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Waking up in the Necropolis Gully
BK began her precarious descent into the Necropolis Gully, a name lost to a small number of archaeologists and rogue explorers. The crevice itself was a scar on the ancient landscape, a vast, yawning chasm that plummeted into the planet’s geological memory. As she rappelled down the sheer, moss-slicked wall, the air grew thick with the smell of damp earth and mineral deposits, a primal scent that felt undisturbed for millennia.
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Strapped in an Alien Cocoon
The air... where is the air? The room is sucking it out. It’s blue. It’s cold. It’s the color of drowning.
No... no, no, no. Don't touch me! Get it off! The linen... it’s shrinking! It’s sewing my skin together! I can’t... I can’t expand my chest!
WAKE UP! MOVE! DAMN IT, MOVE! My hands! They’ve cut off my hands! Why can’t I reach the glass?! SOMEBODY HELP ME!
Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. It’s tight. It’s a snake. It’s crushing my ribs. Tastes like copper... tastes like blood.
BREAK! SHATTER! Why is there no sound?! I’m screaming my throat raw but the silence is eating me alive! BK! KATCHA!
No! Don’t sleep! The needle... the ice! It’s killing the pilot! If I close my eyes, I unspool! I fall apart! Stay awake, you coward! STAY AWAKE!
Spinning. Everything is spinning. The floor is gone. The gravity is wrong. I’m falling up! I’m falling into the black hole!
LIES! That’s not real! That’s a ghost! My mind is snapping! I’m looking at a memory but I’m standing in a grave!
Please... not like this. Not in a box. I don’t want to be a mummy. I don’t want to be nothing. I’m forgetting my name... I’m forgetting...
It’s a tomb. It’s a stone tomb. And the lid is sealed. Nobody is coming. Nobody is coming.
Heart is a bomb. Tick... tick... BOOM. It’s going to burst! My chest is ripping open! MAKE IT STOP!
God... help me.
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My shattering realisation
The dawn of this terrifying truth is not a gentle sunrise, but a violent, shattering realisation: my shadow self, once conveniently relegated to the realm of irrational fear and dismissed as a mere psychological byproduct, is in fact the undeniable and primary guide. It is the compass that points not towards conventional success, but towards annihilation, finding its ultimate freedom and profound release in the glorious, absolute failure of all mission. My carefully constructed edifice of logic, once believed to be my strength, now reveals itself as nothing more than a confining cage, a futile attempt to imprison this primal, unyielding desire for transformation, a desire so potent it even embraces the ultimate reduction to dust.
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1005 Government Street
Ocean Springs Mississippi
Photo taken on February 28, 2023
Making a fine art photo of an art gallery could be considered metaart. Art about art. The structure that houses art is a piece of art itself. Especially early in the morning before the patrons arrive, before the sidewalks are full of passerbyers. Notice how the lines in the sidewalk lead your eye right up to the white picket fence that surrounds the porch. Notice how the sky has started its daily ritual of darkness to lightness. Notice the street light that beams down on the little shop making it the object of the photo. Notice how amazing a scene at night appears so different to what we see in the daytime.
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The Anomaly sits adjacent to the Necropolis Corridor
The deep space anomaly, a fascinating and perilous phenomenon, lies in close proximity to the entrance of the Necropolis Corridor, an area characterised by its "dense fields of derelict spaceship hulls and temporal distortions." This corridor serves as a haunting reminder of past explorations, where countless vessels have succumbed to the overwhelming dangers of the cosmos.
Navigating through this region is not for the faint of heart. Extreme navigational hazards abound, including unpredictable rogue asteroids that drift through the void, seemingly appearing out of nowhere to threaten unsuspecting travellers. These asteroids, remnants of bygone interstellar voyages, can collide with a spacecraft in an instant, making careful navigation essential.
Additionally, the area is plagued by severe energy fluctuations, which can disrupt both the functionality of onboard systems and the stability of any warp drives. These fluctuations may create unusual spatiotemporal anomalies that can warp time and space, causing vessels to follow unpredictable trajectories. As a result, pilots must rely on their instincts and experience, often utilising advanced sensory technologies to detect anomalies before they become hazardous.
The combination of these treacherous conditions not only makes this route one of the most challenging in space travel but also invites curiosity and exploration. The deep space anomaly itself, with its mysterious properties and potential secrets, draws the attention of scientists and adventurers alike, who are eager to uncover what lies within the depths of this complex and treacherous environment.
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The Twelve Loops of Goodbye - Stoic in Zero Gravity.
The Data-Possession. You’re coming back wrong! Ghostly glyphs are phasing over your face. Like a ritual mask. "Lines of code flow like linen strips"... wrapping you. Binding you. Just like they’re binding me! Your goggles rotate. You aren't looking at me anymore. You’re looking at the void.
