The Ectobruise

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<<nobr>> <<if hasVisited("ectobruise", "splinterbell", "blind king under the floor", "mushroom thump", "rainbit light", "jangaroolian shore") and $triggerrestart is true>><<timed 3s t8n>>you've [[run out of path|seen all the paths]], but you can always [[go deeper|TITLE]]<</timed>> <</if>> <</nobr>> <<timed 2s t8n>><<if $ectobruise is true>>the [[ectobruise]]<</if>> <<next 2s>> <<if $splinterbell is true>>the [[splinterbell]]<</if>> <<next 2s>> <<if $blindking is true>>the [[blind king under the floor]]<</if>> <<next 2s>> <<if $mushroomthump is true>>the [[mushroom thump]]<</if>> <<next 2s>> <<if $rainbitlight is true>>the [[rainbit light]]<</if>> <<next 2s>> <<if $jangaroolianshore is true>>the [[barbed and glittering shore|jangaroolian shore]]<</if>> <</timed>>

<<set $triggerrestart to true>> <<timed 2s t8n>> a widening purple mark <<next 3s>> appears after you fall through [[one atmosphere]] <<next 3s>> and hit the outer crust of [[another ecosystem]] <<next 3s>> swells like a carpet stain <</timed>> <<set $ectobruise to false>> <<timed 16s t8n>> <div class="rightalign">[[give me air|Start]]</div> <</timed>>

<<timed 2s t8n>> the sound [[a church tower]] makes as it buckles into matchsticks <<next 3s>> collapsing peal upon peal <<next 3s>> great downward doom of [[old metal]] <</timed>> <<set $splinterbell to false>> <<timed 13s t8n>> <div class="rightalign">[[please let me ascend|Start]]</div> <</timed>>

<<timed 2s t8n>> scuttles about, [[sightless lobster]], dim beneath the rotted boards <<next 3s>> wearing [[a crown that's too tight]] <<next 3s>> talks to [[anyone who'll listen]] <<next 3s>> makes noises that scare children after hours <<next 3s>> rarely fed, lives off scraps <</timed>> <<set $blindking to false>> <<timed 19s t8n>> <div class="rightalign">[[scuttle upstairs|Start]]</div> <</timed>>

<<timed 2s t8n>> when the waxwood floor [[bugwags]] under the strain <<next 3s>> of [[unfamiliar spores]], coming up from where they matter most <<next 3s>> deep deep [[deeper than deep]] <</timed>> <<set $mushroomthump to false>> <<timed 13s t8n>> <div class="rightalign">[[climb the fungal steps|Start]]</div> <</timed>>

<<timed 2s t8n>> sheets of water sheer as cliff <<next 3s>> coming down in a way you want to write [[home]] about <<next 3s>> make [[you want to see further|anyone who'll listen]] <<next 3s>> [[sunwet]] and slick <</timed>> <<set $rainbitlight to false>> <<timed 16s t8n>> <div class="rightalign">[[rise on the flood|Start]]</div> <</timed>>

<<timed 2s t8n>> a blue beach of saliva, pearls and missing toes <<next 3s>> [[lost mammals|mammals]] bumping up and down the sand <<next 3s>> [[shapes|ghouls]] waiting in the waves <<next 3s>> arms outstretched <<next 3s>> waiting to drown [[unlucky paddlers]] <</timed>> <<set $jangaroolianshore to false>> <<timed 22s t8n>> <div class="rightalign">[[get me off this hell shore|Start]]</div> <</timed>>

<<timed 1.5s t8n>> When it turns, it turns. [[Creatures|ghouls]] arrive after nightfall, shapes you just can't recognise. You don't want to risk holding hands with anyone, or anything. There are strange, [[ghoulish colours|unusual colours]] lighting the pebbles here and there, but anywhere partially lit looks untrustworthy, and the parts that aren't [[smell]] even worse. You've been reduced to operating without your usual sight, forced to rely on senses that are untrained, visions and sounds unsure of themselves. <</timed>>

<<timed 1.5s t8n>> The only place anywhere near the beach where you could reliably get some peace. You used to avoid the congregation and [[the bell ringers]], make a nest for yourself out of the decorative pillows meant for kneeling, not sleeping. If you tucked yourself away tightly enough, [[up in the rafters]], out of sight, you could sometimes fall asleep to the drift of evensong, the sound of [[people playing in the waves|your people]] beyond the door, high voices, occasionally panicked, often out of their depth, getting pulled by [[inhuman arms|ghouls]]. <</timed>>

<<timed 1.5s t8n>> As soon as the final curtains came down, you felt like a crustaceon, covered in pustules or barnacle rind, soon to be boiled. Scuttling about, nothing to navigate by except the scratching tips of your limbs. That's why you stay under [[the old beach hut|old beach huts]]. It's the only place you can feel your way around. When it rains, the water dribbles by your shins, smelling of wet gorse, bringing you plastic bags, the odd disposable barbecue. Occasionally, people throw things at you through the rotted boards. You'll know something's coming before it connects, just from the tone of their laughter. Before, people told their children to keep their distance. Now, people use you as a cautionary tale. They tell their children to [[make decisions that will lead to different places|Start]], anywhere but here. You still think you can smell mushroom in the air, but [[the toadstools|unfamiliar spores]] must have all gone years ago. <</timed>>

