Conner Carpenter
Bio
Mountain born; soul sheathed in a deep lake. Conner enjoys watching the world around him, smashing it and forging new creations.
Stories (11/0)
Scrimshaw Seamstress
The soft crunch of feet through fresh powder, in an otherwise still silence of snowfall behind me, electrified from my spine through my finger tips as my flight or flight response was peaked. I froze. The kind of harsh, bone-chilling immobilization that comes from brutal decisions. The kind of decisions only satiated by blood.
By Conner Carpenter2 months ago in Fiction
Empathy Ch. 4
Journal entry xx - (Outer Sands and its offerings) We had been running for so long that we couldn't remember what it was like to have a stable home. I remember when we first found this place that it felt too perfect to stop at. Like a mirage. I cried that day, overwhelmed with the tragedy of living in a wasteland built by my own exhausting demons. The draught that the heart often offers is simply far worse than any barren land, but a good night's sleep always helps. I have this vivid memory of the first stake breaking ground and the boulders falling off the shoulders of all my kin as our home was born. All these people- worn and weathered and beaten down but so damn full of hope built this place from the ground up. Here, home, we are safe from most of the magnetic rolling storms with their electric blue ionized clouds. A stone's throw from its western base, we have an oasis beaming with life, and the good kind. Not the chemically altered and viciously rabid desert creatures such as the behemoth sand vipers and rust dogs. No, they were rarely around, and it was vital to our survival. What really signified its rarity, what caused these shoulders to relax, was the seemingly endless mosswood reservoir germinating from a large cavern mouth just in between the two landmarks. The mosswood was beyond plentiful, covering the dusty landscape from the northern rocks to the western water. This would be the perfect cloaking device against those who hunted us. This was the safety we thirsted for on dusty trails. The healing effects of the mosswood meant we would have a medical tent and could resume our studies of the herb as well as barter for supplies with traveling merchants and back-alley vendors when we visit major cities. And we do. Our company seems to have an aura of unified hope for the first time since its inception. This place feels like home. The feeling won't last, we know that, but the reprieve has allowed us to ground ourselves and recuperate.
By Conner Carpenter9 months ago in Fiction
Empathy Ch. 3
No one had noticed Poe was no longer with the crowd during the scuffle that took place. As a nurse rushed over to Miko and the crowd crescent-mooned around in anticipation, I scoured the complex for the kid. He was nowhere to be found. I needed to check on Hec, too. There was zero doubt in my mind that his outburst had to do with the dreaded he killed yesterday. Taking a life stains the soul. Maybe he was having visions too?
By Conner Carpenter9 months ago in Fiction
Empathy Ch. 1
Journal entry xx (A Synopsis) It has been exactly 5 years since I let go of my research. It hasn't been going well: It started as an alternative to therapy; memory suppression for trauma, an emotional disconnect for damaged limbic systems. It became an amalgamation of tyranny, hope and covetous intent but we just hadn’t known it yet. We do now. People wanted to forget the pain they felt, and we had the answer. We had so much desire to help those in need, I swear. Veterans no longer waking up in cold sweats, survivors resuming their lives without shuddering in anticipation at every person they pass by on the street. We could provide some real healing to a lot of people. Some of the worst things start so well intentioned, as it tends to go.