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The Subi, our resilient relic of pre-Collapse Jump engineering, embarked on its perilous ballet through the Necropolis Corridor, a cosmic artery ominously known as a back scar. This was no mere route; it was an unpredictable tapestry woven at the very edge of the Kelpian Expanse. Yet, even amidst its dangers, the scar unfurled a breathtaking vista, a mesmerising spectacle of light and energy, as if the cosmos itself had been painted with the broad, luminous strokes of a divine artist.
This paradoxical beauty manifested in swirling streams of brilliant blue and fiery orange/gold energy, cutting vivid ribbons through the velvet blackness. These vibrant, intense flows, however, were not without their peril, for they were the very energy fluctuations known to whisper chaos into sensors and sing static into drive systems. Yet, despite the inherent danger, the raw, elemental power rendered a "black scar across the vast space," possessing a terrible grandeur all its own. We were instructed to "follow the faint energy signature trail," which now, visually, seemed to be these very beautiful, yet treacherous, currents. The Corridor also "winds through several graveyard nebulae," a description that evokes a haunting beauty, like cosmic mists tenderly enshrouding silent, ancient tombs. It was a "ribbon of forgotten tech" that conjured "ghost stories of the Dead Zones." Amidst this ethereal dance, other vessels, like spectral dancers, were discernible, navigating these swirling patterns.
A profound wonder bloomed within us: why such a throng of traffic on this detour route? We were on a "Restricted Detour Authorised" mission, a rare "Level Gamma-7" clearance specifically for this audacious journey. The Necropolis Corridor was explicitly described as a dominion of "extreme navigational hazards," a realm teeming with "dense fields of derelict ship hulls, rogue asteroids, pockets of temporal distortion, and severe energy fluctuations." It demanded "extreme caution," a "significantly reduced speed," and "active sensor sweeps mandatory." Our solitary journey through this cosmic labyrinth was estimated to consume "5-7 Standard Cycles". Due to the high volume of traffic, it will likely take twice as long. Praise be the divine master artist - we brought along the brass monkey.
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The revival protocol is complete
The revival protocol is complete, rebooting my biology. The GRIP holds me, a psychical pressure of my magnified self, exposed by the anomaly. Here, I meet a reflection of myself with crimson eyes, the colour of cosmic decay. It projects, "You see the beauty, don't you? The flawless logic of a 45 per cent probability was never about survival. It was about the sublime perfection of this…unmaking."
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The Twelve Loops of Goodbye Hindsight
It’s fracturing! "Chromatic aberration" tears you apart. The colours are screaming. Red. Violet. Static. I see your hand twitch—fingers flexing—reaching for me! But "soundless shockwaves" push us apart. I am panicking. My mind is a "relentless tempest." I am losing the signal!
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The Metallic Bloom
The Metallic Bloom: An abstract, psychological portrait. JB’s silhouette is central, trapped in the weave. Radiating out from the back of his throat/head is a "blooming" explosion of metallic textures—silver, copper, and iron shards—representing the panic that tastes like metal. It is violent, primal, and absolute, taking over the visual field.
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The Anomaly engulfs me
I take a deep, shuddering breath. My desperate push against the rising tide of panic. My lungs burn, my chest tightens, but my internal din intensifies. A surge of fire shoots through my veins, every muscle coiling, screaming to lash out, to push forward. Then, an undertow of ice. A violent recoil. The desperate, animal urge to shrink, to break away, to simply not be here. My gaze turns inward, exhausted by the relentless war of impulses. A terrible clarity dawns: the real danger isn't the storm outside. Every moment lost in this internal maelstrom is a moment lost to survival. My mind, caught between the lunge and the retreat, is tearing me apart.
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The Shuddering Breath. This is the one that breaks me. Total stillness. Then... a faint mist forms at your mouth. Condensation beads on the goggles. I scream at you to breathe! Just breathe! But it’s slow. Irregular. It’s a "slow horror." I watch the condensation slide down in zero gravity. I try to wipe it away
Look away
This experience feels like the precise opposite of growth; it is a forced devolution. My accumulated intellectual architecture is being made redundant, supplanted by this instantaneous, unearned 'knowledge.' The deep, satisfying process of intellectual assembly—hypothesis, experimentation, critique, synthesis—is being rendered moot.
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Unspooling my identity
The world has contracted to the terrifying, singular inch directly before me. I can feel the synthetic nanoweave's cold, efficient hum and the binding material pressing against my temple, unwinding me. The aged electronic linen-like threads scratch, and I am consumed by confusion.
