow eyes

"...'you'... will not speak to Her in such a way..."

stillness, but clear plastic whined with sick sensuality under the closing of a hand

"...but She WILL speak, and...'you'... will hear Her..." Skelegun almost whispered.

Skelegun never once considered this "his" situation.

Completely at the mercy of a skeleton born with a gun, that Bronze thing was no longer floating.

"That's all a bit alarming for my tastes." Dek croaked. "I'm just going to keep calling you 'Skelegun.'"

Skelegun slowly lowered the captive head.

"You may," he confirmed, "but that name will never survive all the way through Her tunnels. It's all part of this big, wonderful thing that you wouldn't understand."

"Right. Okay. Not to spoil the moment," Dek diverted, "but didn't you only pop out for some 'leaves' or something?"

That Bronze sacklunch was suddenly and unceremoniously discarded. Spell broken, Skelegun finally regarded some interloper in earnest, the twinkling of a shiny new hat dancing across his eye-nibs.

"Is… is that… SHEEEYUUGARRR above your irreverent mandibles?!?" Skelegun gasped.

"No. It's a pretty hat," Dek corrected. "Weren't you supposed to go pluck something?"

"...'madness flaps'..." a moan from the ground.

Skelegun took no notice and accepted the facts of the hat willingly.

"A shame," Skelegun cheerfully remarked. "But YOU sound like a creature who understands what true purpose is! Duty. And when you find yourself in the Qingdom, SHE may even welcome you!"

Boop lifted the limp flaps from the ground.

"Boop?" Boop sighed to Dek, exasperated.

"Good idea, Boop," Dek commiserated. "He's probably not going to go anywhere until he thinks he's accomplished something. Just give him the 'leaves.'"

There are limits to accommodating even a passive derangement. Boop offered the leaves to the departing claw machine.

"We shall ALL be rewarded copiously," promised Skelegun, eagerly accepting the leaves/charts/Wallstuff/etc. "Of that, you can be sure!"

"boop," Boop had never said before with such dryness.

"nnnNOOOO!" cried the head from the sack on the ground. "CAN YOU NOT SEE THE GAPING UNKNOWN VOIDING BEHIND HIM?!?"

They could, but they also didn't know what to expect from the gaping unknown. It was just kind of there and also too much to deal with at the moment.

"Super. Someplace to go on weekends," Dek acknowledged. "Got everything you wanted, Skelegun?"

Skelegun had reached the far edge of the recognizable world they, just beyond the 7th door where he garrisoned himself. Tucking the treasures through the tight opening, he turned to face Dek.

"Oh my, Yes," Skelegun [smiled?].

"ohgoodness, no..." wept a voice from the [snow?].

"And remember what I said, because each word was spoken with the granted authority of Her own sacred pheromones! K?" Skelegun winked at the head on the ground.

"Doom." Bronzey shuddered. "Just the dumbest doom."

Skelegun rotated lithely on his treads and raised his prize-claw to Boop:

"And you can explain to your friend how his sugarless hat is offensive," he taunted.

The hands that certainly belonged to Boop (and no one else) contorted abruptly before sternly gesturing to the half-filled hole.

"Boop," Boop blatted flatly.

Skelegun hesitated a moment before commencing his contortions into his cabinet.

"...I'm unfamiliar with that custom..."

"…but after i touch my unworthy antennae to The Queen's noble messenger, She will receive your message..." Skelegun informed them, "..and if it pleases Her, She may do me a wisdom and translate your barbaric words so that i might share them with you. Next time..."

"Uh huh," Dek was only half-listening to the drone, "Boop, please close his madness flap behind him."

Skelegun disappeared into the deceptive darkness, the sounds of him somehow retreating.

"What about MY madne... my Assembly?" rolled the head thing. "How will you fools be able to complete me now?"

Boop stooped to pick up the last flap as Dek placed a sympathetic hand on a weary wing.

"Complicated people are much more rare than you think," Dek answered.

The warped door had inverted and barely fit the ragged hole. No one cared. It was enough that a steam-shovel had stopped talking.

"Do you think we could tape that door shut?" Dek suggested. "Or would that be too stupid to actually work?"

"[Boop's equivalent of a sigh]"

Boop took a long, forlorn look at Dek('s hat) before staring dejectedly at an empty patch of [snow?].

"boop.....?" Boop could only barely muster.

"It doesn't matter what he said, Boop. I disagree with him," Dek warmly reassured. "The hat really is nice and I'm fairly attached to it at this point."