By Conner Carpenter9 months ago in Fiction
Empathy Ch. 2
Journal Entry XX (Expectations) It was a strange feeling, the moment that we finally broke ground on the project that would change the world. We were all excited and filled to the brim with different expectations. It had taken years to get the funding and even more time to get the council to sign off on testing. Obviously, not all of it was above board, but we had started anyway with the little original funding that we had. This came back to haunt us later on as the Hall Council used it as leverage to buy us out. But back then we didn't think about anything other than the next revolutionary advance in medicine. The concepts were easy enough- Fix the brain, save humanity. There was so much intricate detail that went into it, with concepts from many different fields of the sciences perfected in order to succeed. The irony that I am one of the few people it didn't work on doesn't escape me. I laugh a deep, painful laugh when I think about it. I am certain I deserve to wake up in cold sweats. I mean this was my concept, my baby. My magnum opus. I was the head of operations, but in all honesty, it took a really, really good team to pull it off. God, I miss those days. The people, the exploration. I miss Janice more than anything. She was my best friend and the smartest person I had ever known, if not a little crazy. Good crazy. Revolutionary crazy. Very hardheaded with a hidden temper aimed at herself. I resonated with that. She was definitely the kind of weirdo you can't help but to cherish deeply, even when she would disappear for extended amounts of time without a word. I remember one time, early on in our ventures, she disappeared for an entire year after having a life crisis of sorts, stating she needed to see the world if she was going to fix it. She came back with a fire in her eye that led to some of our most important discoveries. And some that we would feud about till our time together ended. She had a method to her madness though, that's for sure. If only we could have kept control of Heartlocket, she would still be here and not with those heartless bastards, forced to manufacture a worse kind of madness. I was the one that let her leave, told her to further her career even if it wasn't a direction I agreed with. Another life lost by my hands. I doubt she has any autonomy over herself anymore at this point. Just another droid, a pawn in their game. I know I sound so despondent, but I wasn't always that way. I mean, it's easy to get optimistic and self-involved on a new project when you have a laser-sharp clarity with what you want to achieve. Did we think we could change the world? Absolutely. And dammit, we sure did. We were saving people one by one and should have kept it that way. But many successful projects start out small and give themselves over in order to grow. That uncontrolled growth inevitably becomes a cancer. "Successful" leaves a bitter taste in my mouth these days. Fuck the Council and fuck Heartlocket.
By Conner Carpenter9 months ago in Fiction
Scribesmiths
A people touched by the wicked power of the majiks and forged in the precious womb of the earth- the journey of a scribesmith is threefold. They must ascend Witch-Cap Mountain and meditate above the sullen clouds to invoke their inner majiks. If they survive, they are thrust into a solo trek across the unknown borders in any direction, with heart as compass, in search of their unique eternal gem and its keeper - the wood or metal that represents their physical form. Once bonded, they will smith their soul artifact within the wild forges of their inner majiks.
By Conner Carpenter11 months ago in Fiction
Tynnin's Monocle
Nothing exceptional yet truly extraordinary. That is how it always went with Tynnin. Caught up in daydreams and bored of the present, he searched for meaning in the past so that he could live for the future. An archeologist by trade, he branded himself a relic hunter and rightly so. Every child had heard stories of ancient lost treasures and ceremonial tomes imbued with magics -capable of wonderous things not known in nature and scattered around the globe- but very few had ever encountered even one of such things. Tynnin was part of the exclusive list. Yet he had more than a few devices in his dusty dwelling that was filled from the floorboards to the star-carved ceiling with archaic trinkets. He had an affinity for the old metals and the leatherbound. Some were benign and some spectacular. His petrified bristlecone pine desk was littered with pages covered in ancient text. It is believed that this desk of elder wood was struck by lightning as it was cut down, twisting life back into it with a wisdom born of time still emanating from it. The walls that weren't covered in books were home to the ever-increasing pile of treasures he had gathered all across the world during his 55 years of adventure. It wouldn't be a stretch to say that it should have taken twice as long to learn, travel and gather so many trinkets for any one person. Deciphering glyphs and runic symbols alone were a painstaking process. Tynnin's dark, sunken-in-eyes sitting on sags of skin more wrinkled than his trusty leather satchel told that story better than words could. Yet he still held a lovely bit of youth to his tired body.
By Conner Carpenterabout a year ago in Fiction
Familiar
Home is familiar. Home is a flurry of feelings, brought on like memory. A smell, a touch, a voice. A single inhale of an autumn candle or the crackle of a burning fire. The smell of rain as drops pitter-patter the roof. The first crunch of snow in a silent storm.
By Conner Carpenter3 years ago in Poets
The Bones of a Meadow
I had walked past it many times before, plotting its story so different every time; Like a daydream I couldn't let go of. There was something in the flowing golden field that lent itself to those grey tattered bones like a fallen god, stripped of its gilded title. Its not unusual to play make believe as a child but I rarely did as an adult; still, broken with time, this barn beckoned its own epoch.
By Conner Carpenter3 years ago in Fiction
Empathy
Some of us wore our heart on our sleeves, while others locked them away. As if there was a choice anymore. It started as an alternative to therapy; memory suppression for trauma, emotional disconnect for damaged limbic systems. Project: Heart-Locket was an amalgamation of tyranny, hope and covetous intent but we just didn’t know it yet. People wanted to forget the pain they felt and we had the answer. We had so much desire to help those in need. Veterans no longer waking up in cold sweats, survivors resuming their lives.
By Conner Carpenter3 years ago in Fiction