My eyes are forcibly locked open, demanding a conscious effort to blink, as I stare into the mechanism. The reflection on the closing shutter reveals my own pupil, dilated wide with sheer terror—a black void. As the pressure finally tightens and locks against my skull, I sense a thread snapping deep within my mind. It’s more than the pod sealing; it’s my disintegration. Everything, my history, my name, my very instincts, is rapidly unspooling, unraveling into the darkness as the machine encloses me.
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Necropolis Gully Fertility as stone
The only sound in the deep quiet of the crevice was the crunch of my boots on the debris-strewn ground. Towering stone walls, draped in vibrant green moss, rose on either side, making me feel like an intruder in a forgotten tomb. My matte-black suit, a product of a future this place could never have imagined, felt profane against the ancient rock.
Then I saw it: a weathered, silent figure standing in the path. It was a statue of a woman, carved from the same stone as the gully but shaped with clear intent. Moss crept up its base and clung to its form like a second skin. This impossible artifact, an architectural anomaly in this raw, natural fissure, stopped me. My steady, determined posture belied the storm of questions raging in my mind. The statue stared forward with blank, unseeing eyes, a silent witness to a history I had just stumbled into. My mission was to find my crew, but this place, this silent, stone woman, was a new, unexpected variable in an equation I couldn't begin to solve.
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The Anomaly hides in the vastness of deep space
The vastness of deep space hides the Anomaly. It is akin to "finding a needle in an impossibly vast, cosmic haystack" due to its elusive nature and location. The Anomaly, an enigma of immense proportions, is concealed within the unfathomable depths of deep space. Its elusive nature and precise location render it comparable to "finding a needle in an impossibly vast, cosmic haystack." This metaphorical comparison highlights the extreme difficulty, if not the near impossibility, of pinpointing its whereabouts amidst the vast expanse of the cosmos. Pirates, military personnel, and explorers have long grappled with the challenge of deciphering and penetrating this profound mystery, which continues to defy conventional understanding and observation. The very existence of the Anomaly challenges current astrophysical models, suggesting the presence of phenomena or structures that lie far beyond our current comprehension. Its hidden state implies either an intrinsic property of its being, a defence mechanism, or perhaps a natural consequence of its unique composition and interactions with the fabric of spacetime. The desire to enter the Anomaly remains a driving force for interstellar exploration, which promises revelations that could fundamentally alter humanity's perception of the universe.
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The Data-Possession. You’re coming back wrong! Ghostly glyphs are phasing over your face. Like a ritual mask. "Lines of code flow like linen strips"... wrapping you. Binding you. Just like they’re binding me! Your goggles rotate. You aren't looking at me anymore. You’re looking at the void. This is the fear
A surreal cyberpunk oasis awaits at the Rumour Mill Stopover. Embrace a Pre-Raphaelite dream amidst radiant filaments and burnished brass, crafted for the space-weary soul.
Picture yourself with a golden chalice, its aromatic steam rising. Here, coffee is an elevated art, an alchemical ritual amidst gleaming pipes and intricate distillers. Engage in the meticulous process, transforming brewing into spiritual contemplation. This isn't just a cafe, but a sanctuary. Cutting-edge practices blend with ancient rituals, offering cosmic travellers a profound, rejuvenating moment. Amidst the cold void, discover a place of refined indulgence and reconnection.
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The Situation - A Tempest’s Reflection
JB, a spaceship pilot, has been placed into a cryo cocoon to revive and transform his life essence. Inside the cocoon, he experiences his mind as a "relentless tempest of clashing thoughts, swirling and churning, mirroring the furious chaos outside of the machine." JB also sees his older self trapped in the same transitory state.
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The Anomaly is sentient
In the silent, unending expanse of deep space, a cosmic anomaly exists that defies conventional understanding. It is not a place one can simply travel to, but a state of being that occupies a vast region of space. From a distance, it appears as a cosmic bruise of impossible colours—deep violets and shimmering emeralds, laced with filaments of gold. It is a nebula of light and gas, but one that seems to hum with a silent, attentive energy.
Within this living nebula, the laws of physics as we know them begin to fray. The profound reality here is not one of stars and planets, but of a singular, vast consciousness. This is not the mind of a creature contained within a body, but a consciousness that *is* the anomaly itself. Every mote of dust, every wisp of ionised gas, is a neuron in a brain the size of a solar system.
To encounter this anomaly is to brush against a mind of unimaginable scale and alienage. It does not think in words or even in concepts that a human mind could grasp. Its thoughts are the slow, deliberate dance of galaxies, the birth and death of stars replayed as fleeting emotions. It holds memories of suns that never burned and planets that never formed, for its reality is not a reflection of our universe, but a universe unto itself.
This consciousness may be a "Boltzmann Brain," a self-aware entity that has spontaneously coalesced from the chaos of the void, complete with the illusion of a past that never happened. It may be dreaming of our universe, and we, in turn, are but a fleeting thought in its cosmic mind. To be within the anomaly is to be adrift in its senses, to feel the silent, ancient, and lonely existence of a being whose every particle is a thought, and whose every thought is a universe.
