Daily Stream of Consciousness, 2024.08.24 > 2024.09.01 – Automatic 10 Minutes, Story Prompts: The Great Storm, The Dead, Younger Self, Strange Package, Drive West, Adopted, The Altar, Haunted Cruise Ship, The Hotel

Foreword

Ah yes, another bright Sunday summer morning. It's getting a bit chaotic around here. Been mixing streams, so to speak, and changed the format, with questionable results. I'm still doing the ten-minute autowrite, but started using different prompts from here and there. Most of this comes from the Freewriters; some of it comes from that site I forgot the name of. I'm honestly happy I overcame resistance. Baby steps.

Saturday, August 24, 2024 – The Great Storm

Raw: The wind is blowing. Where from? Unsure. From the ocean, I guess. There are multiple oceans. I can think of... The Atlantic, the Pacific, the Indian Ocean, the Arctic Ocean. That's about it. I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be seven. Who knows. Imagine the brave men who circumnavigated the world on their sailing ships, puking their gin and tonic-soaked sauerkraut. Maybe there was some lime in there. There's no connection to Lyme disease, by the way. That's what you get from an infected tick. They claim ticks were weaponized on Plum Island—somewhere on the American East Coast. That's where the Atlantic is. Supposedly the depths of oceans are less known than outer space. Reminds me of H.P. Lovecraft and Cthulhu. Or Dagon. Ancient terrors worshipped by the Deep Ones. Frog-like beings dwelling in submerged temples, swimming to the surface when called upon. Correct? Like the old captain, who was taught some rituals by some Polynesian weirdos. Understandable, I guess. His hometown was having a hard time, and he convinced them to worship gods that produced actual results. That's how you get the Innsmouth look. Is Polynesia located in the Pacific? There might be some overlap with the Indian Ocean. When I think of India, in the context of islands and things, I come to think of the Sentinel Islands. Those islands east of India, feature uncontacted tribes chucking spears at camera drones. A bit like those Polynesians.

Commentary: Puking gin and tonic soaked sauerkraut. Keeping it classy. There isn't much to say about this one. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn't.

Sunday, August, 25, 2024/1 – The Dead

Raw: It's not really about zombies. Not strictly speaking. This one is about living with your parents. Your retired parents. So you moved back home because it's an economic crisis, you know, and your senior citizen dad left the dirty dishes in the sink again. He doesn't even bother to dispose of his candy wrappers. He just lies there all day and thinks about death. The thing is, he isn't even close to dying—or not just yet. Still, he's waiting for that last enemy, like he was peeking around the corner. I shouldn't lecture anybody about living, but come on. Just pick up the candy wrappers, get out of bed, and find a reason to live. Most draw purpose from their jobs, but doesn't that imply without jobs we consider ourselves useless? Are we really? Maybe he's finding purpose in his uselessness. Doesn't quite make sense, does it? I'm just grumpy about being the one who has to do his dishes. It's fair, I guess; he was the one who changed my diapers and put food on my table. Touche, dad. Anyhow, I think there's more to life than death, which seems kinda ironic coming from me. My uncle is pretty much the same as my dad. He just sits at home and counts the hours. That doesn't stop him from complaining. About the government, about the idiocy of average people, about this guy and that guy, his own children. Basically, whoever wronged him, and that's a lot of people. Understandable, but do YOU want to spend your last years like that? He might as well wear goth make-up and listen to Cradle of Filth, or whatever those Norwegians listen to. The kind of guys who burn churches. His garden looks a bit like an elephant cemetery to me. Littered with the bones of old ambitions.

Commentary: I enjoy the idea of senior citizens embracing goth culture. Like one day they all just mysteriously start listening to Cradle of Filth, or whatever goths are into, and begin acting like insubordinate teenagers. Smoking their cigarettes behind the dumpster, looking all troubled. Then someone recites a bad poem about the meaningless of it all.

Sunday, August, 25, 2024/2 – The Younger Self

Raw: I don't know what my younger self would think of me. Chances are nothing good. It would be a weird scene anyhow. Like I make a dramatic entrance, emerging from a wall of fog or such. I think my younger self would probably just think I'm an asshole. I think one thing I would tell him is to cherish the things he has and realize nothing lasts forever. Not even the kind of pain he's suffering through. Nothing is as important as they make it out to be, and ultimately all the serious things I thought would matter weren't as important as I thought they would be. Then he'd point out the contradiction and we would get into a little argument. Mhm. I'm at a loss for words. Maybe I wouldn't tell him anything at all and just mention he shouldn't wait to get rescued. Nobody cares. You've got to make it happen yourself. You need to find your own meaning, your own motivations, and then follow through with those. Maybe I'd argue he should just try to be a normal person. Get a regular job and live a simple life. Well, instead of living this strange kind of joke. Life is serious and it isn't. Most people don't know what they're doing or why. You just sit there in front of your television and keep playing video games; I'm sure it will pan out. Here, have a hug. Maybe I'd practice karate with him. Show him some kicks and stuff. Somewhere in the garage. Then I'd leave before my father comes home and wonders who that strange man is, playfighting around with his son. I would talk to my grandma and say goodbye. I'd tell him not to join the army. Brush your teeth. Clean your room. Maybe I'd make him sit down in a movie theater and have him watch the movie of his life. A horror movie. A special kind.