Boop turned to face Dek, wings relaxing for in the hint a moment. It WAS a nice hat. That was enough.

"Are you delusional enough to repair a hole in the wall of the living with offbrand cellophane adhesion? Assembly. Now. & Immediately." the Bronze thing demanded, rocking impotently/impatiently under the plastic.

"Look, if you don't start being more polite, were just going to add you to the sculpture with the other robot pants," Dek's eyes rolled.

Dek found a hole in the sack and reached down to address the head face to face. Boop took the cue and the pants.

"It's not weird that we have two different pairs now, is it?" Dek asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Boop," Boop chortled, measuring the inseam.

"You're right, there is a certain symmetry to it," Dek conceded.

The Bronze thing that would not stop talking would also not be swayed by mockery. Pantsless tenacity is a rare trait no matter how you dress it.

"This is a disastrous path you have set us to walk upon," caution glaring from those yellow disks. "Your threats carry no gravity here..."

"NOW GIVE ME BACK MY PANTS."

The words echoed across eternity.

———————-

DEC 10th:

the wrong arms of the maw.

or just start over?

0 notes

varokai · 1 year

Text

BOOP - Dec 8th

being a thankful celebration in the wake of 1x interred skeleton and also a glorious ignition of better things within other places. Also a new hat.

Left to their own devices, Boop and Dek proudly regarded what had been made from the pieces they had been left with, as yet unaccustomed to the unwillingness of the Wall at large to leave them alone. Time marches on and that day was the 8th of reality as they knew it.

"Do you think we should give it a name?" Dek considered.

There is no profanity in reducing a thing to be held so dear. If all and each were their own trumpeting pyramid (prymtrepamid?), then the grandest reaches of an echoes could still be whispered and adored from the selfsame utterance. It's a good system when they do it right.

Boop had to think about it for a moment.

"Boop." said Boop.

It was so breathtakingly clear; a dangerous and aching beauty that a poet's lifetime could only labor to touch. Have you ever heard a song so simple, yet so provocatively balanced? You wouldn't dare risk the shame of begging it repeated aloud. Tears and strength. You've heard this name in your dreams. The mercy of waking allows us to rise and strive alongside, almost remembering what we heard. Almost.

"Bold," gasped Dek. "I never would have expected that…"

An 8th of reality collapsed on Dek. Sometimes it takes (only?) that much (that little?) to return grounded.

"...but I feel like I should have seen this coming," Dek confessed from the flat, tepid [snow?].

It was time to appreciate the inevitable. Boop cleared the sealed cellophane from a decked and determined Dek.

"Let's at least drag this..." Dek searched for some tangential word, "[cocoon?]... to a more open area of the mysterious danger world."

In short order, Boop and Dek set themselves to the task of escaping and weighing what they had been given; once more a geometric cacophany.

"Not a lot of room for improvisation with this batch of..." Dek tangled with the word's less than adequate namesake, "[cocoon?] shards..."

Dek examined the array diligently; some parts had proved more devious than others.

"...can't say I'm a huge fan of having more of these occasionally evil-inducing [ski-poles?] around the place...

Boop pondered the logic behind it all, carefully sorting the featureless nuggets into neat rows as Dek inspected one of too many [ski-poles?].

"...and I don't trust those triangles," Dek concluded. "You feeling any inspiration, Boop?"

Boop had to think about it for another moment. Those triangles and glossy boxes appeared as dead things. Underneath was an energy lower then dormancy where purpose reluctantly engraved upon utility, but an energy nonetheless. In a pocket universe, purpose must be wrought thusly and "useless" dissolves within its own definition.

Those thoughtful hands would weave the wayward, wrapping fresh arcs within and throughout what was and what would be. Dek was spellbound, a glorious state of witness, and Boop's own eyes could not believe the hands.

"Boop?" Boop chirped expectantly.

Truly, this was something grander. Pride but a frolicking game, they both knew there really was no need to ask, but relished the masquerade of the answer.

"Well, Boop, I'd have to say it's subtle," Dek surveyed. "An efficient and effective use of materials without betraying your original vision. Beautiful in its intricacies and nuance. Bravo."

They beheld.

"¿boooooop?" Boop teased.

It was such a rejuvinative melody.

"Oh...Yes. And thank you for the new hat, Boop." Dek preened, not even needing a reflection. "I do feel pretty."

———————-

DEC 9th:

In which comings and goings suggest that someone was early (if it's not already too late).

or just start over?