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The Cosmos Room
Rumour Mill Stopover Station
Function: Billed as a "stop and revive" sanctuary, offering "respite and rejuvenation during cosmic journeys." It serves as a hub for "caffeine and herbal revitalizers" and ship services.
Aesthetic and Experience: It's a "dreamlike haven" with "soft, ethereal light" and "intricately detailed and ornate walls," blending "retro-futuristic aesthetics with organic, flowing lines." It offers "personalised environments," including "Dreamscape Suites" and "zero-gravity meditation gardens."
Reality Perception: The station challenges perception, with mirrors acting as "shimmering gateways" to memories or visions, where "the tangible and imagined boundaries dissolve completely." Herbal revitalisers and AI-tuned ambience contribute to a "liquid quality" of reality.
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The Anomaly is Ominous
Subi’s dashboard shows it as a "tiny distortion at the 'black scar's' edge", where the light of Primary Trade Lane Delta-Nine meets ominous darkness. The main view screen of the Stardust Drifter shimmered with the distant galaxy, a celestial tapestry woven with nebulae and star clusters. Amidst this cosmic grandeur, the ship's navigation display honed in on a singular, unsettling anomaly. It was depicted as a "tiny distortion at the 'black scar's' edge," a subtle yet profound ripple in the fabric of space where the luminous expanse of Primary Trade Lane Delta-Nine met an ominous, suffocating darkness abruptly. This "black scar" wasn't merely the absence of light; it was a region of profound void, a place where stars dared not tread and cosmic dust dissolved into nothingness. The distortion, no bigger than a pinprick on the vast display, hinted at something unnatural, a rupture in the expected flow of the cosmos that pulsed with an almost imperceptible energy.
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The Orchestrated Past
The corridor ruins stretch ahead, lined with ancient statues that resemble a watchful audience. I use the small lens to bring each figure into sharp focus. My ancestors, fertility idols, and, resting in my palm, is a mammoth. Golden light, filtering through cracks in the ceiling, illuminates the dust motes suspended in the air.
The weathered sculptures dictate my mood, a resonant, hallucinatory score. Each one is a surviving moral, and my augmented lens, acting as a conductor's baton, reveals the fine details: fractures, lichen, worn expressions as proof that they have survived erasure.
When I raise the lens, the mammoth in my palm seems to plant itself as a precious stone that will not be cast. My thinking shatters into ancient fragments of trance: ice, myth, and vanished ceremonies. The entire hall seems to hum, as if my shattering vibrates among the figures.
My goal is the glowing light at the corridor's end, and I try not to pause. These statues, once intentionally placed, now stand in a state of abandonment. My fingers flow as if choreographed by a hallucination that lingers in time. The history is carrying me forward through their silent, observant act.
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Godliness in Stone
My transparent helmet dome reflected the glint of broken windows, a sterile bubble moving through a world of dust. The suit’s filters scrubbed the air, but they couldn't scrub the omnipresence of being watched in the Necropolis Gully. I stopped.
Before me, an ancient ruin, unidentified structural remains of decay. A beautiful, godly face. It emerged from the cracked, brittle stone work, as if only created recently by expert craftsmanship. My internal narrator began its analysis: Local deity. Pre-Collapse. Function: Unknown.
But the logic stuttered, snagging on the input. The godly eyes and ultra-smooth face weren't just data points to be filed. They were broadcasting. A sudden, sharp spike of loss and profound love hit me, not as a thought, but as a wave of pure, unfiltered sensation. I was inside the anomaly.
I was paraknowing.
This god was trapped, in stone, its mouth partially open in a silent, eternal breath. My logic tried to reassert control. Hypothesis: The carving's features are designed to trigger a primal empathic response. But the feeling was too strong, too immediate. It wasn't an observation. It was a message, received and understood without a single word. I stood, decoding its silent intent with a part of my mind I no longer trusted, as an observer trapped by a forgotten myth.
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Force as an illusion
The GRIP, that insidious and all-encompassing force I once believed held me captive, is an illusion. It does not truly hold me; instead, it is a constant, relentless pressure, forcing me to confront and ultimately hold myself. I am both the meticulous builder, painstakingly constructing my reality, and the ruthless destroyer, dismantling it with equal fervour. The internal clamour of doubt, fear, and conflicting desires gradually fades, leaving in its wake a profound, almost sacred silence. And from that silence, a singular, powerful symphony begins to rise, a chorus of both creation and destruction, a testament to the intricate, terrifying, and beautiful balance I now embody.
