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Pyrrhus' Defeat
Laughter flows from my fangs, as thick and syrupy as magma from a volcano.
It gives me all the pleasure and warmth of acknowledging that I've been manipulated like a fledgling imp signing his first contract.
Did the Wizard have it all planned out, or was this just the Warlock's intuition?
Traitor, traitor, if only I'd had more time to chew her soul some more, and yet my chest fills with orange pride remembering how she managed to turn my own teachings against me.
It was more than a Kalpa before I realized that creating a Cosmos using only my own essence was an effort doomed from the start. Countless pale imitations of the world before my last duel, all as fragile as a sketch drawn on a snowflake...
I have to use the thrice-damned infection the Rogue instilled in my bowel with his damnable dagger, I have to swallow my pride and vomit up the Sorcerer's green envy, the Warrior's yellow fear, the Barbarian's red anger, the Bard's pink love...
And Creation unfolds, Earth between my claws, Air inside lungs that had none a moment ago. Wood to give me a shadow, Metal to give a hoard, Fire to dance between my lips.
They were thirteen in all, and I will be only one to remember them. That gives me solace, which I immediately puke up. Fuck being happy with how things turned out.
They thought that they could unseat me from my throne, and they were wrong. I destroyed the universe rather than let that happen.
I thought that this would be my greatest victory, and I was wrong. They made me in a demiurge rather than let that happen.
And now I have to create a world, but I must follow rules I would never follow otherwise.
Digesting the Wizard's soul gave me some insight into her thought, and in the pedestrian, inept, disgusting, ironclad law that is The Dilemma of the Prisoners.
I can choose to never use the emotions, the chi, the mana of the merry band of heroes which I handily defeated...
But anything I make will be hollow and empty. Loneliness will corrode my mind and my sanity, and after digesting their souls my hunger will eventually turn in on itself, taking me with it.
Oblivion. Unacceptable.
Or I can use my powers and their colours to create something they too would be happy with, an unknowing mausoleum to their memory, which will grow and expand to be even greater than the last Cosmos.
Compromise. Unacceptable.
And yet here I am, debasing myself with every heave.
Crafting a universe I hate.
It gives me all the pleasure and warmth of acknowledging that I've been manipulated like a fledgling imp signing his first contract.
Did the Wizard have it all planned out, or was this just the Warlock's intuition?
Traitor, traitor, if only I'd had more time to chew her soul some more, and yet my chest fills with orange pride remembering how she managed to turn my own teachings against me.
It was more than a Kalpa before I realized that creating a Cosmos using only my own essence was an effort doomed from the start. Countless pale imitations of the world before my last duel, all as fragile as a sketch drawn on a snowflake...
I have to use the thrice-damned infection the Rogue instilled in my bowel with his damnable dagger, I have to swallow my pride and vomit up the Sorcerer's green envy, the Warrior's yellow fear, the Barbarian's red anger, the Bard's pink love...
And Creation unfolds, Earth between my claws, Air inside lungs that had none a moment ago. Wood to give me a shadow, Metal to give a hoard, Fire to dance between my lips.
They were thirteen in all, and I will be only one to remember them. That gives me solace, which I immediately puke up. Fuck being happy with how things turned out.
They thought that they could unseat me from my throne, and they were wrong. I destroyed the universe rather than let that happen.
I thought that this would be my greatest victory, and I was wrong. They made me in a demiurge rather than let that happen.
And now I have to create a world, but I must follow rules I would never follow otherwise.
Digesting the Wizard's soul gave me some insight into her thought, and in the pedestrian, inept, disgusting, ironclad law that is The Dilemma of the Prisoners.
I can choose to never use the emotions, the chi, the mana of the merry band of heroes which I handily defeated...
But anything I make will be hollow and empty. Loneliness will corrode my mind and my sanity, and after digesting their souls my hunger will eventually turn in on itself, taking me with it.
Oblivion. Unacceptable.
Or I can use my powers and their colours to create something they too would be happy with, an unknowing mausoleum to their memory, which will grow and expand to be even greater than the last Cosmos.
Compromise. Unacceptable.
And yet here I am, debasing myself with every heave.
Crafting a universe I hate.
