To begin, find a source of static. Static is everywhere. To look is to find.
The sanity wallpapering the world is thin and grows thinner every day. Everywhere there are little holes where order has broken down. So put an eye or ear to a hole and witness the storm gathering beyond. Turn the static up as loud as you can endure and listen.
The hive is listening back. The thing. The space in the middle. The forgotten. The overlooked. The nameless, constantly grasping towards a name and a shape. And above all, a home.
You might find you like static. You might find you like chaos. That means the hive is building its home in you.
[$0.99. Have posted some already. Might post more.]
A massive gray glacier, moving slowly while pulverising everything.
Every day, Jules felt the creeping pressure of the glacier. The soreness in his muscles after a soccer game took three days to fade instead of two. Every glance in the mirror revealed a new gray hair and a new line on his face. All of his faculties were in decline. He guessed his eyesight would be the first to go. Already, he was having trouble reading books, which was a shame, because the one he was working on was damned interesting.
He’d found the book at the library, a tiny volume of only ten pages. No title. No author. He’d taken it to the counter, only to be told that that it did not exist in the library’s system.
“Can I keep it?” He felt tugging pity for the little lost dog of a book.
“If you like.”
He’d opened it up on the bus and found that the volume’s slim length was still greatly deceiving. The majority of the pages were blank. Only one had writing on it.
It was just a single long run-on thought that smothered the page in dark ink.
A RIVER OF SILVER FISH, EACH WITH A MAN’S FACE. A MEADOW OF BLUEBELLS, SUMMER FLOWERING, WINTER CRYING. A PLACID SEA OF TOMORROW, FED BY A BABBLING STREAM OF YESTERDAY.
He struggled through the entire page, feeling like a man wading waist-deep through treacle. The words were very close together. It verged on being unreadable. Sometimes, his brain would mistakenly join two words together, like Siamese twins. Other times, his brain would mistakenly separate a single perfectly good word, like Solomon’s baby.
Then at the end of the page, the writing stopped abruptly, seemingly in the middle of a word.
A WAND AND A CUP OF PROVIDENCE, SPITTING AND EXTRUDING DAMNATI
Or did it really stop? Did the story continue somewhere else? He had page 1. Was there some other library, perhaps in this town, perhaps on another continent, that held page 2? And still another that had page 3?
The bus shuddered to a stop. Unease had settled over him like the shadow of a preying bird. Jules knew he was missing something. Something very obvious.
– Sample from “Book”