Commentary: This reminds me a little of that movie. What was it called? There was a time travelling man in a bunny costume... Donnie Darko, that's it! Turns out the time traveller was the protagonist in disguise. Classic!

Monday, August 26, 2024 – Strange Package

Raw: When I think about strangers and strange packages, I think Hitchcock. That old villain. There are rumors about him bothering his actresses. Or at least I believe that's the word on the street. And by street, I mean the Internet. Bothering actresses fell somewhat out of fashion ever since the Harvey Weinstein fiasco. He had been bothering actresses for decades! Decades! But I guess he made some good movies. Don't get me wrong, I'm not condoning the idea of the casting couch, or Weinstein masturbating into flower pots, but... he did produce great things. Strange how life works. Didn't Weinstein have some weird malformity? Someone once described his penis and argued it was shaped like an eggplant. Maybe I'm thinking about Jeffrey Epstein. Another prolific sex pest, who also ended up in jail (necking himself under mysterious circumstances). Epstein didn't kill himself, or so they say. They talk a lot, don't they? Now, it was definitely weird. Not altogether X-Files weird, but he did brush a lot of important shoulders. One of Epstein's mentors supposedly wrote a sci-fi novel about interplanetary sex-slavery. Lots of dedication to the subject, you might say. It's kinda curious how many sex islands there were in the... what's the name... the Atlantic. The Caribbean and such. Imagine being a victim escaping to the open ocean and ultimately you're being washed to the shores of another sex island. Isn't that a twist?

Commentary: The subject is unsavory, but that's how those ten minutes went. The Hollywood casting-couch culture sure is a difficult subject, same as Jeffrey Epstein and all the other island freaks. Like Peter Nygard or "Sir" Richard Branson. Okay, it might be a little unfair to throw Branson into the mix, the owner of the Virgin Group (no pun intended). He was more like a mistaken landlord who unknowingly allowed the NXIVM sex cult to host orgies on his island resort. Shit happens. Sure, he likes to jet ski around with naked models in tow, but I'll assure you those women definitely weren't virgins. Tip top, perfectly legal. Nothing to see here. Now, Peter Nygard though, that's another jailbird who took things a little too far. I won't elaborate too much, but the guy had an unusual interest in people's diets. Namely the women he managed to lure in. You get it. The always youthful fashion geriatric would ask, "Would you like to sell some of your eggs?" Much to the confusion of all the women involved. "You've got the magic stuff, and he wants some of that!!"

There's some dark humor to it all, but maybe the world isn't ready. Especially since a lot of, ah... celebrities and such are still kicking around and might not be too keen on encouraging baseless speculations. Well, except Prince Andrew maybe, who consequently enough visited not only Epstein's island but Nygard's island as well. At least if you're to believe the photos. I wasn't there.

Tuesday, August 27, 2024 – Drive West

Raw: The hitchhiker had left a hand-written note behind the windscreen wiper. "Drive West, a 100 miles." Max was looking around. No sign of him. Gone. During the ride, the guy was talking about a festival. Wasn't advertised and nobody but a very special crowd knew about it. Some kind of gathering. A meeting of the weirdos. Lots of them in the desert. A bit like Burning Man, but not really. Burning Man was for another type of gentrified oddball. Orgy domes protected by serious-looking guys in ballcaps, or some crap. They would beat up whoever tried to sneak in without an invitation, or kept bothering the women during the pussy-eating contest. So much for the open-minded hippies of Burning Man. This was different, or so he claimed, but he didn't really specify how. Nonetheless, Max was up for it. He had been living the van life for a while now, globetrotting around looking for adventure. Travel the world a bit, find a new place to settle down. His girlfriend left him after he quit his job. Technically, he was a bum, and sooner or later his savings would run out. A bum in a strange van. Not as strange as that hitchhiker, though. It wasn't even his looks that were strange. He looked like a normal enough person. Somewhat well-groomed, polo shirt, khaki pants. But... there was something weird about him. Kind of in the, "I know something that you don't" sense. Someone slightly amused by the profane or the uninitiated. And that's how Max got invited.

Commentary: I kept thinking about this entry. The idea seems solid. Some vagabond runs into a stranger and gets invited to some sketchy event held in the Australian Outback, and consequently finds himself in over his head. A little exploitation, a little conspiracy, a bit of dark humor. He could end up being sacrifce Wicker man style, but that's just an idea.

Wednesday, August 28, 2024 – Adopted

Raw: So you're sitting in your parents living room. Awkward silence. Your mother starts speaking: "You're adopted." She says it like ripping a bandaid. Fast and painless. Ok, not painless, but fast. You ask her: "What? I'm adopted?" - "Not technically, we have learned about a mix up at the hospital and well... you belong to someone else."- "Why are you telling me this?" Dad starts speaking. "Well, son..." Another awkward silence. "So. Ah. We never liked you, quite honestly. I don't know how to put it in any other way." - "Wow, just wow! But honestly, I feel the same way." You smile, they smile. You stand up and give them a firm handshake. "Good luck, don't call us." He said with a smile. "No worries." The door slammed shut and that's it. You're alone now, more or less an orphan. How did they know you weren't their's anyhow? They must've snuck into your room like a couple of vampires looking for blood. You start walking and walking. You must've walked for hours. Eventually you look around and find yourself in the middle of a field looking at a giant tree, illuminated by the last light of a setting sun.

