The Electricity Eater (with a particular taste for neurons)’s Favourite Meal

Image Description: Black background with light electric blue to the right. A person wearing a highly reflective black tunic, only their head, neck, and torso showing. They’re tilted to their right (our left). Their head and neck have been split open in half. The neck is coming out of the slightly tapered neck of the tunic and it’s almost elastic in the way it’s moving side to side. On their right side, the head has short black hair which blends into the background, with brown eye and eyebrow. Perfectly normal. Then on their left side, their mouth is in a maniacal grin, their iris pink with only a bit of the older brown remaining, and the white of the eye spreading across the skin like paint or spreading mascara or tears. Eyebrow replaced with a shock of pink paint with a touch of blue in it, both flowing together down the side of their face. Only a bit of their mangled ear is visible, and a blue paint flows down from it. Their hair has become luminous light blue, forming the right part of the background.
On the bottom left corner, many jumbled groups of musical notes. They’re white, glowing, 3D and in Western notation. They get smaller as they get to the person’s left ear, and then they come out their mangled right ear, flowing out and getting bigger. They’re inverted sideways and look strikingly white against the blue. End Image Description.

This is a moment from the the mid-to-end part of Electricity Eater (with particular taste for neurons).

The electricity eaters are creatures on Earth who lurk in the shadows and eat electricity. They and one of them has a taste for neurons

Most other electricity eaters just eat electricity from houses and thunder and stuff, but one of them has taken a liking to neurons.

At the moment depicted in the story, it has decided that the regular old neurons of different animals, especially that of an anxious human, are great, but you know what would be an absolute delicacy.? The brain of someone who only copes with music. Make their brain squeeze out with the help of music that drives them… ‘mad’ is questionable. They did do this as a trade to become a god of music, so there’s that. It was voluntary. Not that that matters to the people who see the… the remains… the remains of the person. And really, not even that part matters to the electricity eater. It only cares about the absolutely delicious electricity .

Travellers on a Train: Through the Inner Planets, the first part of a story set on a train on a hill on a mountain on a sphere.

Where’s the train going? To its next stop. Where’s the sphere going? To its next stop.

The train climbs up a hill. It can’t do that forever. But it’ll find a new path, don’t you worry.

Why’s the view outside so big? Isn’t that the appeal of being in the universe? Why would you ask? Just enjoy the vastness and the comfort it brings. Enjoy being so closely blanketed by the sky. Enjoy delving deeper into the sky and being slowly enveloped by space.

You have questions, you’re bursting, flaring with them. But have patience, traveller. Have patience and calm and stories and fear and a mind that’s open to everything that comes its way. Carry all those things with you, stuff your bags full with them and then tuck them under the berth. And listen to the words of that wispy, planet-spined, smoke of a stranger in front of you. They’re quite eager to finally have a listener.


Part 1: Hello. Who are you? What are you? How are you?
Part 2: Spilling starry blood is illegal, don’t do that.
Part 3: Dreamy, dreams linear, concrete, and journeys whimsy-fied and things happen, right? Don’t they? Right?
Part 4: Coming home, just one planet away. Or two? Or three? Or have we been disowned?
Part 5: What was nature planning, anyway?
Part 6: Running, flashing, running away.
Part 7: Birds chirruping all around you, they circle ‘round your head and ‘round the star and ‘round and ‘round and ‘round and ‘round

followed by the second set of stories, Starpieces Clinging To Us / Fly away, goodbye.

Something’s Horribly Wrong

Mars. 2299 CE on the Gregorian calendar, 183 Mars year. A mini-apocalypse is happening. It involves yeast or something.

A musician is stuck inside. She’s breaking down a bit, her brain’s acting up, and then she finds out that there’s a shapeshifter in her piano.

Is everything spinning? It might be spinning.

Something’s Horribly Wrong was originally published as a serialised story, and its last part was published on 18 August 2020. On 9 October 2021, it is being posted with all the parts together.
In case anyone is interested: here’s the original post with the parts in individual posts.
The story is of 3,885 words.

