Clemence Maurer
Bio
I'm a video games level designer from Paris, France originally. I moved to Montreal, Canada about a decade ago and live happily there with my Canadian husband and my old cat.
I love writing strange stories, play games, and make music!
Stories (6/0)
The Green Morning
The Green Morning Chapter 1 – A serious matter, or is it? December 2nd. I used to be very serious. Everyone knew it. "Ade is a serious dude, serious like an exploded bladder", they said. My colleagues knew, their wives and husbands and kids and dogs knew. Not that I couldn't be funny when I put my mind to it. Sure yeah, I could tell a joke and get a few laughs. Sometimes I could even do it without Tequila.
By Clemence Maurer2 years ago in Fiction
All of their insides
People pass by me all the time. They judge me right away. I see it in their fleeing eyes as they walk past me, their path curving slightly to the side, away from me, so they avoid getting too close, thinking maybe I would grab their ankle and burp out a dirty joke about banging in a staircase or munching their pubic hair. They think I don’t notice that deviation, that half arc detour around me. Maybe they don’t even notice it themselves, their body performing an unconscious, self-preservation automatism. They think I’m a drunk and an idiot and a loser. That I probably smell like old sweat and cheap wine, some of it probably regurgitated on my lavish, torn “S’life is good” printed t-shirt and forming a nasty patch of reddish puke. Why is “s’life good” anyway? Why is that spelled out on a t-shirt? They must wonder that too, those who risk a glance at me. Well, I never knew. Sorry to disappoint. This t-shirt doesn’t make any fucking sense. That’s why I love it so much. The walkers are right about some things though. I am a drunk and a loser, and I spend my days sitting on my steps, chain-smoking Viceroy’s, a bottle of tequila never too far, ready to serve, hidden behind my always opened apartment door on Gordon Street, Verdun. But I’m not an idiot. And I know how to watch. I see these people as they would never imagine someone could. If they possessed the ability to sit behind my eyes, at the wheel, driving my brain around, making sense of what my strangely wired optic nerves perceive… they would either go insane or become desperate, hardcore addicts tearing their eyes out begging for more. Maybe that’s what happened to me a long time ago. Both these things. But my vision is my main perk now, it had to become a perk, so that I wouldn’t die too fast and could learn to appreciate it for what it is. My ride to both heaven and hell, paved with colorful schematics of people’s core, their drive, the essence of what it means to feel. More than that, what it LOOKS like to feel. Anybody’s turning point can become my fantasy, my drive. My design, in whatever way I shape it inside my head. They paint it for me as I watch them, some of their vapor I could blissfully die for.
By Clemence Maurer2 years ago in Fiction
First steps into the Gray Lands
The refectory was quiet but busy, as it usually was. Shadows were sitting around big rectangular tables, a faint yellowish light drawing sharp glowing edges around the worn out but sturdy carpentry. She made her move and went out the door. It was time to leave. All the signs were there. No one looking in her direction, no one speaking a word to her. Sometimes an awkward glance coming from an undefined form hiding in her blind spot. But she probably imagined it, she thought. It was quite evident that no one was paying attention, not directly anyway. An awkward indifference. (Again. And again.) She didn't remember exactly where she had to go. Perhaps some vague notion of a mission, forgotten like a hazy dream fading fast over the morning’s alarm.
By Clemence Maurer2 years ago in Fiction
Warring Halves
Part I: A troubling conflict It was always a conflict. One that I think will last until I die. It’s funny how one can want to create so badly and be terrified of it at the same time, so full of dread even. It took me years, more than a decade, to overcome such simple and innocent ideas as writing a short story or composing a song.
By Clemence Maurer3 years ago in Humans
Until it becomes real
Until it becomes real « That was my idea! I decided to come!” she screams, the last word propelling a long and slimy spit bubble towards the old rusty tool rack hanging loosely from the termite infested wall. The tool rack doesn’t budge. It’s still holding on to a small hammer, a trowel and a pair of pliers.
By Clemence Maurer3 years ago in Fiction
- Top Story - June 2021
Before the universe diesTop Story - June 2021
“Do you think they’ll find us in time?” She blurts the words out as if she’d been holding them for hours. They’d been walking in silence for the past few kilometres, and he’d heard her stifle, swear and snort quite a few times behind him. He knew she had something on her mind. But the question still sounded strange. Unreal.
By Clemence Maurer3 years ago in Fiction