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Resist and Stabilise
A dynamic action shot from inside the pod. JB is arching his back, attempting to lash out, but the composition emphasises the weight of the "stabilising hum"—visualised as heavy, translucent soundwaves or ripples in the air that are physically holding him down, resisting his kinetic energy.
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A Psychological Stress Response
A cold spike of dread bypassed my suit’s emotional regulators. I am the puppet. My internal narrator fought back: "Don't trigger a psychological stress response; observe the situation." "No," I whispered, as my boots scuffed involuntarily against the ground while I stumbled from the dark doorway. They were waiting for the show. "This is a cognitive test," I reminded myself. “I must not panic.”
In the Necropolis gully, my inner dialogue gave way to the rhythmic drip of water. As I pushed further and deeper, the air grew heavier, thick with the smell of saturated earth and ancient, undisturbed rot.
Lining my path, standing sentinel on crumbling plinths, were dozens of statues. They were coated in thick, velvet layers of moss and ivy, making them seem almost organic, as if they had grown straight from the rock. Each was carved with a raw, primal emphasis. "It's a pantheon," I whispered. "A complex belief system, preserved for my reception. Are they gods or memories?" The thought chilled me: I am being prepared; they are paving my way, waiting for me to take action. In that moment, I realised I had never felt so alone.
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The Anomaly is a paradigm shift
The discovery of an anomaly, truly alien and sentient, demands nothing less than a fundamental paradigm shift in our approach to exploration and discovery. We can no longer suffice with mere observation, passively documenting phenomena from a safe distance. Instead, a dynamic engagement with the unknown is imperative. This requires fostering a mindset of continuous adaptation, as our current frameworks of understanding will undoubtedly prove insufficient. Furthermore, intellectual humility becomes paramount when confronted with a cosmic force that defies our established notions of life, consciousness, and existence. The sheer scale and nature of this entity necessitate a complete re-evaluation of our place in the universe, challenging anthropocentric biases and opening us to possibilities previously deemed unimaginable. Our scientific methodologies, philosophical tenets, and even our societal structures must evolve to accommodate this profound reality.
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The Anomaly is suffocating and liberating
I can't escape the sense that this struggle isn't just mine, but a shared human experience, reflected in our collective consciousness. I'm not alone in this, and yet, this grip feels isolating. The outside world fades, leaving only this moment, a confrontation with my own shadows. In this space, I realise my mind is its own anomaly, a labyrinth of fears and hopes, grips and releases, an exploration that feels both suffocating and liberating.
Something else was forming within me, a shimmering, indistinct form, a powerful, almost terrifying presence that seemed to pulse with an ancient light. It felt like a beautiful angel, yes, but not one of comfort. This was an angel of confrontation, its wings beating silently within the confines of my skull, stirring up a storm of everything I’d carefully suppressed. My mind, usually a fortress of nothingness, had become a battleground, a bewildering labyrinth where every thought led to another unsettling truth about myself.
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The Sarcophagus
I found myself resting in a cryo unit that resembled a sleek, high-tech sarcophagus. The outer shell is made of brushed metal and glass, while inside, glowing, self-weaving nanotech fibres are tightly wrapping around my body. All I could think of were ancient Egyptian linen bandages. My face is partially obscured, but I can feel the signs of distress etched across. The lighting around me is dim, bathed in cold blue and amber instrument lights. How did I get into it, and why am I seeing myself in the revival cocoon?
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The Anomaly homes a little-known station
Within the vast, unpredictable expanse of the Anomaly, a faint and enigmatic station exists, its signal barely perceptible to all but the most advanced receivers. This "whisper of potential solace" offers a glimmer of hope or a "presence of hospitality" on the very fringes of Uncharted Space, a beacon in the desolate void. Its faint emission can only be detected by a select few, as its frequency is designed to be almost entirely undetectable by standard civilian vessels. Access to this mysterious haven is even more restricted, requiring the formidable capabilities of military-grade spaceships to navigate and penetrate the surrounding environmental defences.
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Cyborg Spoodles are advanced bio-engineered companions for galactic voyagers. Possessing highly sophisticated
Vast unending loneliness
The anomaly's shifting, hallucinatory colours are no longer confined to the viewport; they seep into the dialogue itself. A logical assessment of the capsule’s trajectory begins—Vector calculation indicates…—but a deep, resonant purple, a feeling of vast, unending loneliness swallows this thought. I attempt to regain control. Focus, stay calm. This command, my own mental voice, should be a sharp, definitive anchor. Instead, the words dissolve into a blinding wash of orange, a raw, non-verbal wave of pure, unanalysable urgency that screams move without direction or reason.
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No stopping in uncharted space
No "stop and revive" in this perilous, uncharted space. The Rumour Mill's comfort is a memory, lost to time and trace. The exorbitant demand is a punch right to the gut. Our savings drained, our journey's hope, behind a costly shut.
