I’m A Slug, Get Over It

Written by Fantasy Girl

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Seems like this guy survived from The NeverEnding Story – well, at least in this tale. Image // Warner Bros.

Psst, came a sound from the doorway of the house on the corner of the street. Psst, James. It came again.

“Who goes there?” James paused. “My god, who actually says that any more?” He added in spoken thought as he reached the place where the sound emerged from.

He looked around the corner but there was no one there.

I’m right next to you, you dimwit. Turn around!

He span around to where the voice came from, the only thing there was a slug, which was sat at eye level on the wall to his left.

That’s right, I’m a slug, get over it. Now, I have some important news for you.

“What the…” The slug’s head turned towards him, and a smile came to its lips. “You’re smiling at me, am I asleep or something? This isn’t happening.”

Get over it. But seriously, I have some news you may be interested in.

“You’re a slug! Slug’s don’t have ‘news’!”

And you’re an ignorant human, one who believes they are the only species that has breaking news.. But guess what? I’m over it, so you should be too, so shut up and listen to me!

“I… I’m sorry?” 

I said shut up and listen to me! 

James noticed for the first time that the slug’s lips were moving while he was talking. A shudder ran through his body.

“You’re creepy.”

And you’re human. Do you want to hear this news or not?

“Yes…?”

I’m going to hand you a piece of paper, and on that piece of paper there is a word. If you say this word, or this word is said directly to you, the world will end.

“…What?”

You heard me.

“I’m not sure I did… you’re going to hand me a piece of paper? You’re a-“

Yeah, I’m a slug, we’ve gathered that fact. Typical bloody human. You’re more worried that a slug is going to hand you a piece of paper than you are about the world ending!

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Lost In Transit

Written by Terrestris Veritas 

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Solitary and in limbo. Image // sharioon.deviantart.com

A purple haze loomed in front of me. From the centre a waterfall of brains cascaded downwards. Somehow they saw me. Somehow, they spoke.

“Every time you fall asleep you die. When you die, someone else wakes up. When that person falls asleep and dies, you wake up then. Everything in your life is connected to that person. Déjà vu is a re-occurrence of what that person experienced.”

Bent double with agony, I could barely speak. “What are you?”

The brains seemed to snigger. “Right now? I am an informer. But once, I was like you, alive but dead. Undead, if you will. Now, I stay in this transit; in limbo.”

I tried to look at the brains but my eyes wouldn’t focus. “Am I… dead?”

“Dead again, you mean?” I could imagine the seemingly endless pattern of brains raising their eyebrows – well, if they had any. “Yes and no. You were dead before, and alive again while your double was dead. But now you have jumped forward, into a place with no dead or alive status, and thus, you stay here until your double passes on.”

“He won’t wake?”

“She, actually. And no, to wake up, one must fall asleep and die. But to fall asleep and die, one doesn’t have to wake up. But to experience, one must be awake. But to dream, one must be asleep and dead. You are neither experiencing nor dreaming. You are in transit with me.”

“But why?” I tried to shout but it came out as a croak.

“You cannot fall asleep and die here. You have jumped forward, which means sacrificing certain aspects of your life to abide by the law. You must wait until your double passes on. And after that, you shall lose yourself. You will see no colours, feel no touch, and sense no emotions. Until you and your double are together, you will experience nothing.”

The brains seemed to recede into the haze. “No!” I shouted. “Come back!”

“Your double has passed on. I must leave you now. While your mind dissolves, believe that you should have done more. For yourself, if nothing else. You are nothing now. All of it was for nothing.”

The brains disappeared, and I lay slumped on the ground, running what I had learned through my mind, as I slowly lost myself.

Lost in Transit was written by Terrestris Veritas as part of a Half Hour Challenge earlier this year. It was praised by Inkblots contributors due to its creepy nature, and many of us were left wondering what Terra would be able to do without a time limit. We don’t know about you, but the idea of talking to a number of decomposing brains inside a waterfall is just a little bit disturbing. If you enjoyed his work, make sure you check out Terra’s two-part fantasy drama, The Bunyip

Star Talk ii

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Who can resist? Image // sunsetastronomicalsociety.com

Written by Lost in a Dream

Vacant was I and
vague was the stage.
The canvas of night
smudgy with inky hues,
a natural masterpiece of
Violets, indigos and blues.
The perfume of summer was still
lazing in the air.

