Oddity on Brain (inspired by art from C0laj)

Unaware of irony, the oddity wakes in the Dreamlands and holds the shape of a nameless sponge diver.

Why?

It forgot and fell asleep like this, and now it wakes to find itself thinking of owning a personalized existence.

How?

The brain in the diver’s head that the oddity now holds in his hands. This tool allowed the creature to breach the barrier, a barrier that should never have been crossed. Nameless soul, destined to fill the belly of an Old One, eventually. Like us all, he had little hope for anything more. The Old Ones, who will also die when time stops, never considered that the Oddity might gain sentience. It was just not an option. Because nothing matters. Nothing collects, and it becomes more nothing eventually. In fact, everything will be eaten by the void that kills time when that moment comes. Even me, even the Universe.

It’s destiny.

And nobody beats destiny.

Does it know this?

The oddity?

The hunter?

The murderer of hopes and dreams, the monster that comes and never stops?

Yes.

It doesn’t, even as this and other thoughts race through the mind in its hands, a mind usually empty.

An empty mind might just be a better mind. 

Maybe.

Maybe that’s whats needed, in the grand scheme of things, less thought- because thinking almost always causes problems. 

Such a waste of opportunity, though.

The connections and synapses of the marvelous tool in the oddity’s hands, fire. Even so far from Einstein’s brain, broken as it were, floating through the many millions of realities, it finds itself connected to infinite potential.

Gates and connections.

Connections to what? Gates to where? The Universe? Me? A conduit to knowledge and existence? The Old Ones themselves?

It becomes too much, so I demand, “Will you stop?”

Confused, the oddity almost drops his treasure forcing a tentacle from his delusion to slither up and point at itself.

“Yes, you, the joke with a brain. A thing made to hunt and kill by instinct alone, holding the most technological perfect thing ever spawned by the joining of chaos and the cosmos. 

“Er der, human?”

“Don’t take it personally, my man. You aren’t meant to know the joys of knowledge, only hunger. But you’ve ruined that, haven’t you? Now that you are more, and the question asserts itself, what will we do about that?”

Hungry Hungry Universe (Art by C0laj)

As a force of turmoil and chaos, The Universe, the canvas for all things in existence to frolic on, is nothing and everything in between. As rumpled fabric, it does not recognize its moments as coming or going. The Universe is. And that should be enough. But as everything and nothing, The Universe decided long ago to seek solace in the experiences of those that suffer because they are forced to be. The brightest experiences are those that are fraught with pain and disappointment. Freaks and the unlucky that lurk inside moist, forgotten folds where life can form. Soft juicy donuts filled with thoughts and feelings. Like berries for The Universe to pluck and devour, thoughts, acts, and history. 

All so delicious.

Maybe it’s by design they are so well hidden within the canvas they play on, but as sometimes happens, one makes itself known. A being in an orange jumpsuit needs help. So the Universe does the opposite and stretches the fabric between realities to give the creature made to hunt an easier path to its would-be prey.

It must be done carefully, so that the membrane doesn’t break, and it works. The Oddity thinks it dreams still, seeing the crumb floating on his back in the vastness of space, lost like all the best crumbs are before they are found. The oddity’s stomach growls at the sight and lunges as if birthed through the miasma that is dark matter. He fights to free himself, and The Universe liberates it of the physics that keeps everything else locked down. 

And then, the fireworks of conflict. 

So much in so short an amount of time.

Oh, the bliss, this conflict, and The Universe revels. But, regardless of which victor’s soiled vinegar of a destructive lifeforce fills its soul, The Universe is forced to sit back, beg for more and more feelings, thought, and experience. More more more. More anything to distract from the ever-expanding snap that will all too soon end in entropy.

More weird tales @ bryanaiello.com

Hell

Hell is, knowing that things end because that’s what they do. They end and change and become something different. It is both the curse and a blessing of existence.

It’s after his last death that things switched from normal to this, surrounded by a nothing, a purple nothing that felt like static or white noise on his body. It takes an eon or two to realize that he is nothing also and that he does not have a body and that it is more habit then necessary to call himself a he.

What am I then? He wonders, as things that he experienced in his existence spin through his mind.

One such memory settles, and he is a blade of grass living on the very uppermost portion of Mount Everest that can support such things. His life exists for less than a day. He sprouted and grew and was ripped from the soil, thrown into the air by a sharp gust of wind. He soared high on the wind for hundreds of miles to land in the seemingly waiting maw of a holy cow standing in a field somewhere deep inside India.

But knew greater pointlessness when he was a boy from Brooklyn who died in a soft bed surrounded by people he loved.

Another time he was a rock slowly melting into a stream of lava.

And now?

He was, but that proved never to be enough, so he settles deeper into the purple static searching. He searches for something that could represent meaning. A meaning worth existing in for all time.

A Momentary Snowflake

It’s in this small moment that a universe exists

A simple creation

A flake of ice

It falls with glory from the sky as everything

Is and in a flash

Gone

Seeping into the fabric of a wool jacket like it never existed at all

The Universe

The universe lives.

It feels every thing from the blackest of dark matter to the smallest speck of mold. Life is life.

It changes and stretches and morphs dependent only on the stimulus around.

The range is thin but the range of living things to fit with the billions of niches can run into the infinite.

Creatures huge and small.

Enormous and microscopic.

Sentient and not.

Aware of their soul and just fodder for a conception equation.

Offspring. Children. Parental responsibility. The very nature of existence is male/female. Fitting and holding. The ying sheltering the yang. The man and woman.

Nothing is ever wasted. Garbage thrown out is fuel in somewhere else.

The universe is patient.

Waiting.

The motions that set it off a mystery.

The universe is a Rube Goldberg machine of nonsensical accidents.

A pinball machine with no pongs to hit the ball or have any control.

Time is an infinite loop. One end is another beginning. An end doesn’t even have to be noticed for trillions of years. But the clump of ice strewn out from one explosion will become involved with something eventually.

Time is on the side of happenstance.