Pics
I think this story suffers from a lack of focus. There are a lot of cool ideas on display, but they come and go so quickly that I'm floundering to grab hold of anything that's going. I might have enjoyed this more if certain elements of the exposition here were cut (wizard, warlocks, thrones) so we could focus more on what's going on. Or if it was longer--this story does feel a little big for the minific's limits.
It also feels like it's relying a little too much on the artwork. If I hadn't seen the art before I read this, then I worry I'd be even more lost.
But that's all I can say. Thanks for writing and best of luck, friend!
It also feels like it's relying a little too much on the artwork. If I hadn't seen the art before I read this, then I worry I'd be even more lost.
But that's all I can say. Thanks for writing and best of luck, friend!
They thought that they could unseat me from my throne, and they were wrong. I destroyed the universe rather than let that happen
I can only aspire to be as petty as this guy.
Alternate Title: I Swear to Fucking God if Cassius Wrote This...
Well, this is a "My Life Sucks" monologue with a fantasy twist, although I'm not exactly sure what brand of fantasy this is taking after. Or what religion this is supposed to be riffing on the most, because I swear there are about half a dozen references to different religions, none of which gets more than a paragraph to breathe.
Then again, nothing really gets the space it deserves. I find myself being bombarded with something new every paragraph, something to further complicate things, something to keep track of, even though there isn't really a story to speak of here. There are the ripples of a story, which at this point in time doesn't exist. The narrator, who is a very miserable fellow, seems to allude to a world that is much bigger than his monologue can contain or do justice.
I have something of an idea as to what is going and who the narrator is supposed to be because of the art pieces referenced as inspiration, more than anything. A story should be able to stand on its own, or at least have enough context to work as a singular narrative (with exceptions of course), because otherwise the reader will be floating about helplessly.
I don't think that was the intention. I think it's more likely that the author had something much grander in mind, maybe feeling that there would not be a future round where said idea would work better.
The key to making a minific work is to make it simple. The premise should be simple, and there should be only a few characters at most, with a scene or two to carry a plot that could be started and ended in under a thousand words.
I like complexity. I like ambiguity. But there is a time and place for those things.
You can make something truly epic out of this, author. Just remember that the minific format is ill-suited for epics.
Well, this is a "My Life Sucks" monologue with a fantasy twist, although I'm not exactly sure what brand of fantasy this is taking after. Or what religion this is supposed to be riffing on the most, because I swear there are about half a dozen references to different religions, none of which gets more than a paragraph to breathe.
Then again, nothing really gets the space it deserves. I find myself being bombarded with something new every paragraph, something to further complicate things, something to keep track of, even though there isn't really a story to speak of here. There are the ripples of a story, which at this point in time doesn't exist. The narrator, who is a very miserable fellow, seems to allude to a world that is much bigger than his monologue can contain or do justice.
I have something of an idea as to what is going and who the narrator is supposed to be because of the art pieces referenced as inspiration, more than anything. A story should be able to stand on its own, or at least have enough context to work as a singular narrative (with exceptions of course), because otherwise the reader will be floating about helplessly.
I don't think that was the intention. I think it's more likely that the author had something much grander in mind, maybe feeling that there would not be a future round where said idea would work better.
The key to making a minific work is to make it simple. The premise should be simple, and there should be only a few characters at most, with a scene or two to carry a plot that could be started and ended in under a thousand words.
I like complexity. I like ambiguity. But there is a time and place for those things.
You can make something truly epic out of this, author. Just remember that the minific format is ill-suited for epics.
Bottom slated for universe destruction. That's where I keep my stuff.
This is a very fanciful and evocative little vignette, but I do think it bogs itself down with a bit too much evocative language and, well, being a vignette. It makes for a solid bit of emotion that ends up a bit flat because we are basically in the same mood and same place from start to finish. Progression is good, even in minis.
Word choice is a little weird. Kalpa threw me for a loop, and all the grandoise stuff being offset by a "fuck" is really weird. Also probably too many capital letters.
Thanks for writing!
This is a very fanciful and evocative little vignette, but I do think it bogs itself down with a bit too much evocative language and, well, being a vignette. It makes for a solid bit of emotion that ends up a bit flat because we are basically in the same mood and same place from start to finish. Progression is good, even in minis.
Word choice is a little weird. Kalpa threw me for a loop, and all the grandoise stuff being offset by a "fuck" is really weird. Also probably too many capital letters.
Thanks for writing!