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Maybe we’re being chased. Maybe we’re not. I hope we are. / I’ll see you later.

The ninth part of Travellers on a Train. Index.

Note: As you can tell, I did not update this story in September, since I did not have much time. I prefer to stick to a schedule of updating this story on the 1st of every month, but obviously that’s not always possible.
That being said, every second spent writing anything at all is precious in my life, and I hope you enjoy reading my works as much as I enjoy creating them!

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Clay Castle

I remember that clay castle I made. I’ve been making it for a long time now, and it started as a lump of wet dirt that kept getting eroded, washed away. Ugly. I couldn’t even tell what washed it away for a long time. I’d heard of waves and for a while I figured that ‘sand’ was just a different name for clay, but I realised that there isn’t any ocean here. No waves. Made sense, that sand is yellow and beige and my dirt is deep rich brown or black or light brown or purple or green or red or… actually, I don’t know if I can tell. Look at my words and please help me figure out what they mean, because I can’t tell. And back then I couldn’t even tell if the deep rich brown/black/light brown/purple or green or red dirt/clay/sand that I built the castle with was INHERENTLY defective, or WHY it kept getting washed away, or if something was just wrong, deeply deeply wrong with my building techniques or the very hands with which I created, something wrong, something wrong, something horribly wrong that I couldn’t quite place…

Then I realised: it was the rain. Or rather, the rains plural. There’s different types, you know. Some are bad, but some? Some are wonderful. The darkness of a rainy day may seem miserable, but I realise I’m calm with it. I’m at peace with it if it doesn’t go too far and if I’ve made the castle safe, with a lot of umbrellas. Some of the rains even keep the clay happy. The clay is happy.

Some parts of the clay castle are still just bubblelike. Blobs. Lumps. Some of the others, though? Beautiful… I figured out how to make windows, see? And all those indentations. Patterns. Some of them make you dizzy, I’ve shown people pictures and they think they’re dizzying but usually in a good way, in a beautiful way. A lot of the patterns are total messes made either in reverie or oblivion. Some are beautiful and some repulse me, though sometimes a pattern does both of things at once, and then of course the patterns melt into each other and… oh, right, there’s the paint patterns too. Indentations, cuts, paints, colours all swirling and spiralling into each other as if they’re dancing, or singing, or going dizzy, or going crazy, or dying, or laughing, or finally running to meet their friends after a long time and they have to go up a spiral staircase and it’s a bit creaky so they trip right in front of their friend but it’s fine, they’re not hurt, they just laugh it off with their friends and it’s fine.

One time a rock fell on the castle while I was inside. Huge one. Made a break in the castle.. I don’t know if I threw it or if it was some type of hailstorm? I don’t know. I just knew there were more rocks and I got trapped in the one single safe part of the castle. And the rocks fell. And the rocks fell. Was it a hailstorm? It was definitely cold enough for that, but it was also hot and BRIGHT enough that I could believe fire was raining. And the rocks fell. And the rocks fell, and I wondered if they were made of lava? I think I saw some lava. Or maybe the rocks turned into lava because of the extreme heat before they fell and they fell and they fell… I was trying to count them at one point, but then there were too many all of a sudden. The whole place was burning and freezing, but the corner I was trapped in was calm. Dark and quiet, meanwhile the rocks fell and the rocks fell and the rocks fell in the rest of the place. So much light that it would take my breath away, burn my brains, and print onto my retinas. So in short the castle went into chaos… not total destruction, actually, because some of the rocks just made these huge and mesmerisingly beautiful dents in the clay… and I watched. And the rocks fell. And the rocks fell. And I watched. And the rocks fell. And the rocks…

They stopped eventually. I fixed the holes. I mended the clay with more clay, although you can see the parts where it’s been mended and I didn’t do a good job at some parts of it. And sometimes, sometimes I want to DESTROY the castle! Because look! Look, look at that break, up over there! The one from the big rock, it’s too huge and through it I saw things that didn’t even EXIST outside of the clay castle.

