DarkStuff Has a Sandbox Here

Woah, It's DarkStuff's Sandbox!

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Ideas & Formats

Just some stuff!

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Short Blops

  • The King Fisher concept, where the King is the church and the town is his Kingdom.
  • "Let Sleeping Dogs Lie"
  • "All Roads Lead to Rome"
  • A person / people that are physically incapable of being viewed as people
  • "Sorry, I'll Be Home Soon, I'm Out Having a Night with the Boys"
  • "Save your Wishes for the Druids of Gaul"
  • "Does a Frog's Pope Shit in the Woods?"
  • "Everything Good Comes in Threes": The HMS Jernøya (which means Iron Island), Lugwardian vessel
  • "China: The Celestial Empire"
  • "Gamers Against Gamers Against Weed"
  • "Too Old for This Shit": During a depression, the US government is dealing with an economic crash and finds that they are spending too much money on retirement funds (and they don't have the money to do it). Teaming with the SCP Foundation, a subsection of the CIA is devising an anomalous plan to make people doing dangerous jobs die just before they retire.
  • "Buying Shoe Polish Like You Have Shoes to Buy Polish For"
  • "My Hands Don't Move When I Tell Them To Anymore"
  • "When We Are 15 Minutes From Disaster Could I Hold Your Hand Just Once"
  • "A Pile of People & Pooches"
  • "I Don't Live Life on a Tight Leash, My Cord is just Too Short"

Outlet for Better Thinking

A place for stream of consciousness writing.

So when I am feeling really sad, and I can't write anything else, I sometimes write these stream of consciousness… things. These are those things. Expect them to be 300% edgier than anything else I write. Sorry about that? Whatever. You're the one who chose to stroll through my sandbox, heheh.

The Physical Impossibility of Change in the Mind of Somebody Mourning

He stared in vain at a piece of art that he didn't fully understand. His eyes glanced to the left, the center, the right. But he couldn't figure it out. His mind struggled to wrap its metaphysical tendrils around the large squirming concept of the lines and colors and sensations in front of him. He struggled to grasp just what it was he wasn't getting. What cosmic force pulled these forms together and made people love them. What horrid attraction kept an audience when viewing abstracts and nothings. What crept into their heads at night and whispered sweet lies and ideas into their subconscious, what might build to a yell, a scream and shout. What might build to a tearing want, separating the fabrics from the tapestry of the mind and replacing them with affection and love, desire and attraction, the sheer magnetism of modern art. His eyes twitched, his mind blew its whistles and alarms, his brow furrowed and his forehead greased and sweat. His fist clenched, his heart tensed, his head hung low like a disgraced dog.

He got up, he was done here. He took many, many deep breaths, and continued to stare. It was three lines. One per canvas. One per stroke, one for every time he thought that he had skill. He breathed, he breathed in air and he breathed out poison. He walked down the hallways, he checked out of the museum, he walked down the street and felt the rain hit his flesh and hollow his head. He felt his chest pull at his sinews and muscles, and grip at his soul. He felt and he felt and he felt until there was no feeling anymore. He walked down the sidewalk until the sidewalk was white canvas, and he watched the street until the street was a long dash of ink. He passed people and they appeared like small blots in his vision, and he tore at the insides of his cheeks until he didn't have cheeks to tear at anymore.

He tried and he tried and he tried and he fell far outside of the orbit of comprehensive thought. He fell past his memories, he fell past his reason, and he fell into a pool only full of his emotions. He looked into the sky, and wondered why. Why was such a simple concept so indefinitely outside of his grasp. What were they doing that he wasn't. What was in their heads that wasn't in his. What was happening in their worlds that gave them the talent to draw and have it be loved by the world and renowned globes over. He crept up out of his bed and faced his reflection in his bathroom. He stared at the crinkles in his face and he stared at his eyes and his eyes stared back at him. He stared at the wetness on his clothes and the dampness on his feet. He took off his socks and felt his feet come off with them. He melted into the floor and felt his organs rupture. He vomited but all that came out was his head. He held it in his hands and wondered about it. He cut it in half, opened it, and searched through it. He saw it, tasted it, heard it, and swallowed it. He blacked out, and woke up in his own thoughts.