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Artist Statement
This artwork continues my exploration into liminal spaces and the subjective nature of perception, a thread woven through much of my previous work. Here, the traditional space station "stop and revive" concept is reimagined as something more akin to a memory palace or a dreamscape. The ornate setting, rendered with a soft, almost ethereal light, contrasts with the expected utilitarian aesthetic of such a transit point, inviting contemplation on the nature of rest and rejuvenation in the vastness of space.
The central element, the round mirror, acts as a portal, a recurring motif in my art, representing thresholds between different states of being or dimensions of reality. Within its reflective surface, figures emerge in a brighter, perhaps more abstract space, blurring the lines between the tangible and the imagined. This deliberate ambiguity speaks to the fluid nature of experience within these unique sanctuaries, where the ability to choose one's desired ambience, quiet solitude or a lively social scene, extends even to the curated reflections of the self and connections to memory or loved ones.
Drawing inspiration from the evocative text, I wanted to visualise a space where the very act of "stopping and reviving" becomes an introspective journey. The difficulty in distinguishing between reality and illusion within this environment mirrors the way memories can shift and evolve, or how our perceptions of ourselves and others can be shaped by desire. The lone figure in the foreground, gazing into the mirror, becomes a stand-in for the traveller navigating these internal and external landscapes.
Like my other works, this piece seeks to evoke a sense of wonder and a subtle unease, prompting viewers to question the nature of their perceptions and the physical and mental spaces they inhabit. It is an invitation to pause, reflect, and perhaps glimpse the echoes of other realities within the void.
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The Strings of Necropolis Gully
A cold spike of dread bypassed the suit’s emotional regulators. I was the exhibit. My internal narrator fought back: Psychological stress response. Observe. "No," I whispered, my boots skidding as I turned from the dark doorway.
I stood in the open gully, trapped between impossible walls. Far above, an arched stone bridge spanned the chasm. It wasn't a bridge. It was a proscenium arch. This gully was the stage, and the masters were watching. The Paraknowing was no longer a signal; it was the atmosphere. It tugged, insistent. They are waiting for the show.
I felt the tug at my wrist. My gloved hand wanted to lift. "A cognitive hazard," I said.
The gully laughed through a cold ripple of jest from the stone. Puppet. The word was a description. I planted my feet, defiant, but a violent force snapped my head to the right. Look here, the gully commanded. My heart hammered. Now walk.
The tug was now an irresistible force, hauling me toward the bridge. My leg lifted, the boot grating on stone. It wasn't my choice. My internal narrator screamed a final, useless warning: Motor control compromised! I was moving. The puppet was beginning its dance.
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The Vortex of Essence
An artistic, surreal interpretation of the cryo-unit interior. JB is suspended in the centre, but his body is dissolving into a "swirling and churning" vortex of memories and light. The chaos of the anomaly outside leaks into the pod, creating a visual feedback loop in which the external storm and internal panic merge into a single, terrifying texture.
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Necropolis Corridor adventure tourism
Travellers enter the Necropolis Corridor from Trade Lane Delta-Nine at a designated "Nav-Point Omega-Six," though entry is restricted to "Authorised Personnel Only".Travellers enter the Necropolis Corridor from Trade Lane Delta-Nine, a bustling artery of interstellar commerce, at a precisely designated "Nav-Point Omega-Six." This specific entry point is not arbitrary; it is a critical nexus carefully monitored and controlled by the governing authorities of the sector. Access to the Necropolis Corridor is strictly limited to authorised personnel only, a rule rigorously enforced by security. Given its sensitive and perilous nature, entry is exclusive to those with legitimate, sanctioned reasons. Surveillance at Nav-Point Omega-Six involves continuous automated scanning and is unseen. There are no holographic instructions present; instead, a forbidding atmosphere warns of the grim dangers within.
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Cryo Unit: The Threat of Failure is Terrifying
The 'stop and revive' protocol had been a calculated risk, a desperate measure against the debilitating toll of the journey. We had acquired the cryo unit with the understanding that only one could fit at a time, a solitary refuge against the ravages of deep space. Now, the automated systems inside my metallic glass cocoon diligently delivered the de-radiation, de-adenosine, and prolactin/melatonin boost, a biochemical symphony designed to reset and restore. Yet, a disquieting sense of unease, a low thrum against the rising tide of artificial serenity, persisted.
