undead

Declaration: Gibberish Mire (Finale)

~ Blaine Arcade ~ Leave a comment

(estimated reading time: 53 minutes)

Where!?

Bick to Backering. Excerpted thim thes timed companyions further brainded than long-gated Wagonher. Kudd’s thirst chewse on helpupping Bonelyre Pinned und Crowize add just two L-swears askneaded. Butt in thair shees whizn’t arse inclined ass she umed. Backended to Wick snuffered taughaut aghen, lessoned lake treadwaters, downd lake drugging in whine.

Wagonher encompassed a pointy all-in belt, wagnered Knowrth the way to tavendor’s keyp, iffin it haddocked otherplatz on staggburred drunk ledggs. Theire might be founded and won ormbinous avoid: hole filled with punch that used to were the bodd of Hamsandcans Glammount. Asquerying locales how two reconvict themtwain was her gaol, a seedcret to be retilled in Pursuit of grown pease. Continue reading →

Declaration: Gibberish Mire (Part Four)

~ Blaine Arcade ~ Leave a comment

(estimated reading time: 1 hour, 13 minutes)

Eviction Declaration

The coerced accord was signed, and in it a plan of attack. What none of them were prepared for was the degree to which mobilization of their military machine would make it clear that the experiment of Pilgrim’s Anchor was coming to an end. Should they succeed, in erasing the Bickyplots’ claims on Pursuitia and its inhabitants, the remaining Founders would then be free to attempt their Second Declaration, intended to return them not only to the American colonies, but to the exact moment they had left so they could resume their plans for a true revolution in a world they at least thought they understood.

If that happened, nothing needed left behind. So it could all come down, apart, and then alight on the wheels of war if it would be of any help in this singular assault. Everyone began to strip the stores, the walls, the cabinets and cupboards. They entered a kind of mania where they couldn’t stand to see anything with hinges closed. Anchor needed to spit up its contents, disgorge its secrets, and splinter inside out to make sure no rusty nail bent away from Bickering Hall. Continue reading →

Declaration: Gibberish Mire (Part Three)

~ Blaine Arcade ~ 1 Comment

(estimated reading time: 1 hour, 36 minutes)

Squatters’ Bill of Claim

Just as Hart’s message to her had begun to unfold into fresh shoots thanks to the magic of its green ink, so too did the political situation in Pilgrim’s Anchor find itself ripped open by growing pains. In a single encounter much of what had been settled fact for decades was upended. Now waterlogged powers desperately patched leaks. Curious stowaway rats searched for new unintentional passages.

To the Founders Pursuitia never looked smaller. Their first instinct was to retract into the tortoise shell of Independence Hall. Papering over the exterior to a mad degree, the building now looked as if wagons had literally circled it with their canvas. No doubt they were furiously at work, perched over writing desks, forcing themselves to vomit up new corkscrew legal clauses that would extricate them from this perplexing bottleneck bind. Continue reading →

Twitch Stream Stories Redux #13: Cheeks, Permanently Rosy

~ Blaine Arcade ~ Leave a comment

These stories were written live on stream based on prompts provided by the viewers. They have been edited, with this second more in-depth edit occurring much later, but not meaningfully rewritten or expanded so as to preserve the spirit of the exercise. Sadly, the prompts themselves were not recorded until many stories in.  Sometimes the prompts were silly challenges, or quirky thoughts, or dark ideas, or utter nonsense.  I did my best each time.

If you enjoy this, please check out the other activities from the stream. If you would like something longer and much more thoroughly planned, simply investigate my more traditional work at the top of the page.

Cheeks, Permanently Rosy

prompt provided by DarkLordofSheep

Normally, all the lamps around the frozen grounds would be ablaze. Now, only the ones inside the workshop were lit, and their flames seemed weak and frightened. December was upon them, the night near-permanent, but that had never stopped them before. This year, this Christmas, was different. Two claimed the sled as their own now; the second was on his way.

Riddles the elf was hard at work alongside his kin, tiny fingers slaving over the last of the toys, stitching manes into hobby horses with black marble eyes the size of quail eggs. His own eyes darted back to the wardrobe in the corner of the workshop. That was where Santa kept his cloaks, but he only wore one of them around this time of year: the red one. He clung to it now especially with that bloated specter on the horizon. Continue reading →