Commentary: This reminds me of Arizona Junior.

Thursday, August 29, 2024 – Left at the Altar

Raw: The vibe was ruined. Nony was fuming and the party was in shambles. Everybody wore red capes and masks, but the guest of honor didn’t show up. This was supposed to be a mock human sacrifice, but the victim was a no-show. Nony would swear revenge. Poison, a crossbow bolt to the heart, snakes, scorpions—everything was on the table. Someone handed her a letter. It was him! Phony excuses! She would find him. Track him down if it was the last thing she would do. Nony was a respectable goth chick. Tattoos, black lipstick, lots of belts, all of that stuff. No reason to dishonor her like that. The graveyard party was deadly quiet. Eventually, people left for greener pastures. Nony went down into the tomb and sat on the altar. One of her ancestors was lying there. Colonel Mattis, the old mutt himself. The original war dog. He would be ashamed. What a disappointment. Here she was, trying to create a memorable experience and then this. "I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill him dead!" said Nony while waving an empty wine bottle around. Then she passed out and fell into a dreamless sleep. When she woke up, there was a police officer standing in front of her, with the morning sun behind him. Like Gandalf the White returning from the dead. She covered her eyes. "May I help you, officer?"

Commentary: Lots of goths today.

Friday, August 30, 2024 – Haunted Cruise Ship

Raw: The ship [insert cool name] was drifting past the African coast. A few locals with automatic rifles jumped into their fishing boats and took a look. There wasn't much fish to be found, ever since the big trawlers started poaching the area. From a distance, the cruise ship looked normal enough, or about as normal as it could get in the eyes of the locals. But there was no reaction. They fired a couple of rounds into the air, but still nothing. They lingered for a while, and eventually, the leader of the group, like a primus inter pares, gave the go signal. "Let's board that motherfucker. Go, go!" So they climbed the cruise ship with grappling hooks and ladders. It was getting dark, too. Something was very wrong about this, so very wrong. First of all, there was nobody to be found, so the group just went sightseeing. Shopping malls, food stores, water slides, chocolate fountains. There was a go-kart circuit as well. "Why do we even want to leave? It's great here." Indeed. The cabin beds were infinitely more soft than their straw beds at home. After a magical nap, Primus started worrying. This wasn't right. They met on the bridge and held council. Everything seemed to be working, but there was no trace of the crew or the passengers. "Here's what we're going to do," said Primus. "We're going to take the ship and land it on an old beach. Then we're going to strip it." Someone wondered, "Won't they retaliate?" Primus said, "Yeah, they might, but... let's destroy the GPS to make sure." It wasn't a perfect plan, but hey. Then, a scream.

Commentary: I like the idea of telling this kind of story from the perspective of the bad guys. I'm sure this has been done before, but who cares. Obviously this isn't perfect, I'm aware.

Saturday, August 31, 2024 – The Hotel

Raw: It was a beautiful beach. White sand. The ocean. A few turtles and sexy women in bikinis. The food was ok, and so were the coconut drinks. It wasn't really a luxury hotel as advertised, it was more like a shack made from plywood and string. The Robinson experience. Stranded on some remote island with a few cannibals serving drinks. One knocked at my door at night and wanted to talk. He knew the service wasn't the best, but they were in desperate need for money ever since headhunting was made illegal. Well, they didn't even know what money up until a while ago, but gradually they got used to civilization, or what they considered as such. Their women started wearing and make-up and got increasingly picky. Naturally the men stuck their heads together and came up with a plan. A sorry excuse for a luxurary hotel. "Please don't ruin this, we need the cash." He squinted: "As matter of fact, I'm pretty sure if you keep complaining they're going to eat you." - "Yeah, I've been noticing some strange looks lately and I'm pretty sure a few of the locals started licking their lips when seeing me, but I didn't think much about it. Maybe I should write a more favorable article." Record scratch: In an alternative version of the story the cannibals create some sort of theme park, reenacting their former lives for tourists. The luxuary hotel has a cannibal theme. There's a dance, some ritual fighting, and some other things. A bit of sex, exposed breasts and all the good stuff. A reviewer is tasked with reviewing the Hotel and arrives on some little airport being welcomed by a guy holding up a sign. A guy couldn't stop grinning for some reason. Civilization really did a number on those cannibals. The chief has money problems. His many wives are making demands.

Commentary: This one is borderline unreadable, but I think I still came up with a pretty ok premise. Financially troubled cannibals having to deal with modern civilization and then being bamboozled into creating an absurd tourist trap, meant to carricature their original way of living. Eventually they could go back to basics, maybe minus the cannibalism. Potentially with the help of an adventurous travel writer, who happens to fall in love with one of the locals.

Accordion Tribe - Tangocide