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Gates of the Mire

Samsa stepped out of the halls into the large foyer, watching his neighbors skitter up the webs of vines veiling the stone pillars. He examined his arms, little sticks wrapped in a pale sheet, and thought the task impossible. He kept watching the men and women hoist themselves further and further up the veins like little spiders of assorted colors. He approached the vines on one of the pillars and coiled his fingers around a pair, giving them a tug. He saw them as thick, green bars blocking his way while his feet remained hopelessly rooted on the ground. He scoffed, tightened his grip on the vines, and didn't hesitate a moment longer.

He snatched every inch of the vine in his calloused grip, carrying himself up the green bars with his feet marching up the pillar. His body moved steadily upward, his feet stomping on the stone like a beastly ogre, huffing and grunting in his ascension. In short, steady time the second floor was in sight, but the ebony railing tracing its edge was behind him(or rather below him) as quickly as he had found it; Samsa was not yet through, and neither were his twiggy, frail arms. He found more resilience in his bones than he had ever thought possible as he continued to choke the vines with his spindly fingers. The vine writhed as Samsa wrung it in his wide palms, but it never swung out of his control, nor did Samsa grant the mercy of snapping it. He continued choking the vine all the way up to the third floor.

Samsa swung himself over the dark railing, having ascended to the third floor. The women in orange and purple accompanied him, attempting to bring down a large stone slab. The entrance blocked their way, and Samsa was in no mood to be blocked any longer. The one in purple was fragile and scrawny, much like him, caressing the limp vine in her hand like a piece of string. The one in orange held it similarly, gripping but not pulling. He could taste the cool air in his lungs and feel the living earth underneath his soles, and yet the stagnant, musty air still filled him, and he still stood o the chiseled stone of a prison. He could bear it no longer. Samsa hurried over, snatched one end of the vine, and shot the ladies an imploring, pleading look. He had to leave.

Speaking of Orange Julius

Et tu, Fruite?

Gates of the Mire

Samsa arrived into the larger chamber, still entranced. Every moment in the mysterious place highlighted more evidence that he was no longer in a dungeon. The ease with which he walked revealed his lack of shackles, and strangers and wildlife replaced the presence of guards. He looked down at his new, harrowing garb, the tunic and trousers of an unholy mendicant. Many times he turned over his shoulder, waiting for guards to snatch him by his skinny arms, beat him into sobbing submission, and toss him into his cell. With each ginger step on the cold, wet stone, however, he began to believe in his freedom.

He stared blankly at the stranger speaking as she attempted to climb her way out. Feeling confident, he thought he might give it a try after seeing how she fares. For the time being, he looked about at his company, all dressed in strangely monochromatic garb. He didn't give them much more attention, and he moved to the entrances to the hallways and peered into each of them briefly, paying careful attention to the symbols above each doorway. He knew they were faded, and that's precisely why he looked at them closer, but the images never became clearer, no matter how close he looked.

Visiting each hallway, he found each one looked exactly the same as the one he awoke in. Black, tomb-like pods, both open and closed, with a dilapidated statue at its end. His anxiety grew after each hallway, and he began to spend less and less time examining each hallway. How many more of them were there? More importantly, where did they go?

Gates of the Mire

Samsa fell to his knees in the tainted water. Did my cell flood in my sleep? he thought, stirring the water underneath him with his hand. When he picked up his head, he found he was not in his prison any longer. Standing up, he peered to the left and right to see others around him, seeming to have burst forth from black pods. He looked up and around, scanning the pod he stood beneath, and realized that he had arrived the same way.

He stepped out into the hallway, his bare feet splashing in the water, finding a lengthy strip of a stone hallway, not unlike his prison. This place is flooded, he thought, which means I must be underground. He concluded that he must have moved somewhere, unless the entire city was sunken one hundred and fifty feet below the sea, a sea which he was not held anywhere near. He inhaled the rancid odor which filled the place; there were no windows here either. As he cautiously trudged further into the hallway, a drop of water dripped into his eye. Reflexively looking down, he found his age worn prisoner's rags were gone. In their stead, Samsa was dressed in a matching, ominously dark top and bottom. The top was loose, open, and sleeveless, while the bottom was ruggedly cut above his ankles, which was convenient for the situation at hand.

Cheap and thin material though it was, it was new and refreshing. The black color was clear and solid, not faded by ages of wear, and contrasted with his pasty skin. It summoned images of his surreal journey in the darkness. He was reminded of his mother's beads, which he no longer had dangling in front of his chest. He thought, therefore, that it must have been a dream, and someone had relocated him in his sleep... and dressed him.

A crumbled statue at the end of the hallway attracted his eye. He waded through the water, not noticing the others in the hallway, to observe it more closely. He found the upper body collapsed on the floor, while only the figure's legs remain standing. He ran his hands over it and certainly looked it over thoroughly to discover who the statue was supposed to represent, but a lifetime in prison provides little knowledge of the outside world. The figure's name would likely be of no use to him.

Hey everyone, look at this dumb person

Jorick said
Except I'm not because I'm just giving Holmes shit rather than actually bothering to attempt to clean up the filth than now infests Spam. Big difference there, bro.

jorick can never do what someone else asks him because he's cool and edgy and always has his own reasons for doing things

everyone like jorick

Americhronism [Medieval Post Apocalypse]

Going to have a post up tonight sometime.

This wedding thing has lasted long enough, I think. Much longer than I would have liked, actually. Many of you are wrapping up or have wrapped up what you had to, so it's only going to be another few IC posts, one of them being the last major development at this wedding. It's time I got you guys starting on what the Fates have planned for you.

This thread is make spam new

Kill Bones said
See you resent me for demonstrating my superior argumentative abilities, but you should not fall victim to such base human instinctsAccept the radicalJust fucking say itYou love it

cool

This thread is make spam new

Kill Bones said
Yeah but if you're going to drive a point home you can't just repeat such a simple and boring word like coolThat's lameYou have to really reach for itI personallyBeing quite obviously the most superiorest writing professionalist human man on this siteWould have gone with a real attention grabberLike 'Radical'Radical is such a fucking radical wordLike just say it aloudRadicalOr maybeTubularYeah

cool

This thread is make spam new

Elendra said
cool

That's called "thematic consistency" and "repetition"

uhhhhhhhhhhhhh i write on such a deep level uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh i'm so cool and deep and insightful uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

This thread is make spam new

Lucian said
Good point. I guess I have no room to talk in this regard. Which is good, because I didn't intend for this argument to happen in the first place. Are we all still cool or whatever, or do I have to strip for you or something?

No.

I'm firmly of the mind that I'm not someone to listen to, and that Spam isn't something that one should have to listen to someone about, but here's something I think needs to be established.

Spam's not a place that needs policing. Do you know when Spam was cool, popular, and funny? When no one tried to be cool, popular, and funny. I've come to know a lot about who those cool, popular, and funny people were in the past several months on a pretty close level, and, lo and behold, they don't act like they're cool, popular, or funny. You're having fun and chatting with people, not networking or brown nosing. You don't need to greet people, defend people, or push all the fake sex shit (see above) to have fun here. Just slack your shoulders. When everyone mellows out, suddenly everyone's a popular kid in Spam. Mods don't have to step in when everyone just has fun; no one gets in fights or starts flinging shit at anyone else when everyone just has fun. Anyone remember being Fonz cool? Be Fonz cool, guys. Everyone's a cool kid in Spam when everyone's a Fonz cool kid.

Now we're cool.