#Surreal storytelling

[madcat-world]

Strange Places (10 of 25) - Artem Chebokha

[midstpodcast]

A FINALE STRAIGHT FROM THE FOLD 🌔🛰️

As our surreal tale of lunar fallout comes to a close, MIDST creators Matt Roen, Xen, and Sara Wile join Marisha Ray and Liam O'Brien in #MOONWARD: Part 4 - now available on YouTube! 🧡

➡️ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XwrARWlQYl8

[sorrysomethingwentwrong]

Photo by: @alex_maridashvili 

[miamaimania]

Frozen Moments: The Whimsical World of Gab Bois

[nuuspace]

Into the Maw

He looks down at his red-soaked hands. Mucky. Gritty. The gruel shimmers, shattering into fractions of stardust, drifting away into the windy night.

Clip. Clop. Each foot after the other, smashing glass on the torn concrete road. He looks up. It's dark; a verdant light shimmers in the distance. He sees a short brick outpost, the door ajar.

He sets forth his destination and lets out a wail. It echoes in the silent air. No birds fly. No bugs cry. Only the wispy sky is alive.

His hand slams against the door, making way for entry. It quivers and he recoils back from the impact. Inside the building is a bathroom. Tiles shattered, glass scattered, but the sinks still seem intact.

He sits down atop a stool in front of a teetering sink on its last breath. He twists the knob, water comes forth, and he lets his hands rest under the warm stream. He stares as the dirt drips off his skin, but the stains of the lives taken still remain.

His eyes drift up towards the shattered mirror—his reflection doesn't appear. He's stunned, staring into the nothingness of a non-bathroom. The other world looks bleak, gray. Full of despair.

Everything disappears. His vision gets pulled into the mirror at such a speed he couldn't process. The feeling in his hands, knees, feet, all drop, and then all return at the same time.

The scenery changes drastically. Directly in front of him sits a lady behind an executive desk. She wears her hair tied up and dons an elegant black suit. The entire room is pristine, filled with browns, blacks, golds. An office.

"Name?" The lady asks, her eyes stuck to the desk as she writes with a quill.

The boy is silent.

She pauses, and peers up over her half-moon glasses, "Name?"

"Bruce." He mumbles.

"Grand." She slams her quill down, Bruce jumps, and she shifts up-right. "We have some chattin' to do."

Bruce sinks down into his new chair. His heart throbs.

"Six dead today, Bruce. Six?" She emphasizes. "We were okay with it here and there. 'Kept the population out there down and gave us some more in here. But this ain't the ol' land anymore, we don't need the population down, and we have plenty in here."

Bruce picks at a button on the bottom of his shirt.

"Your land goes forever. Our land does not! People aren't really s'posed to die in Nuuspace, aye?" She points at him. "But you manage to at least rip 'em to shreds, and they get sent right to us."

Bruce considers speaking.

"Listen, Bruce, was it?"

He nods.

"I know, not sure why I asked—listen, the big guys don't take so kindly to our entire existence if we don't do somethin', and unfortunately, I get paid for this. So, it was nice while it lasted, but you're being quarantined."

"What?" He mutters.

"Yes, such sorrow. You'll be sent to the Maw in a few moments."

Bruce moves upward, finding it difficult to do so. It's as if he's stuck to the seat under a layer of honey.

"Your Rauror, or whatever it may be, has been deemed maniacal. Or maybe just you, can't say for sure. Though we know if you didn't have whateva' you did, there'd be no issue." She tidies a stack of papers.

"I don't understand." He mutters.

"Y'know, for someone who butchers at seemingly random, I expected more of a fight." She states.

Bruce falls. Through the chair. Through the floor. Through everything in itself. He sees the room's interior from its bottom, the floor culling inward, as the black void consumes. He falls and falls and falls, unable to hear his own screams, until there is nothing.

And then he lands. Light creeps into his eyes, revealing his new forever-home. He sits in a hallway stretched long and narrow, its walls a faded white. Doors sit amongst the sides, one after the other. His hands rest against the linoleum tiles, some cracked, others yellowed.

Distant footsteps come from the end of the hallway, housing a door so ominous that fear itself would recoil. Bruce scoots himself backward. The tiles behind him crumble, and as he turns his head, he's met with the void once more. The hallway's broken off, floating into the darkness. Bruce scoots back toward the ominous door, willing to risk the unknown once more.

The footsteps stop, and Bruce's heart with it. Now is the time to enter the Maw. Now is the time, once and for all.

The door creaks open.