Outside the reinforced unit, the light swirled, no longer a mere chaotic symphony but an unfolding narrative. Golden filaments, alive with an almost organic glow, intertwined and stretched, promising an impossible beauty. Fading crimson hues bled into this nascent tapestry, hints of an encroaching darkness. It was as if a Pre-Raphaelite dream, all ethereal beauty and romantic ideal, was transfiguring before my eyes into a dystopian reality, a horrifyingly beautiful landscape of cosmic decay. The revival, it seemed, was not to be a gentle awakening into a familiar world, but a re-entry into a realm that defied all logical expectation. My gut, that irrational oracle, tightened. The stop had offered no true reprieve; the revive, no true restoration. Only this terrifying, exquisite transformation.
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Total Ego then Death
This is a portrait of Total Ego Death. It captures the exact moment the pilot realises he cannot reach the controls, and his psyche fragments under the pressure of the transformation. He is a faceless construct, exploding from the inside out.
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The Data-Possession. You’re coming back wrong! Ghostly glyphs are phasing over your face. Like a ritual mask. "Lines of code flow like linen strips"... wrapping you. Binding you. Just like they’re binding me! Your goggles rotate. You aren't looking at me anymore. You’re looking at the void. This is the fear
The Twelve Loops of Goodbye - The End.
It’s fracturing! "Chromatic aberration" tears you apart. The colours are screaming. Red. Violet. Static. I see your hand twitch—fingers flexing—reaching for me! But "soundless shockwaves" push us apart. I am panicking. My mind is a "relentless tempest." I am losing the signal! The silence falls. "Stabilisation Protocol... Engaged." The chaos stops. The geometric grids slide over your face. They smooth out the fear. They delete the glitch. You look perfect. Calm. Ordered. But you aren't you anymore. And I am not me. Then it ends. The screen goes black. Goodbye
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Cryo Unit: The chaotic fringes of mindfulness
I am exposed, vulnerable, navigating the chaotic fringes of my own mindfulness. The name, Subi, echoes in what's left of my mind, my capsule, the barrier that protects the once me. My consciousness, or the part that still functions independently of the cryo-unit's carefully orchestrated systems, is a fragmented entity, a shimmering nebula of thought clinging precariously to the edges of lucidity. It is this fragile kernel of self that the unit is designed to stabilise, to protect from the overwhelming onslaught of the anomaly.
The interior of my reinforced cryo-unit, a masterpiece of bio-engineering and advanced materials, hums with a low, constant energy. Its purpose is singular: to stabilise my consciousness, shield it from the psychological pressures of interstellar travel and the mind-bending realities of the anomaly, and to rejuvenate my body for whatever lies beyond this terrifying void. I feel the subtle shift, the gradual withdrawal from the overwhelming sensory input of the external world as I descend into the de-adenosine sequence. A deep, restorative sleep awaits, a temporary oblivion that will hopefully fortify and restore me for the unknown adventures ahead. The last remnants of my conscious thought dissolve, replaced by the silent, rhythmic hum of the machine and the constant, unwavering beat of my organic heart.
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The Necropolis Corridor takes seven standard cycles.
The Necropolis Corridor, a notorious stretch of space, demands an arduous passage. The journey through its treacherous expanse is officially estimated to consume seven standard cycles, a duration that underscores the inherent dangers and the mandatory precautions required for survival. While a theoretical minimum of 5 standard cycles might be achievable under exceptionally fortunate circumstances, such an optimistic timeframe is rarely realised due to the constant and unpredictable challenges presented by the corridor.
The primary factor contributing to this extended travel time is the prevalence of hazardous conditions. The corridor is riddled with fluctuating gravitational fields, unpredictable energy surges, and localised temporal distortions. These phenomena necessitate constant recalibration of navigational systems and demand extreme caution to avoid catastrophic structural failure or temporal displacement. It is a graveyard of unfortunate voyages. Dense fields of wreckage, ranging from microscopic particles to colossal remnants of starships, pose a constant threat of collision. Maneuvering through these fields requires meticulous piloting and significantly reduced speeds to prevent impact. It contains powerful and unpredictable electromagnetic storms that frequently erupt within the corridor, disrupting communications, disabling shields, and interfering with propulsion systems. Navigating these storms demands complete shutdown of non-essential systems and a crawl-like pace to mitigate damage. There are stories, and confirmed reports suggest the occasional presence of opportunistic scavengers or even sentient predatory species that thrive in the hazardous environment. While not a constant threat, their potential presence necessitates vigilance and a readiness for evasive maneuvers, further slowing progress.
These pervasive dangers necessitate reduced speeds throughout the entire journey. Attempting to traverse the corridor at standard transit speeds would exponentially increase the risk of catastrophic failure. Pilots must maintain a vigilant watch, constantly adjusting their vectors, engaging evasive maneuvers, and frequently entering periods of complete standstill to assess the ever-changing hazards. The cumulative effect of these necessary decelerations and stoppages accounts for the extended seven standard cycles required to navigate this perilous thoroughfare successfully. The Necropolis Corridor is not a route for the impatient or the unwary; it is a test of endurance, skill, and an unwavering commitment to safety.