0 notes

varokai · 1 year

Text

BOOP - Dec 7th

being the aftermath proceeding from the departure of 1/3x spider while those remaining explore how to get ahead as arms change hands.

No telling if Skelegun now either remained what they weren't or had become what they always meant to be. Staring stock-still in static silence suggested neither sympathy nor solutions. Introductions were in order.

"Sooo..." Dek broke the silence, "first time in the big city or are you..."

Claw, shovel, and face traced an abrupt arc into the [sunlight?].

"¡SUGARRRR!" Skelegun proudly proclaimed. Pointed skyward, they let the silence fall back upon them.

Boop looked to Dek. Dek to Boop. They had witnessed and were continuing to witness the same spectacle; some mysterious entity double-born in blind confidence. Here and now, better sweet and quixotic than armed and aimless.

"Is..." all that and more might even anchor Dek, "Is that what we should call you?"

An accusing gaze paralleled the demanding claw leveling itself at such a question.

"¡Countless grains of shooogharrr!" Skelegun (at least for the time being) continued. "The Queen must have all of them and i will give Her every one."

Something sounded of duty in this unprompted oath. The only glimpse of any compass point in a place where the sun hangs for days without rise or set for bearing. If the world did orbit but never did revolve, that day (for every day after) would be the same day. Dreams that drift through are these same, like Skelegun's, that fall like all of a rain at once and require the land to sort out the flood. What else could you do?

"Boop," Boop genuflected. Cordial and round.

You might pretend to have missed such a graceful greeting for hope of an encore. The overture of chance meetings composes the character of the upcoming symphony. A name is as good as a bell. This was lost on Skelegun.

"Pretty sure you don't have to bow when they admit they're not royalty," Dek was wary of unanchored determinism. "Also, is his brain 'ants'?"

Here was a being that defined itself remotely; away in an alien place and having shed the confines of its original form, this steam-shovel's first conscious thought happened to be: I'm going to be late for work.

"¡The Queen turns her sheeyoogurr into life itself!" Skelegun continued, sandwiching the syllables and tasting that word with each utterance. "The ALL and i are forever in awe of her power and hunger..." (and why shouldn't they be?)

Obvious and popular sentiments, apparently. There's an eventual universe for any reality even if you only imagine yourself on the bottom. Dek could accept THAT fact, but not the scale of Skelegun's imaginary masses.

"Look, if you're just going to be crazy and flail around," Dek mimicked the earlier outburst, "at least be useful and help clean up this mess." With that, gesturing to the piled disarray surrounding them

The world they shared needed sorting and explanation, and even a bad dream should be put to good purpose. Boop collected a few scattered fragments as Skelegun unceremoniously plowed his way to the seventh sealed flap.

"¡Fools!" Skelegun snobbishly snorted. "The 'pile' is insignificant compared to the vast labyrinths of he Queen's Qingdom."

Any rubbish collected in his path was a matter of coincidence.

Boop turned to Dek serenely, [hands?] offering a simple arrangement of figures: atop a smooth grey canvas, delicately affixed, was a round green totem aside a dull red glass.

"Oh," noticed Dek. "You took that Ant-thingy's extra hands and made a... thing."

The dexterity of new hands.

"Boop?" Boop asked shyly. Very succinct.

The pride of first endeavors being of the sweetest sips to drink. Dek took a moment to unfold the tone. Not a punctuation to expect, given the circumstances, but always worthy of acknowledgement.

"Sure, Boop," Dek assured. "'Green means it's NOT evil.' I can't find the flaw in your logic."

Behind them, Skelegun blankly regarded the 7th flap, unconcerned with matters of expression.

"Endless tunnels," Skelegun hummed to himself. "In the darkness, there you find the ALL's love."

To Dek's great horror Skelegun punctured the clumsy mural, peeling away the rough perforation.

"GAAAHHH! What the?!?!" Dek raised his arms in alarm. "Stop... doing... ANT things!!!"

Boop was startled. The new hands had little more than a tenuous grip on that tiny abstraction. A simple spell had been broken and Boop was left to pick up the piece(s), a tragedy even in the singular.

Skelegun pompously brandished his proud garbage.

"On these cut leaves," declared Skelegun, "the Queen's ALLfungus™ will thrive copiously!"

It was as good an explanation as anyone was going to receive, but at least it suggested some ownership for the action.