He wandered that abyss. He looked at his own ideas. He compared them to those three lines, and he had to think. He had to think what made the difference. Were they coincidences that people become famous? Was it timing? He sat down in defeat. He felt his own works, caressed there every edge and worked every crevice. He could feel their intrinsic meaning. That's what people said, you know. That the thing about modern art is not what it depicts, it's all the meaning behind it. He didn't think that was true, because if that was the measure for works then he would climb to the top and he was sure that there were many others that would as well. He laid down, and wondered if it was all frivolous. He told himself that a work was held in subjectivity, that beauty was in the eyes of the beholder. There was a general consensus over everything, and that's how things got famous. If they hit home with everybody. It was coincidence, then. If his mind worked in any way different from what the public would latch onto, then he couldn't make works that would get him any recognition.

He was doomed to fail from the start. Even difference and innovation is only appreciated if it's exactly as the public wants it, which doesn't make it different or innovative. All tethers to this world left him. He drifted in a directionless void. His arms flowed and legs flailed, fighting against the lack of focus. He wanted to be grounded again. He wanted so badly to be grounded again. Just once again, it would be nice to feel ground under his feet. Some level of foundation. He thought absently whether foundation was only what society decided it to be.

He broke into fragments and scattered, and nobody ever quite put the pieces back together.

Unmatched Idealism

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The Gospel of William Boyd

It had been three days since the crash. He did not know if anyone was coming to get him, or when they would be here. He had found a very friendly cave to sleep in. It was not actually particularly friendly, but assigning this adjective to it made him feel more at ease with sleeping there. There were some very nice fruit trees that he had found. The kind that were easy to climb, and bore lots of fruit. The fruit these trees produced were a rose color and were filled with juice. Will presumed them to be a sort of plum.

William H. Boyd had been raised a Presbyterian. His whole life he had attended church, followed the rules, listened to his parents, the whole thing. He was uniform. A pristinely made model of Christian values. His beliefs were his parents, and their beliefs their parents. It was a lineage of gospel and faith. William H. Boyd had been raised a Christian. So when he pulled himself from the wreckage, miraculously unscathed, he had faith. Even though there was no sign of another human being anywhere, he had faith. His trips to church and hours in Sunday school had taught him that if he had faith he could do miraculous things. And Will had faith.

He passed the time by thinking. Sometimes he would pray too. He went back and forth between the two so often that they developed a fluidity between each other. Thinking was praying and praying was thinking. Will Boyd would pray that someone would find him. He prayed that when they found him, they would enjoy his presence, that he would present himself in a congenial manner. Will prayed that God might bestow upon him food and water, so he may live another day. He prayed that the sun went down at the right time and that the moon shone bright, just so that he knew some of his prayers came true. Will would awake in the morning and go to the top of the hill above his cave and he would sit on a great rock overlooking the forest and then he would pray. He would pray that his soul was pure, he would pray that if it wasn't that his flaws could be overlooked. He would pray that his bones were strong enough to let him stand when he was done praying.

William Boyd prayed that his parents loved him. Since he was young, Will Boyd had faith in just that. That his parents loved him. He knew his parents loved him. He still prayed that they did. He prayed that his eyes stayed closed this whole experience, because if he saw the world he didn't want to see it void of God. He wanted to touch angel wings, to caress their every feather and feel their hollow bones. He prayed to be wrapped in mists and fogs, so that he might be able to remove all of his distractions.

Will Boyd felt something sniff at his side, and looked to find a wolf. The thing had a lame leg and blood on its breath. Boyd prayed that the animals and plants in Christ's kingdom would respect his presence. Will wanted to not want anymore. Will needed to not need anymore, or else Will wouldn't be happy. Will knew nobody was coming for him. Will prayed that they would, but Will knew he wasn't heard. How could he be, when the screams of people all over the earth shouted that God didn't exist? God's ears were full of the yells of the non-believers, and he couldn't hear prayers anymore. He could hear prayers just as well as he could answer them. Will prayed for God to have a voice again, so he could hear him, but God was hoarse and had a thirst left unquenched. God was riddled full of holes, each growing larger as more and more guns were fired, bombs were dropped, people slaughtered and children beaten.

Will Boyd fell back to earth, and shattered a rib. Will slowly made his way back to his cave, and laid down. A fire burned as the night went on, attracting a great variety of creatures and critters and moths that circled around him. He fell into a restful sleep, and believed. He believed it will get better. He turned in his sheets, pulled his blankets above his head, and prayed he could call in sick tomorrow morning.

Collaboration Links

Hub for all my collab projects (I usually have many).

SCP Drafts

Hub for all my solo SCP drafts.

Tale Drafts

Hub for all my solo tale drafts.

More By DarkStuff

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