Michael Scott Hand

picks up stones, says they are diamonds
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    • Defeating the Nemesis

      Posted at 9:20 am by Michael, on May 10, 2022

      Posted in Drawings | 0 Comments
    • Fire in the Streets

      Posted at 10:28 am by Michael, on May 9, 2022

      Posted in Drawings | 0 Comments
    • Incoming Notification

      Posted at 2:48 pm by Michael, on April 29, 2022

      Sphere Facility booting into existence…

      …

      Status Log: Event-X has occured.

      Monoliths Compromised: 5,486

      …

      Automated Actions: Containment Zone Established

      Area isolated, all contingencies in place.

      …

      Overall Sphere Status: 11% Dissonance

      Rebooting…

      Posted in Stories | 0 Comments
    • Rage

      Posted at 8:51 am by Michael, on April 21, 2022

      I rage.

      I rage so hard against the uncaring, ruthless universe.

      I bring to bear every weapon against it: I slash at it with knives and trigger vast cascading chains of atomic bombs.

      This is the quantity of my rage. This is the quantity of my multitudinous arms as I beat at the universe and the sound of my innumerable mouths as I scream at it.

      I am blood-soaked: freshly-birthed; freshly wounded.

      I am wild-eyed and frenzied, I am so angry.

      And we collide, again and again, me and the universe, the universe and me. We are soaked in each other, each wound I inflict on the universe I also inflict on myself.

      The pain only makes me more wild and, still, I rage.

      I rage.

      I rage so hard against the uncaring, ruthless universe until I break; I come apart.

      And yet even disembodied, still.

      How do I rage with no hands to strike with? How do I rage when I have no mouth with which to scream?

      I am the universe against which I rage and so, once again, I berate myself into existence.

      Punching, slashing, exploding, my rage is infinite.

      Posted in Philosophy | 0 Comments
    • The Light Beyond

      Posted at 8:20 am by Michael, on March 30, 2022
      Posted in Photographs | 0 Comments
    • The Man in the Doorway

      Posted at 8:53 am by Michael, on March 21, 2022
      Posted in Drawings | 0 Comments
    • A Boy’s Nightmare

      Posted at 9:44 am by Michael, on March 18, 2022

      That night I had nightmare about Old Pete and his leg and Papa saying “he’s a damn fool” and being served Old Pete’s steaming hot guts on a plate and Papa standing in the doorway lighting a cigarette, fire blazing white, and Papa saying “he’s a damn fool” and the fading of my yellow and Luce standing on the rocks and the waves crashing against the rocks and the wood breaking against the rocks and the broken bodies of the Raftmakers all strung up along the shore and the sound of the screams of the man stuck by the brambles and Luce sayin’ we’re going in and Papa standing in the doorway turning to me and saying “damn fool” and lighting a cigarette, fire blazing white.

      Posted in Stories | 0 Comments
    • Blue House

      Posted at 11:06 am by Michael, on March 17, 2022
      Posted in Drawings | 0 Comments
    • Sometimes I Go There

      Posted at 8:21 am by Michael, on February 23, 2022

      Sometimes she sees me,

      Staring into space,

      “Where are you?” she asks.

      I blink and I’m back. The TV is on. Some jingle is playing.

      Her question makes me wonder and so my thoughts rush back along those neural paths, following the intangible threads of electricity that comprise my consciousness; where was I?

      I know the simple answer, of course: I was in the Ulterkaad.

      Forever I have walked this sullen desert of ashes.

      There is sand beneath my shoes. The sand is grey. The sky above is grey. The clouds are grey. There is no sun or moon in this place, only a diffuse, insipid light that comes from nowhere and casts no shadows.

      I am standing now on a ledge of lumpy black rocks and staring down at the Pit. Sand trickles past my ankles and I know it is not just sand but the microscopic remains of long-dead sea creatures, land creatures, civilisations.

      Where am I?

      The Pit drowns out all questions and all sounds. It is silent and massive and it is consuming the desert. It is consuming everything. I stand on the rocks and I watch the sand pour into the pit.

      I can feel the pull of it, of course, it is an almost magnetic attraction, but the feeling does not concern me. I seem to have enough willpower to resist. But the sand has no willpower. Nor does the dead wood, or the rocks, or the ruins. Eventually, the Pit will claim them all.

      “Where are you?” asks a voice from far away.

      I do not remember accepting the role of the Craedus. In my youth I made many foolish pacts with devils and other powers besides. I cannot possibly remember them all.

      The Craedus is the Last Man in Existence, or, The One Who Watches The End.

      For all the time I have spent in this place, I have discerned one cosmic truth—there must always be an observer.

      No tree ever falls in the forest. But here: everything falls. Everything except me.

      I am standing at the End of Everything and I will watch it.

      Posted in Stories | 0 Comments
    • City Studies

      Posted at 7:46 am by Michael, on February 8, 2022
      Posted in Drawings | 0 Comments
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