"And you couldn't simply use the 'leaves' we already have without opening another stupid chaos door or whatever?" Dek was furious. There is no need to hurry chaos when the organic brand will suffice. "What new madness did you just unleash?!"

The resulting argument went nowhere. Ants and ant-like things are nearly impossible to debate in any meaningful way, though it's important to make an attempt.

"boop..." Boop sighed. No one heard.

The consonance so soft that the entire sentiment melted and refroze into the waiting [snow?] beneath the broken art. A universe could show a bit more humility in the face of such an innocent expression, don't you think?

The futility of reasoning with one one-track-minded ant-machine on tank treads was not lost on Dek. As Boop gently cradled the broken canvas, the intimate gravity of the loss caught Dek by surprise.

"Oh...Boop..." Dek was beginning to feel helpless. The words felt so weak when exposed to the air. "I'm so sorry if I accidentally startled..."

Accidents have a weight of their own and apologies are better spoken from between warm, resolute hands. Some are best interrupted. This one was not.

"¡My Queen!" Skelegun heralded, trash in hand, "Your faithful servant has fulfilled your commands! I make all haste!"

With that, he blustered through the hanging sentiment like plate glass, challenging the very meaning of the piece and reducing poor Boop to trilling tears and a brief but hauntingly plaintive wail.

"Boohoohoooop..." Boop suffered.

The hardest of hearts could not have suffered the indescribable agony of that sound, though the foolest of fools might only sniff at the air. Skelegun paused briefly on his way to absolutely nowhere different than wherever any of them had.

"Hmmm..." Skelegun noticed, lost deep in [thought?]. "This variety of leaf seems incompatible with my pheromones. I'll need to strategize." And as far as Skelegun was concerned, it really did and he really would.

Dek sat with Boop awhile. It takes as long as it needs to take to mourn the loss of something pure. But a first draft is not a loss. In time, neither is a second, third, fourth, or even a major seventh. Those pieces that break off can be smithed, shaped, and set as the crowning jewels of any a life's ceremony (even smithed, shaped, and set once more). The word "Try" melts way inside a personal foundry, poured as it is into the hearty mold of "Next."

Wary of errant [ski-poles?], Dek slid the seventh sack stubbornly from its slit as Boop's soft eyes lifted from the green token held gently.

"Here," Dek confidently presented, "these things looks innocuous enough. That stupid AntBot took the instructions, but I bet YOU can think of something wonderful!"

Boop retraced the finer details of what was missed from what was lost.

"Boop?" Boop asked.

That skeptical harmony bent smoothly into hopeful augment.

"Sure, Boop," Dek reassured. "Use all of the leftover pieces you want."

With that, the ground was awash with the junk of their universe, but not for long. Boop's [hands?] followed a magnetism that guided each piece into onto and under the other. Every fragment found its way as some grander new form took shape, justifying by its mere inclusion the importance of its existence.

Satisfied with the balance, Boop stepped back from the [thing].

"Well, I'm not really sure what I expected to see or even what I'm currently looking at..." Dek observed, "...but you DID use most of the pieces. Even worked those robot pants in there."

The robot pants really pulled it together, honestly. Told a story.

Boop was nervous. Those were practical answers, but superficial at best.

"...boop?" Boop wondered.

It was such a pure and endearing tone, lilting as it did, turning as Boop did, and waiting to hear what Dek saw.

"Yes, Boop. It's very good," Dek smiled.

For at least this heartbeat, a little more of a world they didn't know made a little more sense

"Boop."

and that was more than enough.

"Please don't ever change, Boop..." Dek was transfixed as Boop placed the finishing touch on a masterpiece.

No one noticed the generally confused, morally-questionable, claw-machine, steam-shovel, AntBot (or whatever) make his way back to the wall of insanity (or whatever) or the intricate ballet of his contortion into the closest open hole.

"¡Scandal! Insult!" sneered Skelegun. "It is not 'i' who have failed my Queen. It is YOUR pathetic and sheeeoooguhher-less world that has thwarted my sacred duties."

The waking world was an disappointment to dreamers like these, especially when the dream belonged to someone else. This seemed an important thing for Skelegun, the skeleton born with a gun who had become a steam-shovel, to communicate to a roomful of strangers who only tried to help.

"With my NEW tunnel," he trumpeted, "VICTORY FOR QUEEN AND THE ALL IS ASSURED! farewell fools."

Skelegun dragged the dented door clumsily back into the waiting maw of his wake.

"Boop," Boop asserted, unconcerned whether or not ayone heard.

