Jack Frost The cold biting wind spreads Jack Frost's fingers over my window. The fire inside is desperately fighting to stop the cold at it's portal. Unwrapping myself from my blankets, walking waking, and warming. I start to the fuel, and with sudden gusto, I hastily feed the inferno. I feel it's searing warmth on my face, balanced by the cold nipping at my backside.
The wind now kicks up, it is pompous and does not like to be negated. It forcefully pushes on my window, and pulls away my warmth. Frantic to guard it, I begin to feed the fickle fire. But the cold, the cold is worse, vouchsafing only itself.
With a last effort, I enrage the flame, and it explodes forth, and the wind stops, beginning to creep back. But now I am burnt by my own hubris, the fire has become too hot, and has whisked it's burning soul too fast.
The fire slowly dies, and the wind is brought anew. It causes the
Jack In The Box: Ep 6 "What the fuck do you think you're doing son!? Dammit!" Jack watched as profanity and spittle exploded from his fathers mouth. Seconds before his father had barged into the room, catching his son running a password algorithm on a government database. Jack jumped and cut the program as fast as possible and turned around to face his father's beat red face which proceeded to scream hysterically at him.
"I'm taking your terminal away!"
Cold steel bit into Jack's heart, becoming hyper sensitive as adrenalin raced through his system.
"You can't do that!" Jack retaliated "It's my only chance of success. How am I supposed to get anywhere without a private computer?"
His father glared at him. "The only thing you'll succeed in, doing what you're doing now, is becoming the bitch of every slimebag in federal prison!"
Portal PoemsFour score and seven minutes ago
My cube was gone, I'm naught but woe
And in this box of me and sad
I know now, I'll never be GLaD
O mine box with perfect dimensions
Why hath deny my romantic intentions?
I'd like to cut free these hard wired tensions.
With gun in my hand
I do leaps and do jumps
Now throw up in air
From vertigo made lumps
These beans, these beans
These magically made fruit
I know not were they come from
But I eat, and I root.
I know not if the sea is boiling hot
Or if it is night or day
All I do now is sit on my porch
"Are you still there?"
I do not know anymore
Come now and gone by
Was my dear sweet Lenore
I guess now I shall bar the door
And stay here--
Quoth the Raven "Forevermore"
Welcome to the Aperture Science Enrichment Center
We take good things and make them better
But if you happen to break down and cry
On the floor you shall forever lie.
I have each portal
One orange, one blue
They can only be multiplied
HeftThere is a certain set of weight
Hence come forth from hell
The press and push of this large gait
Does take, cook, and tell
I surround myself with the demons
That set this weight on me
Them brought forth from my summons
And with them now I plea
"This oppression you have given me,
is to much for me to bear."
Like a dog I am now driven
But they only sit and stare
Not moving, or twitching, or thinking a thought
They look at me now, small as a dot
I kneel on the ground, clutching my head
Now on the floor, stone cold and dead.
Reunion The stick cut through the air in a short direct arc, striking the rough surface with single minded direction, a one track mind in a turbulent expansion. A small spark begins to grow, slowly at first but with rapid gain, growing frighteningly fast, greedily sucking in oxygen. Then, it explodes forth like a miniature sun, to suddenly die at a slight gust. The stick, now charred and disfigured, excretes slow, ugly smoke. It is thrown to the ground, and another is brought forth. Once more creating the miracle of fire, but shielded by a valiant hand, keeping the harsh, ravenous wind at bay. The match is brought up to another stick, seemingly made of paper and small leaves. The tobacco lights and glows cherry red as it is force fed oxygen from a mighty pull. The man holding the cigarette lets the smoke out, along with a long drawn out sigh. He takes a gloved hand and methodically taps the ash from the end of it. The man coughs, his breath still seems of sm
And The FourAnd there are four
Strewn on the Floor
And by The door
Lay crippled in
Their lack of vim
And weathered hands
These cubes of gray
Go day by day
Without a soul
No work of grand
Take heart and stand
Against the top
I've taken power
At random hour
And Ended them
For they are gone
No land or lawn
To weep the loss
And now I see
What has been wrought
By my own hands
Then do I take
These shards of glass
And end the tape?
And the four
Became a five
In crimson red
A Shattered PlaneJack stumbled backwards with fear in his eyes. The ringing in his ears ceased and the worlds muddled sound came creeping upon him. Jack groped his chest, his hand coming away hot and sticky. He looked at his hand, eyes zig-zagging across his palm, taking in every minute detail. It was covered in a deep beautiful red. He looked downward, only to see a crimson rose slowly blossoming across his breast. Jack had never really liked flowers. The fanciful irony of this filled Jack's mind. He fell to his knees, his eyes rolling into the back of his head, catching one final glimpse of his killer before plummeting to the floor, dead. The killer looked exactly like himself.
- - - -
Jack titled his head back in a fractal scream seeming to elongate into an infinite void lasting an eternity. Shooting himself had yielded unexpected results. Jack's mind fractured with the knowledge of infinite Jacks trapped in a Möbius loop through time and space. His screams gave way to the white frothing of a f