The crescent moon
cut through the void above me 

and the stars began to blossom and bloom.

I felt the moon’s ancient gaze
as she painted the old lake silver
and illuminated the birches.
The omniscient stars hung in the sky,
Their smiles, as always, never failing to
enchant the romantic or enthuse the astronomer.

Carried by the whispering wind, 
the stars’ words echo through nature.
Though locked in an obsolete language,
Their fragile, archaic song
offers solace to
the hurt, the misused
the broken and
the confused.

‘Star Talk ii’ is one of Lost in a Dream’s older pieces of poetry, which has since been updated. We thought it was a great piece of poetry and couldn’t wait to share it in our sci-fi special this month. Though we’re not entirely sure where Star Talk i is, or if it even exists, we’re definitely intrigued by the title and the imagery within the piece. If you liked Lost in a Dream’s poetry, make sure you check out some of her other work too, including ‘Masquerade‘ and ‘Parnassus Park‘. 

Neon

Written by Nonexistent Rose

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Beauty in the simplest of forms. Image // fanpop.com

I couldn’t remember the past twelve hours but I guessed that meant the drugs had worked. I’m sure it would have been much worse if they hadn’t. I felt light fingers touch the gauze around my eyes.

“I’m jealous,” Rosie spoke softly.

“Of what? Having your eyes ripped out because they aren’t good enough?” I felt my left arm tingle when she drew close, the hairs standing on end from the slight draft.

“Are you really upset about this?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You got new eyes, Charlie. They’re beautiful, they fit right, and they work much better than your old ones; I even heard your parents paid extra to get the eyes of an expert pilot.”

“My mother couldn’t stand to see her child walking around wearing glasses, like I’m one of those, you know, slum kids. So she bought me a pair of used eyes. Big whoop.”

Rosie sighed. I was being unreasonable, clearly. But she still leaned on me, choosing to ignore my petty attitude. I almost wish I could say that I was the jealous one because Rosie still had her own eyes, but I couldn’t because she hated her eyes. She would give up both of them just for one new one. They were such a dull blue they looked grey and their vision wasn’t perfect, but her family couldn’t afford to buy her new ones. I wished my family couldn’t afford to buy me new ones. I wished our money was directed at more important things than appearances, though my mother would throw yet another unnecessary tantrum. 

But normal people didn’t wish to not be rich so I kept my mouth shut. Rosie touched the gauze on my face again. 

“I wonder what they look like.”

“Why don’t you peel off the tape and find out?”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to take off the gauze yet.”

“I don’t care.” I didn’t care if I went blind or ruined my vision back to its previous blurred state. I just didn’t care.

“I’ll be gentle.” Rosie whispered and I felt her stand up. Her touch was always delicate, as if everything she laid her hands on was as fragile as a butterfly wing. And true to her word, she was gentle with the gauze as she peeled it off. I was rough and impatient and my foot fidgeted until I nearly reached up and peeled it off for her.

I felt the air dance over my closed eyelids once she finally shed the final layer. I was scared to open them, to let these new eyes see the world. Would it look the same through someone else’s eyes? Would Rosie look like she always did, with her plain brown hair and dull grey eyes? 

“Open your eyes, Charlie,” she murmured like a mother waking her child.

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The Sound of Silence

Written by Doishy

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But music? Who knows. Image // 20th Century Fox

They say in space it is silent. In space, no one can hear you scream. The latter part is correct but for a different reason. 

In space, all you can hear….is the music. 

My alarm shudders into dance next to my light control, and I slowly ease into a painful wakefulness. The auto injector immediately stabs into my arm, shooting stimulants through my blood steam, and kicks in roughly after thirty seconds. My time of wakefulness has begun. 

I drag myself out of bed, unhooking the auto injector restraint, and prepare to shower, get suited up and head to the mess, where I grab some sort of high protein, semi-decent snack. Forced into this dismal and annoyingly depressing routine, I pick up my bag of toys and head to my booth. 