"Yeah," Dek agreed, "that hole goes nowhere and I'm not going to miss him either."

Through the cracks in the door, neither could make out the awkward retreating form. Odd for such a small space.

———————-

DEC 8th:

In which the joys of expression are (and always should be) celebrated with a new hat!

or just start over?

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varokai · 1 year

Text

BOOP - Dec 6th

following the first few occasions of heads nearly lost, and suffering the repercussions of finding them.

There is a large contingency of those clueless when considering what comes after their choice of number. True to word, Dek did not count on carrying through.

"Bw33p," promised Rol3Pol3. A short crescendo with too many key signatures uttered over the contiguous shoulder of one only to be described as 'Skelegun.'

Dek may have missed many somethings, but still measured the metallic music as malevolent.

"Hey, that bweep sounded evil!" Dek chided. "Stop saying evil things to Skelegun! It doesn't even know stuff yet!"

'Mechanical Indignity' is a plague on all things sentient and reactionary. Still, it brings opportunities in one form or another. Rol3 defiantly pierced the 6th flap. Purchase found on the day's challenge left behind; a simple matter of profaning anyone's origins on the way up and out.

Best to keep track of those capable of such feats, though no small relief to have them off your hands.

"Bwuuuu33333puh!" umlaut bend with a plosive at the end; the kind of pointed mockery that overloads its own speaker.

As Rol3Pol3 laughed from this new vantage, it was the sky that rattled.

"That's certainly not creepy at all..." Dek dryly assessed before the vault of the world ceased humming.

Circulation adjusts to follow the crane of a gaze. In some small way, each body is at the mercy of its pose of fear, wonderment, and anything between & beyond. It's a congruence. What does that mean for the ones looking down?

And so, from atop the 4th flap to the [surfboard/guitar] that heralded a change in [ski-pole?]s, Rol3Pol3 vanished to wherever a generous third of a geometric arachnid might vanish. It seemed the natural place to go at the time.

"Boop?" Boop was naturally curious.

Lacking an origin does not preclude a path or destination.

"I have no idea where, Boop," Dek sighed before wagering a guess. "His grandma's house?"

They returned their attentions to the situation at [hand?].

"Boop," Boop blatted in shock.

A cursory glance was more than enough to determine that the more pertinent details of their circumstances had yet to improve.

"You're absolutely correct, Boop," congratulated Dek. "It would appear that Skelegun, the skeleton born with a gun, is still holding a gun. Nothing gets past you, does it?"

But no barrel tracked any body, no head level the sight, and no hollowed bore to stare down from a side no longer in danger. Still, best to face such things head on for better peace of mind.

"Well, if it's anything like MY gun," observed Dek, "it doesn't have a trigger and doesn't really do anything at all. We're fine. Seems like this stuff just kind of appears from that wall and becomes inconsistently sentient. I don't even think it moved this entire time. It's not even really aiming at anything."

Dek calmly reached for the cleverest fragment from their limited options. Boop hid any reservations behind a gentle and curious demeanor, but only just barely. The first real progress in days was enough to distract from the sparkling crinkle of the sixth flap poised to drop and change their course once more.

"Here," Dek offered as he crossed the clutter. "Apparently things only do stuff whenever I give them heads. Please don't be weird about it like that last guy."

Skelegun carefully accepted the familiar head. The WHUMPtinkle of the 6th assortment's landing was not enough to shift their steady aim one degree from the suspicious nothing behind no one. Dek, however, was dejected by this manifestation of time.

"Oh that's right, I forgot that this nonsense was neverending," Dek remembered. "Help yourself to whatever THAT is..."

And so Skelegun set to work, ignoring the instructions as any nascent being would. Not every piece was necessary and plenty of parts were discarded. As changes go, Skelegun became what Skelegun felt Skelegun should be.

"Dont laugh, Boop. It's rude," Dek informed.

"booOOOop!!" Boop laughed.

One hearty warble was initiation enough in the light of someone novel and as yet undeclared. Suddenly, the possibilities of evolution for anyone was trampling the world as they knew it. Skelegun was a promising delight!

"After all, we're each just trying to pull ourselves together in this crazy world. And besides..." Dek wondered, "Mayber having a morally reformed, steam-shovel, claw-machine skeleton (or whatever) will come in handy someday."

———————-

DEC 7th:

In which Boop finds inspiration and a morally reformed, steam-shovel, claw-machine skeleton (or whatever) presents a different vision for the world.

or just start over?

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