Bakusa
ポルノグラフ&#
This is a short story I wrote at 5 AM in the morning while in a depressive state of mind. Keep that in mind while reading it. It's a rough draft and I still need to sit down and revise it, but I would like input. Keep in mind that this story is meant to be interpreted, and any 'confusing' scenarios are probably intentional. Just ask if you need me to clarify anything.
Pythagoras: 2012
by bakusa
Did he have a reason for it? Quite possibly the anger built up since childhood, or maybe the moral values of the oppressors, the oppressed, and those who refused to accept oppression. The day the hostility erupted with such magnitude was the day the Knife was built. The day he acquired the Knife, and the day the Knife was initiated.
Almost every day he would stare into the mirror with such resilience. Those who patronized him were inferior to his absolute and pure mind. Although they praised him, they were clueless. His genius was unknown. He felt no need to inform them, those who patronized would indeed realize his aptitude. Elitist mind-frames were wired throughout his shell of a skull. Wires and wires of superiority. He owned everything in his apartment. The shady computer screen across the room shouted, but it wasn't heard.
Instead more code was inputted. More and more code.
Wires of the absolute, and wires of knowledge.
Strings of text only he could read.
And so the fetus was born.
Typing ferociously, the only audible noise in the complex was his intent fingers striking keys. Nobody complained all night. They knew not to.
Pages upon pages were printed, but what was the use of tangible programming? He memorized. Not only did he conjure his creations, he memorized them. He knew his magic. The spells were imprinted into his wires, every single one of them. 12 hours every day he would prop himself in the corner of his room and stare into the pages. He knew every single line. His brain took pictures of them; his wires learned it. Every function, every variable, was in his mind. The wires grew very wide. They grew very tall.
Almost too wide. Almost too tall for his own good.
His eyes widened with the days; staring into that mirror became frightening even for himself. The knowledge seeped from his eyes and down his neck. All he saw in the mirror was code.
"Kill", it said. He listened carefully.
"Functions are nothing without something to abolish. Variables must change. What's a variable?" The code seemed human.
It whispered. He listened carefully.
His eyes widened even more within the minutes, and the mirror appeared to crack in darkness. The darkness of the magic he spewed from his fingertips into that screen was crushing the mirror. Code ran across his vision and told him things. It definitely said things to him.
The rushed man desperately typed more code into the shady computer. Screen flashed; struggling for breath. It's fists were clasped around the power cord.
Power consumed his arms and printing became no thought. Why know your magic when you can conjure it easier? His thoughts exactly. The wires grew dark with desire; they were almost coming out his ears. He needed more. More knowledge, more elitism, more wires. Turning around, the mirror glared at him. It threatened him.
"You're sick", it began. "Why are you alive?"
Fury consumed his thoughts. Picking up his printer, he hurled it against that mirror, smashing it into depressed fragments. That was one less oppressor. He turned around as if nothing happened. The mirror was of no use to him anymore, he knew exactly what he wanted. Almost banging his fists against the keyboard, code spewed out like blood. Gigabytes of text. It spoke to him for hours.
"Sleep is natural, are you natural?"
"Your goal is not natural."
Sweat trickled down his forehead and his eyes were bleeding in bondage to the code. The code was almost complete and so was his absolutism. The Knife.
"I am The Knife", the code marqueed across the wires.
His wires were solely his mind, now. His skull encased the pollution of industrialism and sinister information. The last line of text was the most difficult for him to conceive. The command to loop.
"Everything repeats itself. Life is a circle." The code pronounced an indisputable theory. Everything was a circle.
"It makes no sense to end me with no loop", it whispered.
And a circle it was.
Typing in the final protocol, his fingers dripped in dark matter. His apartment was in shambles. The shards of the mirror had evaporated, and the new mirror was condensing itself on the ceiling. Dripping reflection.
"I am absolute," the code spoke.
"No...", the man exasperated. Both confusion and realization struck him forcibly. He fell backward, staring into the ceiling. The mirror almost grinned in satisfaction. Instead of seeing the introverted man he once was, he saw a demon of his nightmares. Smiling and pointing at him. He was a fool. The imps of his wires pole danced within his skull and his thoughts were no longer his own.
Picking himself up. Emotionless, he pressed the enter key. Compiled. Executed. The code rushed across the screen, too fast for the monitor to handle. The clenched fists pulled it's cord, finally. The monitor ceased. Lights burst under pressure. Sinister laughter filled the air, and the ambient sound of death saturated the room. Feeling himself fall, the man's wires collapsed under the albatross of his inclination.
Screams inflated his senses. Explosions, collapse, and ruin. What had he done?
