Thursday, 14 March 2013

a dancing dwarf made me do this

Scrap Princess promised/threatened to send the dancing dwarf from twin peaks into my mind to get me to finish this. So this title actually does make sense.

Here are the first ten (of fifty) aesthetic cave qualities.


Dunewaves of desert stone. Sun-bright granular rock. Animal track patternings. Preserved fingertip skittles of insect feet. Prey and ancient predator converge, your pressed fingers trace the path.


A forest baked by ferocious motionless fire. Single black empty-tracery leaves spill from the decaying roof. Puff to charcol dust when they hit. Loud sounds dislodge whole abandoned trunks. The tree-trunks drift like leaves and shatter into weightless choking smoke, barbecue ash and coal-black enfolding mist.


Crippled death scars. Hate marks killing and crawling, black cuneiform scars. Exits are all 10 feet up or more. Walls and floor are stone but black and gouged with finger tears. Rock floor is pounded and hammered flat. A spray of eternal burning ash in a CSI bodyform lies twisted, wings broken.


Cathedral clavicle rocks and a linear nodular spine. Organic regularity. White sails in stone. The skull is somewhere, unless a crab got it. Deathwounds may be observed. Oreantation may be irregular depending how the Titan fell.


Delicate stones to hold the dead-squid-swirl. Embroideries of slate or anthracite gusts. It curls climbing overhead, centring on the embossed trunk and breaching adamant beak. Like a fucked-up sunset. The black ink beads and drips, to be released by blows.


Bone whales breach the dying stone as if in flight. Floors of car-sized scissor jaws and pulverised bone. Fist-sized fossilised orcateeth. A radiator-grill krill-comb. Exposed bones sing in grave cave winds. Low, slow songs that remind you of the sea. Sad and peaceful, weep and return one hit point.


A viscous sky-wash of oil, tainted ash and post-nuclear pigments in ravenwing spectra. Bomb rupture cycle marks. A ceiling bow of very particular black locked in eroded stone. We only see the outer lines. The centre is visual static


A fingernail can find the ridged steel under the oxidised scrape. The cave pitted cavity within a great and rusted sword. A blade edge cave. One steel wall between things. One exit a corroded gate of rust. A keen climb and a whining wind. A bright horizon, slender, silver and blood-sharp.


A cave of compounded clay. Washing to mud if a river runs through. The sunken library ruin of an ancient empires mind. The cave burrows through the compressed clay books. Walls are tablets shattered and squeezed, I-Pad-sized and pillow shaped. Time and blows loose chunks of ancient script, unreadable and falling into dust.


Slumped low snoozing calcite men like sleepers covered with a sheet. White and wet, running with vague pinks and discoloured sunset blues. Stalactites are victim shrouds, ankle-hung like bad tarot. Oozing pearly drops to birth their sleeping kin. (Chill, there are not dudes inside. It's chance and flowing stone.)

Does she even know how to call off the dwarf?