In our little station there are six of us here on rotating shifts. It’s mostly self-sufficient, only requiring the occasional order of new parts – though if we get a break (which is never) then we’d be grabbed and deposited in another room for our time off, fashioned after those arcade crane games. Each of us has our own booths set up adjacent to each other. You can see the two people either side of you and they form a strange hexagon as they face one another. 

“I left you something slow on. Seems I got nothing, but for you it’s looking like a harsh one.” I nod in thanks. Something slow means a long song, ambient and calming so plenty of time for me to set up my gear. 

“Later.” I mumble back and head into my booth.


My little world of organised clutter greets me. The trinkets on my desk are all neatly arranged in no particular order and my monitors, five in total, slowly hum to life as if they sensed me. I boot up fully and dump my gear, then sit on my swivel throne and don headphones. Checking the primary channel, I hear a crackling and, peering in through the window on my left, the monitor shows me the time I have left.  Continue reading →

Corporate Hero

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A symbol of hope or corporate greed? Image // DC Comics

Written by Silver

Twentieth-century alien icon,
thrown into our atmosphere of human complexities.

He stands for truth and justice, the ‘American way’.
Purposefully picking primary colours
to portray poignancy and His immensity.
Siegal and Shuster: cartoonists’ imaginations 
sketching their vision of a mythological entity
flying endlessly through the night.
Childhood’s saving grace, an idol
in a world of atrocities.
Sparking adoration in their eyes,
they jump faith-filled from their beds in joy.

They fall.
The age of A&E shepherding adulthood.

Lurking behind His cloak
is a world of monstrous corporate greed.
His comic book face and signature ‘S’
pressed onto mugs, cards, lunch boxes and journals 
in the ‘household’ section of amazon.co.uk.
The Lex Luthor syndrome seeping
into the minds of adults,
with His sign following endorsement trends; 
the costume of commodity fetishism.

This man of steel,
this God in children’s eyes.
Once the epitome of righteousness,
now the commercialised sell-out.
We are damned to disillusionment.
Inundated with prayers He sits
in His ‘Fortress of Solitude’, 
contemplating martyrdom 
but until secularisation of our materialism
He cannot save us from
our sinful corporate hunger.

Silver’s poem ‘Corporate Hero’ was written as part of an assignment at university, and is now considered as an older piece of her work. Despite her adoration for superheroes, Superman in particular, she aims to show how consumerism bubbles into our society – and what once was a symbol of hope for some, quickly turns into a commodity for the people. A political science fiction piece to shake our content up a bit. If you enjoyed this poem, make sure you sit down with a coffee and take a look at ‘Fudge‘. 

A Wonderful Thing – An Alexander Short

Written by Dice

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Time travel can only be a good thing when stocking up on the good stuff. Image // flickriver.com

“What have you got there?” Alexander asked Jennifer.

“Just a chocolate bar,” she answered.

“No one told me there was chocolate,” chirped Alexander.

“I wouldn’t get too excited,” warned Jennifer. “There aren’t any left – this was the last one.”

Alexander looked like he was going to complain, but was struck with a recollection; “I thought you were going on a diet.”

“Starts tomorrow,” replied Jennifer simply as she ripped open the wrapper.

Alexander moaned and stomped out of the room. Moments later he was back, clutching something to his chest like a prized possession.

“What have you got there?” Jennifer asked Alexander.

“Oh, just a chocolate bar.” He answered.

“I saw those earlier, are there any left?”

“Afraid not, this was the last one, sorry.”

“Oh. Well, never mind, I’m supposed to be starting my diet tomorrow anyway…” mumbled Jennifer.

Alexander just nodded before sitting down, taking a large bite of chocolate.

“On a completely separate note,” started Alexander with a mouth full of chocolate. “Time travel is a wondrous thing, don’t you think so?”

Dice’s Alexander shorts are fast becoming a staple to his Half Hour Challenge entries, but we just can’t get enough of them. Completed under the theme of chocolate, Alexander has been devilishly sneaky with time travelling – not that we would normally recommend it under such selfish circumstances, mind. But it makes such an amusing story that we don’t care if Alexander accidentally changes the course of time. If you enjoyed Dice’s Alexander shorts, make sure you check out  ‘This One! An Alexander Short‘.