Right. It's another blog. Ok.
Boring.
Next.
I guess I should actually explain what goes here.
I don't plan on regularly updating this thing. I just want to write crap here. Could be shitty stories, could be really good stories, could be exploding bananas. Doesn't matter. Expect content. Stories, specifically. Nothing more or less. Also, because this is raw thought, there's going to be minimal editing.
Here, have your damn story.
The Deep
The jet shoots my car through the water, zooming in the glassy wasteland. The highways are an interesting place. Too low, you'll be crushed. Too high, and bad things happen. Not necessarily bad, since nobody's ever come back. But the glassy waves, with the reddish surface light combine into an elegant backdrop for the billboards floating in space.
The car's leaking.
Adrenaline comes.
I go up.
"Why would you do that? The surface?" An old cheesy movie plays, the actors' time worn voices sounding. It feels like an old propaganda film. The surface: pirates, murderers, rabid kangaroos. Whatever is up there, it doesn't like humans. The old legends say it burnt up, but it's safe enough to surface, and the new rumors appeared. It's frustrating, the outside lights are still out, but beginning to fade. I drive off to a secret place, the hum of the water following me.
I've always enjoyed the rush of the deep. Right above the car's breaking point, when dents and leaks start forming, you can glide right above the bottom of the dusty bottom of the world's lives. Swinging between stone columns stabbing through the dirty surface of the water, clouds fly up, making me invisible in the chaos of the swirling, murky water. The dust flies up during the dark time. The murk glides up through the water, blotting out the light, making the world dark as night
The car's light turns on, and I drive back to my biosphere.
My ears can feel the car shooting through the water, the pressure dropping. I reach the dangerous top, by the glowing orb that seems millions of knots away. It's getting closer to the middle of the sky, but it moves slowly. There's time to explore. Anyway, the car's jet might not work in air.
It's cold. The gray, desolate landscape is contrasted by the single white structure very nearby.
The door is cold, after I go through the vent-lock, a fancy name for a room that can drain the water out of itself which you park your car in. I go through the first and second airlock, going to the glass semi-sphere with blacked out portions for survival. The outer sphere has a sandy bottom, much like the entrance to the depths apparently looked like, as does every biosphere, as a reminder of the past.
Tradition for what nobody gives a shit about anymore is quite important here.
Traditions says we can't know the truth. Or at least we have to be afraid of it. Tradition's not a bad thing, but the white structure has a strange appeal to it. It's silent as the lonely trenches on the surface, but as I approach the building, a buzzing sound begins to come from everywhere quietly.
The door is light and open. It swings open, scraping the bottom of the floor, creating a white dust with a rocky gray underneath. The inside is the same as the outside-white, clean, and disinfected.
Shadows dance across the windows in the bedroom. The surface. What's there? What was there? It's an unanswerable question. Nor is there time. A whale is passing through. Although they mean no harm, they're big enough to crush a biosphere if they move to the wrong place. The general emergency procedure begins: get in your car, group up by the nearest trench for the next few hours.
There's three directions past the door, I continue forward. The room's empty. The buzzing sound has started again, though. It's a lot louder, too. But it's turning into a song, a tune from a music box that everyone recognizes but can't remember the name to.
I turn around.
Red.
The whale creaks. Then its sides open up. The clean paint reveals a series of tanks shooting out of the craft's sides. The crowd of cars begins to disperse and fly in all directions, like fish circles by dolphins, bubbles swirling up to heaven. There's only one option, run.
I take the route I know best, the highway, out, seeing billboards for a bigger biosphere, a faster car, a quicker vent. The "whale" seems to have knocked over a few of the pillars nearby, destroying the markers that make up the highway. One of the pillars is still in the process of falling, just denting my car.
There's water inside now.
The letters messily painted with blood on the wall spell out a simple phrase.
"Death to those who seek the deep."