[justanoval]

Sebastian will never understand how the people here act so nonchalant about a gargantuan space behemoth constantly watching over their entire local cosmos. The Cosmic Serpent dominates above, sprawling over more than half of the night sky. Its very presence makes Sebastian uneasy; no matter where he looks, it’s always there, always watching. Any moment could be the end of his new home. Any moment could be the end of everything he now knows...

Read the full short story here.

[niggamag]

The Blood Of Jesus (1941)- Dir. Spencer Williams

In the rich history of low budget Black cinema, there are a few rare gems that I feel every Black person should see in their lifetime. Among them is "The Blood of Jesus" (1941), a groundbreaking film directed by the multi-talented Spencer Williams. This film lays the groundwork for Black indie films with its ghastly folk aesthetic, non linear storytelling and angelic imagery. "The Blood of Jesus" remains an essential cinematic experience even after more than eight decades.

Now why THIS film?

"The Blood of Jesus" holds a special place in the annals of Black cinema as one of the first feature-length films to be produced and directed by a Black filmmaker. This milestone not only paved the way for future filmmakers but also provided a platform for authentic representation and storytelling.

The storyline is the classic “in between heaven and hell” trope and it is executed in such a stylistically sound way that it kept me glued to the screen. It reminded me surrealism and Dadaism which was huge in white cinema and literature at the time. This is early Afrosurrealism, dare I say. We see masterful interaction with atmospheric lighting, symbolic dream sequences, and breathtaking slow dissolves. It has lots of non-linear storytelling which is seen in many different Black indie films, especially from the 90s and it was fun making this connection.

Here’s a brief synopsis:

The film tells the story of a young woman named Martha, played by Cathryn Caviness, who is accidentally shot by her husband, Razz Jackson, portrayed by Spencer Williams himself. As Martha lies between life and death, her soul is caught in a cosmic struggle between the forces of good and evil. The narrative takes the viewers on a spiritual journey, as Martha's soul encounters various characters, symbolizing the temptations and choices she must confront. The film skillfully weaves together elements of Christianity and African American spirituality, highlighting the interconnectedness of faith and culture.

Written by your favorite Black film head, welcome to Nigga Mag.

-M

[x-heesy]

Aʀᴛ ʙʏ Nɪᴄᴏʟᴀs Bʀᴜɴᴏ, ғʀᴏᴍ Tʜᴇ Sᴏᴍɴɪᴀ Tᴀʀᴏᴛ

𝙻𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝙸𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝙽𝚈 🇺🇸

𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚜

1 2 3 4

Cʜᴇʟsᴇᴀ WᴏʟғE - VᴇX 🖤

[nymfheii]

Florecer después del duelo.

https://www.instagram.com/nymfheii?igsh=em5xdXJvcmlkMmN2

[citylighten]

NEXT

[artbynestor]

"Entranced (Contemplation in the Cosmos)" by Nestor

This black and white ink drawing portrays an aged man with a beard lost in deep contemplation within a futuristic spaceship setting. The subtle hints of sadness on his face are contrasted against the vastness of space, where the Milky Way is barely visible in the background. The artwork evokes feelings of isolation and reflection, inviting viewers to ponder the human experience amidst the cosmos.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

#DarkArt, #HandDrawn, #InkDrawing, #FuturisticArt, #SpaceArt, #Contemplation, #Isolation, #CosmicArt, #MilkyWay, #HumanExperience, #PhilosophicalArt, #ArtByNestor, #BlackAndWhiteArt, #EmotionalArt, #SurrealArt

[cacaxtla]

Goblins in the sewers.

www.jefthompson.com

[midstpodcast]

The crew descends into the depths of the Fold as they begin to realize not everything is as it appears, including their own people… 🌔 🛰️

Matt Roen, Sara Wile, and Xen are joined by Marisha Ray and Liam O'Brien in #MOONWARD: Part Two - now on YouTube!

➡️ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4YR49ZZY_UE

[eyesoftxmorrow]

i need sanctum to feel how sasakure.uk's music sounds

[miamaimania]

Unraveling the Ethereal: A Visual Journey into the Surreal Portraiture of David Uzochukwu

[nuuspace]

The Door to Nowhere

In a chamber of forethought, Gris vanishes.

Their consciousness fades and their corporeal tangibility becomes meaningless in an instant. The life they once experienced is a memory that will inevitably wash away into the infinite pool.

All the aforementioned precedents vanish. Gris sighs, their new sight hazed.

Clouds of verdant and mauve, serpents and groves; each piece of abstraction their brain pieces together for milliseconds before their vision clears.

Today, they stand tall. Today, they are a man.