He hated the world. The code, the mirror, pulled him together in his ill ambitions. The headcase had compiled the answer. His genius was unsurpassed; formulating the equation to Armageddon. It was indeed a successful equation. The Pythagoras of 2012.
Silence.
Pythagoras: 2012
by bakusa
Did he have a reason for it? Quite possibly the anger built up since childhood, or maybe the moral values of the oppressors, the oppressed, and those who refused to accept oppression. The day the hostility erupted with such magnitude was the day the Knife was built. The day he acquired the Knife, and the day the Knife was initiated.
Almost every day he would stare into the mirror with such resilience. Those who patronized him were inferior to his absolute and pure mind. Although they praised him, they were clueless. His genius was unknown. He felt no need to inform them, those who patronized would indeed realize his aptitude. Elitist mind-frames were wired throughout his shell of a skull. Wires and wires of superiority. He owned everything in his apartment. The shady computer screen across the room shouted, but it wasn't heard.
Instead more code was inputted. More and more code.
Wires of the absolute, and wires of knowledge.
Strings of text only he could read.
And so the fetus was born.
Typing ferociously, the only audible noise in the complex was his intent fingers striking keys. Nobody complained all night. They knew not to.
Pages upon pages were printed, but what was the use of tangible programming? He memorized. Not only did he conjure his creations, he memorized them. He knew his magic. The spells were imprinted into his wires, every single one of them. 12 hours every day he would prop himself in the corner of his room and stare into the pages. He knew every single line. His brain took pictures of them; his wires learned it. Every function, every variable, was in his mind. The wires grew very wide. They grew very tall.
Almost too wide. Almost too tall for his own good.
His eyes widened with the days; staring into that mirror became frightening even for himself. The knowledge seeped from his eyes and down his neck. All he saw in the mirror was code.
"Kill", it said. He listened carefully.
"Functions are nothing without something to abolish. Variables must change. What's a variable?" The code seemed human.
It whispered. He listened carefully.
His eyes widened even more within the minutes, and the mirror appeared to crack in darkness. The darkness of the magic he spewed from his fingertips into that screen was crushing the mirror. Code ran across his vision and told him things. It definitely said things to him.
The rushed man desperately typed more code into the shady computer. Screen flashed; struggling for breath. It's fists were clasped around the power cord.
Power consumed his arms and printing became no thought. Why know your magic when you can conjure it easier? His thoughts exactly. The wires grew dark with desire; they were almost coming out his ears. He needed more. More knowledge, more elitism, more wires. Turning around, the mirror glared at him. It threatened him.
"You're sick", it began. "Why are you alive?"
Fury consumed his thoughts. Picking up his printer, he hurled it against that mirror, smashing it into depressed fragments. That was one less oppressor. He turned around as if nothing happened. The mirror was of no use to him anymore, he knew exactly what he wanted. Almost banging his fists against the keyboard, code spewed out like blood. Gigabytes of text. It spoke to him for hours.
"Sleep is natural, are you natural?"
"Your goal is not natural."
Sweat trickled down his forehead and his eyes were bleeding in bondage to the code. The code was almost complete and so was his absolutism. The Knife.
"I am The Knife", the code marqueed across the wires.
His wires were solely his mind, now. His skull encased the pollution of industrialism and sinister information. The last line of text was the most difficult for him to conceive. The command to loop.
"Everything repeats itself. Life is a circle." The code pronounced an indisputable theory. Everything was a circle.
"It makes no sense to end me with no loop", it whispered.
And a circle it was.
Typing in the final protocol, his fingers dripped in dark matter. His apartment was in shambles. The shards of the mirror had evaporated, and the new mirror was condensing itself on the ceiling. Dripping reflection.
"I am absolute," the code spoke.
"No...", the man exasperated. Both confusion and realization struck him forcibly. He fell backward, staring into the ceiling. The mirror almost grinned in satisfaction. Instead of seeing the introverted man he once was, he saw a demon of his nightmares. Smiling and pointing at him. He was a fool. The imps of his wires pole danced within his skull and his thoughts were no longer his own.
Picking himself up. Emotionless, he pressed the enter key. Compiled. Executed. The code rushed across the screen, too fast for the monitor to handle. The clenched fists pulled it's cord, finally. The monitor ceased. Lights burst under pressure. Sinister laughter filled the air, and the ambient sound of death saturated the room. Feeling himself fall, the man's wires collapsed under the albatross of his inclination.
Screams inflated his senses. Explosions, collapse, and ruin. What had he done?
He hated the world. The code, the mirror, pulled him together in his ill ambitions. The headcase had compiled the answer. His genius was unsurpassed; formulating the equation to Armageddon. It was indeed a successful equation. The Pythagoras of 2012.
Silence.