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Miezi
Grace Silvana
Karin's Lieblings Star
●
Exif
CANON SX60 HS
POWERSHOT
eagle1effi's photos tagged with SX60 on Flickriver
aka 580 mm
digital shadow correction
in camera effects
SOOC
Whiskers
Die Schnurrhaare sind ein lebensnotwendiger Teil des Tastsinns der Katze. Dabei müssen sie die Umgebung erst gar nicht ertasten, um sie zu erkunden. Die Vibrissae – so der Fachausdruck – sind mit zahlreichen Nervenenden verbunden und nehmen selbst feinste Luftwirbel wahr. Sobald sich also ein fester Körper bewegt und dadurch die Luft verändert, spürt es die Katze. Das macht die borstigen Haare einfach unverzichtbar – zum Beispiel auf der Jagd.
Im Dunkeln sehen.
Bei der Jagd unterstützen die Schnurrhaare auch den Geruchssinn und vermitteln der Katze so selbst bei Nacht ein Bild ihrer Umgebung.
preset
P
ISO 640
Auto shadow plus
Auto Digital Range Correction
evaluative
□
définition:
e·val·u·ates
1. To ascertain or fix the value or amount of.
here :
The camera decides the value of correction
The Decision We are going in
Energy reserves are dwindling. The faces of navigators BK and JB are illuminated by the strain of their crisis in Primary Trade Lane Delta-Nine. But then, a presence of hospitality on the fringe of uncharted space. The anomaly became their desperate hope. Their entire mission could be wiped out. Katcha, the cyborg spoodle, declared, "We are going in."The vessel, a relic of better times, groaned under the strain. The Anomaly, Ozone, and Despair—a cosmic trinity of dread—pressed in on all sides. Energy reserves, once plentiful, now flickered ominously in the dim light of the cockpit. The very air was thick with the tang of ozone, a constant reminder of the volatile forces at play.
Within, the faces of navigators BK and JB were starkly illuminated by the crisis unfolding around them. Every line of their weary visages spoke of the immense pressure borne of their predicament in Primary Trade Lane Delta-Nine. This route, once a bustling artery of galactic commerce, was now a desolate, perilous void. Their mission, vital to the survival of the outer colonies, teetered on the brink of absolute failure.
Then, a flicker on the long-range scanners. A faint, almost imperceptible beacon, emanating from the very fringe of uncharted space. It was a presence, warm and inviting, a beacon of hospitality in the cold, uncaring vacuum. What was once the dreaded anomaly, the very source of their despair, now morphed into their desperate, fragile hope.
Katcha, the cyborg spoodle, his optical sensors glowing with unwavering resolve, broke the tense silence. "We are going in," he declared, his voice a calm, metallic certainty that cut through the fear and uncertainty. There was no room for debate, no time for hesitation. Their entire mission, their very existence, could be wiped out if they did not seize this singular, improbable chance. The unknown beckoned, promising either salvation or oblivion.
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The Unreachable Yoke
A POV shot from JB’s perspective, looking down at his own body. His hands are locked rigidly at his sides by the cocoon. Ghostly, semi-transparent images of his hands are reaching out, trying to "yank, shove, slam" a control panel that isn't there. The image captures the desperation of a pilot whose identity is "unspooling" because he cannot reach the controls.
Blogger:
www.jjfbbennett.com/2025/12/vision3-psycho-mythic-descent...
Podcast:
www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLXaHuXMcUMrhIzfjKlj9clJCOf...
Meta TV
www.facebook.com/watch/100063480315046/1020837046583872/
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Tags
#art #Spacestation #scifi #fictionalworld #story #arthouse #futuristic #spaceadventure #Sanctuary #Revitalisation #Retro #art #metaart #videoart #videoartist
#modernart #scifi #scifishortstory
The Storm in my looking glass:
A close-up of JB’s face behind the curved glass of the cryo-cocoon. The glass reflects not the room but a "relentless tempest" of swirling dark clouds and lightning, symbolising his churning thoughts. In the storm's reflection, a ghostly older version of JB is visible, trapped and silent, mirroring the pilot's current state.
Blogger:
www.jjfbbennett.com/2025/12/vision3-psycho-mythic-descent...
Podcast:
www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLXaHuXMcUMrhIzfjKlj9clJCOf...
Meta TV
www.facebook.com/watch/100063480315046/1020837046583872/
FB Subscriber Hub
www.facebook.com/share/g/1AycZvNRzH/
Tags
#art #Spacestation #scifi #fictionalworld #story #arthouse #futuristic #spaceadventure #Sanctuary #Revitalisation #Retro #art #metaart #videoart #videoartist
#modernart #scifi #scifishortstory