His shoulders relax, his legs remain tense. He's standing. Around him, a large crowd of people talk amongst themselves. Every few ticks, they stagger towards the direction he was supposedly facing.

He stands in a hallway as thick as roughly five people if they lay flat on the floor, that of which is covered in blue carpet, just as the walls. Between the floor and walls are oddly-angled stairs, covered in the same carpet, no seams to be found. The ceiling breaks the pattern, an off-white tile, splattered with occasional faux dirt specks to help with the immersion. Peering above the many heads, he notices the hallway may be one-hundred steps until the presumed destination. Soon after he twists his body around, he feels very light-headed.

The hallway extends for what feels like forever. As it gets further away, it curves upward, completely disregarding gravity, if it were even there in the first place. Gris does not bode well with odd geometry, albeit the entirety of Nuuspace.

He turns back and grounds himself, focusing on his new body; black lax jeans, white ragged t-shirt, and an olive, loose-fit waxed cotton jacket.

There's a gap in front of him in-between the crowd, so he moves forward to close it.

Gris is not particularly used to looking down on others. Most of his bodies are petite. It can be assumed that his original body was closer to that size, considering the pattern. People prefer familiarity after all. However, this body is more burly and old than the others. Not too old, no, perhaps in its late thirties. But far out of the standard range of Gris' experiences. Whether it's one of his own or one that's preoccupied, he chooses to keep it as is.

He turns to his left to find a relatively young man; black hair, black jeans, gray crop-top. He scoots toward him.

"What are we doing?" He asks the young man, his new voice deep and soft.

"We?" The young man asks. "Well I'm waiting in line. What are you doing?"

"I'm waiting in line as well," He assumes. Gris looks toward the presumed destination. At the end of the hallway, there is a set of wide doors, but that's the extent that isn't abstracted by the crowd. Periodically, the doors open and close in an odd pattern. Perhaps, and more likely, it's a series of doors.

"What are you waiting in line for?" He asks the man.

"The edge of the universe." The young man verbalizes.

Gris ponders for a moment. "Is that… dangerous?"

The young man stands in line.

Gris sighs. He moves past the man, as those around him inch towards the door once again. Maneuvering through the crowd is hardly an inconvenience; although there are many people, there are no obstacles, and no obstructed paths. He moves toward the stairs on the sides; no guard rails and no separation from the floor or carpet. The stairs jut out from the floor like an odd extension of the hallway's body, while the carpet acts as its skin. They're rotated in a way that makes them feel more like spikes, a rather unorthodox design for something that is presumed to be traversed.

And yet, Gris' curiosity bests him. He walks onto the stairs, and loses his balance, falling to the ground. He quickly regains his footing, only to realize that everyone else is standing on what seems to be a slope. It's as if his and their gravity are separate, relative to the surface they're standing on. The stairs are no longer at an angle, the hallway is.

The doors at the end of the hallway are now at the bottom of the stairs. There is no longer a queue for Gris, if there ever was one in the first place.

Down the stairs, passing each soul. Each in their own world, in their own space, slowly inching towards their supposed destination; none bat an eye. There are no obstacles, there is no trouble. There is nothing stopping them from getting to where they want. What is it that they're waiting for?

He arrives. The wall at the end houses a series of doors, each identical, laid out next to each other in a row. No one comes through, they only enter. Door opens, one enters, door closes. Again. And again. And again.

Gris steps off the stairs. His gravity returns to normal, flinging him upright. The vertigo sends a wave of nausea through his body from top to bottom.

One door remains still—no one enters. As if the door is waiting for him. He approaches the door and caresses the cold wood surface, moving his hand down to grasp the door knob. Ice cold.

For but a moment, he forgets that his body is not his own. Whether this was the door his host was meant to be in or not, this was the door for him. He opens it and walks through.

All that lay ahead is the hallway he just stood in. Nothing more, but so much less. No one stands in the room, waiting. No one stands in the room, moving forward. He turns the other way. The door is gone.

All of that curiosity, all for nothing. The anticipation. The waiting. Just for it to end in absolutely nothing, in absolutely nowhere.

His consciousness begins to fade. His time is up. Ended so perfectly at this moment, as if destined to be.

From here to there, and inevitably everywhere, Gris will continue their journey until the end of time itself. Changing lives, creating new ones. Injecting new points into stories, and retconning old ones. All at random, forever and ever.

As Gris leaves the man behind to deal with the actions of his possessor's consequences, they enter an echo chamber. Doubt, regret, sorrow. Remorse.

All the aforementioned precedents vanish.

And they begin anew once more.