[New chapter upload by KC (aka me lmao); vote now to influence the story! Link in comments]
Wrapped in a womb of blackness, he quieted his breathing, waiting, straining his senses for any feedback. Hahn thought, for a moment, that he was back in one of those little cells around the arena, that perhaps the combatants would fight again, but when he lifted his hands there was only space. The space was heavy against him, the air oppressive, constricting his heart and lungs. It was hot and tasted of salt.
He moved blindly through the black sea of space, his feet shuffling over a surface of uneven stones. Groping hands found only more oppressive nothingness regardless of direction, and his heart hammered wildly in his chest. Hunter no longer, some primitive instinct informed him that he was the quarry now. Finding this situation unbearable, he gave a brash shout, preferring to face whatever stalked the darkness over this insufferable uncertainty.
It was the smallest sound that echoed back to him, so unexpected and frightening that it cut through the heat and chilled his bones.
“Papa?”
[New Story upload by @continuitydrift! Link below 👇]
The Harlequin leaps onto the stage
Those words, for Lucrezia, spelled disaster, death. As if the direction itself had killed him, misdirecting her famous father with a rug-pulled promise of landing on the boards. Yet also, those ink-faded words evoked all of the other times her father had jumped safely from landings to the stage, excepting the last. The sudden explosion of both blood and possibilities.
Lucrezia’s head hung upside down, her shoulders off the edge of the unmade bed, looking from the torn and tattered playbook to the tapestry floating on the inverted wall. These sorts of exercises, intentionally jolting focus from words on a page to a moving, attention-demanding background, were not only instinctual for her, but the continual training, honing, and improvement of them was also autonomic. Now, at this moment of the story, some deep part of the Harlequin knew that her constant regimen of unconscious training could cease, that the performance they had been rehearsing for would never come.
"Earl Sr. the Father" by @AnuraEnsemble was exhibited at @NFTFactoryParis last Saturday ✨
"Earl Sr. started the Anura Ensemble IP, a representation of a strong and capable American dad. A lover of bluegrass and baseball, Earl Sr never shirks his duty, but he might occasionally tell you to "rub some dirt in it". This piece was 100% hand-drawn and digitally colored by me."
🧑🎨 About the creator
"I'm KC, a stay-at-home mom in Indianapolis, and I run the Spindle project on Algorand. In addition to Spindle, I draw a collection of frog NFTs called Anura Ensemble. I want to bridge the gap between 1/1 and generative NFTs by making sure each frog is thematic and cohesive."
🔗 See NFT here
https://t.co/0JlMY1j5Mh
Digital Art Showcase by @AlgoFoundation & @EXA_Market
3 ad blocks (pictured) and 3 full page ads still available for the Q4 issue of Warp & Weft!
HMU if you wanna purchase one for your project, your favorite project, to share news, or as a general shout-out to the community 🍊🍊🍊🍊 I can design, if necessary!
25A for blocks, 50A for full pages, plus they make a great gift!
Alright Algopeeps and #WritingCommunity, today is 🔥Wednesday Writeday🔥 and I'll be on the Spindle Discord writing for about the next 4 hours.
Join me if you'd like to do some writing sprints, or just chat about writing!
If you have a story or comic idea, come talk to me about it!
I'm not sure if I'll be working on the next chapter of Oasis or an article for Medium, but I'll def be doing something.
If you're not on the @AsaSpindle Discord, link in my bio and the comments. All are welcome!
New Chapter upload by @continuitydrift! Vote now to influence the story!
The sword slid slowly out of Eph’s chest. Searing pain was followed by a groggy warmth, then a hyper-alertness, as if dust had been blown off his mental circuits. He heard his heartbeat, distinctly, four times, and could feel changes branching through his veins, bringing him back to himself, or the kind of person he would have been had his life not been steeped in terror and resentment.
“Eph!” Debria shouted. The crystals on her head were pulsing aqueous colors, matching the lights from Ladderfall’s screens, where they weren’t blood red with warnings. Words appeared, glitching into the air, lines from the epic poem, almost completed, morphing into a message.
'Eph. We can’t control the sands much longer. I wish I could say this is a decision, that there is a choice. It’s beyond that, now. You need to leave the ship.'
"They became famous for the exuberant ornamentation of their art--their love of masks within masks--and the theatrical stage effects employed in their rituals, incuing fake blood, trap doors and violent clown-police."
-Graeber and Wegrow, The Dawn of Everything
“We’re about to launch. We were waiting for you. We need to hurry.”
Eph and Debria looked at each other, then ran after the alien worm with a human head, down into the tunnel. They were quickly out of breath. “Sit down,” the head of Magnus Shin said, from between the four segmented claws. When they had, the drift sand started to fall away beneath them, while the roc worm disappeared, spinning like a drill bit. They slid, quickly and painlessly, down into the darkness.