The ongoing evolution of short attention span theatre—SF Scope

Thaumatrope is a twitter fiction magazine for Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror fiction under 140 characters - edited by @nelilly.

Thaumatrope is a twitter fiction magazine for
Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror fiction
under 140 characters—edited by @nelilly.



C.D. Thomas

cdthomas (C.D. Thomas)

my Big Idea? *John Adams Karaoke*. People sing opera everyday; kids do math only scholars once did.

9:00AM PDT, Jun 1, 2009

[ed, is a Victorian-era urban dark fantasy fairy-tale by C.D. Thomas @cdthomas ]

9:15AM PDT, Jun 1, 2009

Dreams. And nightmares. How complicated they are, so taken for granted by man and fay. Such a natural resource to mine.

9:30AM PDT, Jun 2, 2009

London, 1887, June: Unemployed camps, the City barricaded, breakouts of bourgeois la-Grande-Peur. Asylum canaries send us word: Hurry.

10:00AM PDT, Jun 3, 2009

The Glom? Parasites. Almost extinct. But the Nameless one gathered them, taught them to make hosts last, molded them to new purpose.

10:30AM PDT, Jun 4, 2009

The Nameless one culled and cosseted. Glom learned the long feed — ate slow, bred slow, centuries concealed. Their food? Nightmares.

11:00AM PDT, Jun 5, 2009

When Glom feed in full they breed in the brain till the driven host dies. Transparent newborn Glom slide to fresh minds, irresistable.

11:30AM PDT, Jun 6, 2009

We thought the Glom destroyed, left corpses enough. But the Nameless one also shaped people. Broken, spelled, they nursed Glom safe.

12:00PM PDT, Jun 7, 2009

The Glom-ridden breed and die, as foulness jumps as lice from host to host. Then, in concentrated quarters, a sign, mad-fever flare.

12:30PM PDT, Jun 8, 2009

We take Glom no more for granted. Faery Council Arbitrators, the last branch among men, hunt the Glom, those infested. Cruel, we cure.

1:00PM PDT, Jun 9, 2009

Arbs had the run of kingdoms, now we suffer to hunt in cities where Glom-ridden hide. Survivors’ dreams tell the tale. If they live.

1:30PM PDT, Jun 10, 2009

We land from wood-and-cloth balloon. Pain shoots to bone, through hearts, as iron surrounds, crushes. We go on; we have killing to do.

2:00PM PDT, Jun 11, 2009

Our lady Arbitrator’s potion quickly cures lost women in asylums, workhouses. “Sleep, sister,” she murmurs. She liberates wards full.

2:30PM PDT, Jun 12, 2009

My brother Arbs pursue rumors of a solstice gathering of wharf rats. (Some Glom disguise their brood in lower animals, in plague.)

3:00PM PDT, Jun 13, 2009

I follow a night mob to a defaulted bank and quickly suss they’re mad-but-well. But the manager, his eyes? Worth more attention.

4:00PM PDT, Jun 14, 2009

The next day, the banker Toole has me to tea. Members of his board pour steaming cups onto their laps. “Cream?” Toole hisses. Glom.

4:05PM PDT, Jun 15, 2009

The butler strangles me with chain, guards rank with vermin-breath wrap iron on my arms. I warn my team: They answer with screams.

4:10PM PDT, Jun 16, 2009

Guards drag me down the hall, my mouth stuffed with rat. I feel a Glom’s first hunger. With mercy I bite rat neck, spit it out.

4:15PM PDT, Jun 17, 2009

My magic repels me away from the vault, but no hope: Guards wrap me in anchor-chain, till they mute it. They drag me to my tomb.

4:20PM PDT, Jun 18, 2009

Held under chain quenched by Glom-infested blood, by spell unbreakable. My eyes bleed magic; grunting bankers lap up a solstice treat.

4:25PM PDT, Jun 19, 2009

Toole’s Glom makes him whimper, test chains in blistering hands. With a last plea for salvation, Toole dies as his brain succombs.

4:30PM PDT, Jun 20, 2009

Toole’s skull cracks. Glom larvae slide toward my chest. I slam my skull on the vault wall, but too late — Death will not be first —

12:00PM PDT, Jun 21, 2009

Taunting dreams, when Faery ruled: The gentleness of court; our revels; the long, pleasant detente with man. Moments, before madness.

8:08PM PDT, Jun 21, 2009

What’s madness? Merely the truth: The Glom’s foul perch in man made commonplace. A world too poisoned for Faery to ever return.

8:15PM PDT, Jun 22, 2009

As I and my kinsmen die, we know we’re the last Arbs the Faery Council will send. Man alone with the Glom? May his God help him now.

8:30PM PDT, Jun 23, 2009

With our last breath we curse foul Nameless, her Glom children: Nightmares, to her. May our revenge last long, be bitter, and choke.

8:45PM PDT, Jun 24, 2009

Ah: To one Nameless, curses are as kisses, harmless. Arbitrators and Faery fall, unlike Glom, to iron and skepticism, so vulnerable.

9:00PM PDT, Jun 25, 2009

The Age of Steel, Steam, Madness of crowds? The Age of Glom. Pogroms, arson? Riots, panic? My pets at work, by science undetectable.

9:15PM PDT, Jun 26, 2009

I general a war that moves, as you say, asymmetrically. My Glom prove hungry and faithful, the Council too distant to kill or stop us.

9:30PM PDT, Jun 27, 2009

Some wiser fay suspected my design but were thought paranoid by those in full retreat, weary of man. (They need their stories, too.)

9:45PM PDT, Jun 28, 2009

But my Glom, the mad ones they ride? All nurtured one seed from parasite to host, from the age of legend till now: My story.

10:00PM PDT, Jun 29, 2009

May I tell you a secret? My story is *not yet done*. It will be told tonight in houses, hotels, airports, dorms, where’er eyes droop.

11:00PM PDT, Jun 30, 2009

I have been most patient. Tonight I’ll claim my rewards. One’s written under your eyelids. My Glom will fetch and bring home.

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