And I tried, I really tried to mend it, but the clay I have isn’t enough! And whenever I get near it, oh, the light is just so blinding! I can’t see when I try to fix it, and EVEN THOUGH I tried blindfolding myself, relying on my muscle memory, I just ended up with melted clay in my hands. I just ended up plastered in clay and so there it continued to stay, the break. There it continues.

Simultaneously blinded and made visionary when I look at the hole, I see sparks. I see odd sights of strangely shaped creatures tearing down the clouds and taking the rain for themselves, even though the clouds and the rain are still there when I leave. And it’s so hard to leave too, because the light zaps my hands so they move of the break’s volition and not mine. They stick themselves in the clay, even if it isn’t wet, and then to go away from the break and the horror light’s grasp I have to REMEMBER, remember that they’re in there and that they must be pulled out. I have to remember not to be mesmerised by the beings of fire and electricity and light, but it’s so hard.

And when I do remember, there’s the problem of taking out the hands. Sometimes I remember to bring a bucket of water to make the clay soft before I get mesmerised, but there’s so much to keep track of and I forget, I forget so much. Even when the clay is soft, I make dents in the wall when the light forces my hand to do so. The ceiling too. And when it’s dry, there’s so much destruction… it’s not truly much, and maybe some day I could fix it, but it adds up. The wall crumbles bit by bit, the ceiling crumbles and even the dust that falls is a problem. The air in the castle suffocates.

Sometimes I want to destroy the castle. It is such a beautiful thing, and the indentations and murals and patterns in it are wonderful. I’ve put so much work into building all the little parts of it. There’s so much complexity. Even the crude parts have a sort of beauty to them.

But the break, the holes and scratches from the hailstorm, the horrific light breaking in and never getting better and my attempts to fix it keep making all this dust spread, but then it’s all too much for me to handle and something always goes wrong…

I remember that clay castle I made. Every day it becomes a different clay castle, different as it changes. It used to be a lump, so simple but miserable. Now it is complex. It is beautiful. It is horrific. I want to destroy it. I want to continue building it.

Desk on Fire

Just a short thing I wrote last night at some horribly late hour of the night, thinking, “Hey, maybe I can write a short creepy thing in just one sentence.” Well, did I?

Content warnings: Dissociation, paranoia-inducing, body horror, fire (emphasis on the first two)
Second person narration
284 words

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Travellers on a Train: Starpieces Clinging To Us / Fly away, goodbye, the second part of a story set on a train on a hill on a mountain on a sphere.

Where’s the train going? To its next stop. Where’s the sphere going? To its next stop.

The train climbs up a hill. It can’t do that forever. Nothing is forever. Not your body, not the stars. And, shockingly for the wispy, planet-spined, smoke of a stranger in front of you, Sol isn’t forever either.

You have questions and you’re bursting with them, just like you were when you first came aboard, but now you know you and your fellow passengers are questions. Sol is a question. Why are the passengers on the train made of tiny versions of ‘dead’ worlds?

The Space Giants, made of ‘true’ (if truth exists) nebulae and galaxies and black holes, they use stars as their currency. Their organs as their currency? Their cells as their currency. Stars and black holes and other things, things so big.

The birds, the space birds, the mynah you hear everywhere specifically… you’re not sure you know what’s happening. Someone wants the Sol as a coin? Someone wants to pick up the sun in its wings and snatch it away from its planetary system. The mynah? Seems it’s the mynah, it’s probably the mynah, but who knows? Who knows anything at all?

You’re all questions. Why are you plasma? Why are you? Why is the train? And from where? From Sol, but why?


Continued from the first set of stories, Through the Inner Planets.
Part 8: Behind you, sunbeams / I may be chasing them. Or not. Or yes.
Part 9: Maybe we’re being chased. Maybe we’re not. I hope we are. / I’ll see you later.
Part 10: Can a home chase you? / Can I be your home?
And more in the works…