AlexB

Writer 📜

Sui Generis (English Edition)

(Amazon)

(Play Books)

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

My short story Sui Generis is available on Amazon https://t.co/NUiPAdqCW3.

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

In the heart of the cosmic abyss, where colossal gears of creation clash against the gossamer veil of ether, Omphalos pulses as the eternal navel of all being—a mesmerizing entity that blurs the line between ancient machine and veiled deity, perhaps hammered from the fiery anvil of quantum chaos or breathed into form by the murmuring shadows of long-lost gods.

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

They revered fear as something holy, feasting upon the luminous core of soul, feeding an ever-growing entity. The sacrificial rite was perpetual, ever-expanding, and forever heart-breaking.

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

Glimmers from within suggested an anatomy unlike anything known on Earth. Thousands of eyes were drawn to the cocoon, attempting to decipher its secrets, yet no one could provide a clear explanation of what transpired inside. The innards stirred restlessly in intricate patterns, reminiscent of marine creatures gliding through the ocean’s depths. Pulsating rhythmically, they produced a sound that echoed a heartbeat mixed with the haunting song of a whale, creating soothing, hypnotic vibrations that enveloped the ruins. In this moment, peace and tranquility reigned over Terra Obscura.

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

Sleep came in fragments, haunted by dreams of ascent. In them, he climbed not with ropes or jets, but with hands that bled into the stone, merging flesh with regolith until he became the slope itself—eternal, eroded, empty. He woke to an alert: proximity warning. His suit's external cam showed nothing but dust devils pirouetting in the rover's beams. Paranoia, he logged. Solitude's tax. But as he suited up for the morning traverse, the wind carried a new note—a low moan, resonant, like the mountain exhaling.

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

The shore stretched before us, a jagged mosaic of rocks draped in bizarre, colorful moss - crimson, mustard yellow, and deep purple - snaking through cracks and blanketing the ground. Beyond the bank, the terrain softened slightly but remained unforgiving: bare stone strata punctuated by sparse islands of scrubby bushes and stunted trees.

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

Back home, I shed my weathered jacket like a second skin and resolved to waste no time. No deliberation, no fuss—I’d play everything, one record after another. The remnants of last night’s wine sloshed into a glass, and I uncorked a fresh bottle, its sharp pop a prelude to the evening. I sank into my armchair, the fabric groaning under my weight, and let the needle drop.

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

The grand narrative couldn’t stop. The ever oiled gears kept on rolling regardless and it gave hope, that even the stalest waters shall move on at some point, giving way to the new.

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

The ice pillars of the frozen plane were everywhere, reminding Han of ancient cities, of complexity.

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

Illian studied him for a moment, surprised by the depth of his words. This wasn’t just some wandering youth—there was a fire in him, an insight Illian hadn’t expected. “You’re right,” Illian finally said. “Life has a stubborn way of surviving, even in the harshest places. It shows us that existence has a plan, a rhythm of its own. But I’m not sure we’re still part of that plan.

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

ZigZag ran 24/7, a glitch in the system’s perfect grid. Plugged yet unplugged, it ran a local net—games the high algorithms didn’t sanction. A tolerated oddity, maybe even designed to keep us pacified. I didn’t care. Inside, the air buzzed with synthetic beats and the tang of illicit chems.

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

Stories spoke of others who had crossed to the other side long ago, but those celebrating the crossing day here on the shore didn’t dwell on these tales. They believed in their own experience, knowing they had to live this life for themselves. Living through the eyes of their ancestors was not enough; it lacked meaning.

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

I stood in a chamber that defied the temple's exterior promise. The walls curved inward like the petals of a colossal flower, etched with symbols that shifted as I gazed upon them—runes that might have been circuits, or veins, or the maps of long-extinct galaxies.

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

A shadow fell across the water, not his own, but another's—a figure on the opposite bank, mirroring his pose, cigarette glowing like a twin ember. For an instant, their eyes met across the divide, two strangers bound by the invisible thread of recognition. Joy? Loneliness? Or the infinite joke of it all, two souls leaning into the same void, perceiving in each other the map they could never draw alone?

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

As the sun began its descent, it painted the Valley with vibrant strokes of red, orange, and pink, bringing it to life in a spectacle of color. The once quiet landscape now pulsed with energy; the air filled with the symphony of chirps, howls, and roars echoing from every corner. For the first time, the Valley truly seemed to awaken, its every breath visible in the lush, vivid tapestry of the evening light.

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

We erect monuments to defy the void—pyramids piercing the sky, symphonies echoing through centuries, codes etched into silicon that whisper of immortality. We tell ourselves stories: of afterlives gilded in light, of reincarnations spun like threads in a grand tapestry, of digital souls uploaded to evade the flesh's decay. These are our talismans against the terror, fragile shields hammered from hope and hubris. But deep down, the anxiety persists, a subterranean current that erodes our certainties. It whispers in the quiet hours, when the world's clamor fades: What if the end is not a door, but a wall? What if our frantic measuring is merely a distraction, a way to fill the silence before the inevitable hush?

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

A frantic storm broke over the Valley, lashing the ridges and drowning the low paths in sudden water. That was the night we met our seventh walker.He was bald, nameless, skin pale as old bone beneath the rain. He said he had been walking for a long time—how long, he could no longer recall. The beginning had slipped from memory like a stone dropped into deep current. He spoke little. So did we. No one pressed the matter.What drew every eye were the tattoos: a dense web of fine lines that encircled arms, torso, neck, and legs in quiet, unhurried spirals. They seemed less inscribed than revealed—as though the Valley itself had drawn them there over centuries, and the man merely carried the map.

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

The fragile pump of the human heart, trembling before this boundless mechanism that cradles the past, commands the present, and unspools the threads of what may yet come undone.

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

Exhale, and you'd shed your own, scattering them for others to catch. It was intimacy without intimacy, love without the lacerations of flesh. The philosophers called it "the democracy of the soul"; the engineers, a phase transition in collective cognition. I called it theft.

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

Illian reached out and touched the ancient structures, and as he did, he saw their histories unfurl before him—worlds brimming with life, with complexity, death, and boundless novelty. Some of these worlds still existed, and he wondered what they looked like now. Were they still thriving with life, or had they become barren and desolate?

[AlexB @MrAlexKidd]

Once, in the fevered nights of his youth, he had believed in the road as salvation, in the hitchhiker's thumb raised like a defiant prayer to the hitchhiking gods of thumb and asphalt. He had roared across continents in stolen cars, the engine's growl a jazz riff against the infinite blacktop, Kerouac's wild yea-saying pulsing in his veins like bad whiskey. But the road had betrayed him, as roads do: it looped back on itself, a Möbius strip of tar and regret, leaving him here, in this bed that smelled of mildew and missed opportunities.