Deus ex machina

2010-01-18T14:47:00.001-08:00

“god from the machine”

“A plot device where a previously intractable problem is suddenly and abruptly solved, usually with the contrived introduction of either characters, abilities, or objects not mentioned before within the storyline. It is generally considered to be a poor storytelling technique because it undermines the story's internal logic.” [source: Wikipedia]

Can you believe that rubbish?! This is what I’ve been reduced to, if the critics are to be believed. I only exist to compensate for poor writing. You are to believe that if the writing is really good, then I’ve had the day off. My services just weren’t needed you see, thank you for coming, but this machine – this story – is godless.

Truth be told, my most powerful work is manifested in the real masterpiece stories. The classics. Writers don’t end up creating brilliance by accident, or, as they’d have you to believe, through their prodigious talent. They get where they’re going through my blood, sweat, and tears, as I lead them to where it is they need to go. Contrived characters? Crap solutions? Those aren’t mine. No, those are the results of one of these “writers” trying to pretend they actually have the aforementioned talent. “Oh, this will be really clever,” they say. Those moments of “inspiration” have become the bane of my existence, as I am the one inevitably shouldering the blame for their stupidity.

“Look at that, that doesn’t make any sense, where’d that come from…deus ex machina!”

No. Sorry. Uh uh. Not happening.

Generally speaking, I’m a kind and benevolent god, but even my patience has limits. With that in mind, I am officially declaring an end to accepting credit for writer error, and unfortunately, the only comprehensive way to do this is to strike a writer down at the moment they commit the offense – nay – the moment they first conceive the offense in their mind.

How can I do such a thing, you might ask. Why, with my laser-beam vision of course.

The Machine

2010-01-11T04:54:00.001-08:00

She and a handful of other prisoners were marched down “the row”, as they’d come to call it, not saying a word. She’d known her time was coming. Eventually “they” came for them all.

Their captors.

Their overlords.

So superior.

They never so much as spoke to the prisoners. They possessed such a casual indifference that it chilled her to the bone, though she didn’t display the slightest hint of weakness. To crack now accomplished nothing. According to rumor, somebody always cracked, but where did such rumors originate? Nobody had ever returned. Likely the rumors came out of the underlying fear that penetrated every aspect of prison life, like a scent that gets into your clothes that is nearly impossible to get out.

As she pondered this, an inmate three positions up made a break for it. With startling efficiency the guard subdued and removed her, hauling her off to her fate. This merely reinforced the resolve and the composure, as to attempt escape merely expedited the process.

Closer now.

It’s hard to suppress the panic that threatens to well up and override her sense of control. Slowly, they enter a vast room, in which they are herded into a small containment room, and like a death knell, the door closes with a loud reverberating clang behind them. There is to be no escape today.

At this point, panic gives way to complete and utter defeat. This will be no close shave. There will be no pardon. These are to be the last moments of her life, and what dismal moments they are.

The industrial gray paint.

The heavy-duty containment fence.

A sense of terror threatens to arise anew as the process of putting inmates in “the machine” begins. Even more mysterious than rumors of inmates cracking on the row was the scant rumors about the machine. It was everything one could imagine of cruelty, terror, pain, and ultimately death…all rumored to be far worse than even the most vivid imagination could surmise.

Inmates go in, remains come out.

And screams.

Everybody screams in the end.

It’s in this nightmarish haze that she suddenly finds herself being taken by the guard. Her terror is so absolute that she is utterly frozen. Her prior choice to maintain silence is no longer a choice at all. The ability to speak is no longer hers to control. In this absolute loss, she cannot imagine whispering, much less screaming.

Everybody screams in the end.

This repetitive thought only serves to increase her terror ten-fold. She is still aware of everything. In fact, the process is quite vivid, but from the outside, she is borderline catatonic. Not that the guards care. She is taken across the threshold of the chamber door, and still sound will not come.

Now, a confusion sets in that only serves to amplify her feeling of horror. What, exactly, is she looking at here? Already some of the other inmates are dangling from a great steel shaft by leg irons, a fate which she is clearly destined for herself, but for what purpose?

Everybody screams in the end.

She’s on the verge of passing out from terror as they shackle her, upside down, first one leg, then the other. In a cruel twist, the blood rushing to her head serves to keep her conscious for whatever is to come.

The shackles are snug, and not wholly uncomfortable, but it’s readily apparent that they were designed to hold on, and whatever happens in here, they seem inordinately clean, given the rumors that circulate about this place. On further inspection of her surroundings, it’s all unusually clean. To what purpose, she does not know, but the highly unusual nature of the place serves to boost her heart rate still further.

At some point she becomes aware that the chamber door is closing, the guard has retreated, and every set of shackles is full. The second death knell tolls, and she notices that the chamber door seals very well, almost becoming indistinguishable with the walls of this place. The silence is deafening as the fear-induced paralysis continues consuming the inmates.

Outside the chamber, an engine rumbles to life.

As if designed specifically to wake coma patients, a loud clunk accompanied by a nausea-inducing shudder that runs the entire length of the shaft breaks the strangle-hold of terror. Suddenly everybody is talking at once. What’s going on? What’s happening?

Almost imperceptibly at first, the shaft begins to rotate. The chatter increases. What can this possibly mean?

As the rotation slowly increases, a horrifying realization begins to dawn in the minds of the inmates. Another clunk, another sickening vibration, and a dramatic increase in speed.

The talking is now yelling as the sound of the engine increases and the shaft speed hits a point where the inmates now maintain their position projecting outward from the core.

One more clunk, one more shudder, and another burst of speed.

The screams begin, originating from their very souls. Legs held firmly in place, the sheer velocity of their rotation is, they now fully know, going to physically rip them apart. This is to be their end.

One final clunk, one final shudder, one final burst of speed, all unnoticed by those being subjected to it.

Finally, nothingness.

The remains are summarily cleaned from the chamber, processed, and shipped out to the food industry as “mechanically separated chicken”.

---

A quick note about this little tale. My initial thoughts about mechanically separated chicken were in a much more humorous Chicken Run sort of vein, but I thought, what if this took on a darker and more ominous tone. Also, I have no idea what mechanically separated chicken actually means, and I highly doubt this is in fact the method used.

Welcome to Fictional Oddities

2010-01-11T02:30:00.001-08:00

The intent of this blog is to be an outlet for little creative writing projects – everything from short blurbs to short stories (not likely anything novel-length). If you happen to read this, I do hope you enjoy!

Quick disclaimer: I’m really not sure just how frequent postings will be. I’ve never done anything like this before.