<<timed 1.5s t8n>> Where the sea spray dampens the underside of the [[old beach huts]], but the tide never reaches, toadstools hang from the rotted wood. You picked these ones yourself, assured [[your people]] that they would thank you later, that you knew exactly what you were doing. [[The downspin|deeper than deep]] set in from the first mouthful. <</timed>>

Everything needs to head downwards (or have a link that heads downwards). Do a few run throughs Open proof file and go down, editing text to sharpen it up

<<timed 1.5s t8n>> The ones that step out too far - they might have plumes of feathers in their matted hair, tattooes of cosmological significance across their shoulder blades, but the water ghouls will get them in the end. It's never pretty to watch. The [[paddlers|mammals]] think the [[ghouls]] are playing, join them laughing and dancing in the shallows, then further out, and further out, and then the sudden grab, the drop, the gurgling, the bodies on the beach. By the time you cry out from the shore they're beyond the listening-line, the point of no return. Even from that distance, some people say you can see [[the lights go out]] of their eyes. <</timed>>

<<timed 1.5s t8n>> When [[the steeple came down]], followers and their faith were buried beneath. They say when rescuers arrived on the scene all that was left were scraps of old metal in the sandy ground, jutting up like the towers of some alien settlement, drawn in biro by some lonesome teen. People collected the remnants, smelted them, sold them, turned them into [[jewellery]] and hoped the edges weren't too sharp to wear. Old girders were put to new use, saved from a sandy grave, taken before a museum had the chance to appear. When a scrap metal necklace glimmers near [[a campfire]], the old metal gives new faith, forgets the old faithful it buried near the tide line all those moons ago. <</timed>>

<<timed 1.5s t8n>> The memory of a crown - often heavier than the crown itself. You had something, once. People looked up to you and wanted to follow your footsteps, however weird they were. You even fashioned yourself a headpiece from [[the gorse and heather]], an actual crown, a symbol made of drying reeds, a sign of your elevated status, out there in the salt spray and the fungal marsh, where everyone arrived equal and confused, and some ended up seeing further than others. But [[you wanted to see further|Start]] than was granted, and for that, [[you lost your sight|sightless lobster]]. <</timed>>

<<timed 1.5s t8n>> Bugwags - this is what they call the shudders that come from swallowing too much of the sea. They say the trembling looks like the last jerkings of a dying insect. People have tried to fashion a dance from it, but they get criticised for adopting something so inherently morbid, taking a dance of wet death and turning it into a bit of fun. Moralists looking down on this patch of broken beach say that the suffering of the lost should never be made light of. These people are the kind that [[ring bells in church|the bell ringers]]. <</timed>>

<<timed 1.5s t8n>> Down, down, down - to the underpatch where the [[moonstrip]] sputters and the ghouls bloom. Still you can remember the taste of the fungus, as if the flesh and its weeping spores were right there in your mouth. You knew something wasn't right from the moment you swallowed. First, [[unusual colours]] on the wind. Then, the gradual [[descent of curtains|sightless lobster]], thick as a panther's pelt, impossible to lift. <</timed>>

<<timed 1.5s t8n>> "Just a single mouthful. Trust me. You'll see further." That was [[the last time anyone listened to you|the poisoning]]. Now, you're not even sure the people you talk to are there. They could just be the vacant creaking of [[boards above your head|old beach huts]], the shore winds taking shelter from themselves. You can't see if there are eyes looking down at you. Sometimes, footsteps stop above for a short time. You try telling the footsteps stories, try to get them to stay for a while. You tell them [[not to make the same mistakes|Start]] you made. <</timed>>

<<timed 1.5s t8n>> What does it look like? How is anyone else supposed to know? Go ahead and make of it what you will. Most people come to this shore line in search of a new meaning for the word. They're looking for a hovel to curl up in. They've [[tried other ones|Start]] but nothing fits. <</timed>>

<h1>the ectobruise</h1> <h3>a brief [[trip|Start]] down branching paths</h3> <<set $ectobruise to true>><<set $splinterbell to true>><<set $blindking to true>><<set $mushroomthump to true>><<set $rainbitlight to true>><<set $jangaroolianshore to true>> <<set $triggerrestart to false>>

<<timed 1.5s t8n>> A thirsty expanse that would benefit from partial cloud cover, parasoles of electrolytes, and safety vests for everyone who visits. But the views from here can't be argued with. During the day, you walk the paved seafront and peer [[as far as you want to|the views from here]] across the waves, or you can [[take shelter|old beach huts]] from the spray and feel sorry yourself. At night, people gather amongst the gorse beyond the beach, take painkillers, burn whatever's [[left over from the day]], slip Chinese lanterns into the night sky, marvel at where the galaxy got to, because by now [[the clouds have blown in|another ecosystem]] over the top of the stars. <</timed>>

<<timed 1.5s t8n>> Every size and shape you can imagine. All the limbs and trailing parts you can picture. Every flavour of slobber, every colour of plaque on various shades of teeth. Mammals here are the hungriest of all creation. They gambol up and down the shore line, wishing for the reef and [[the lights they think are hiding|moonstrip]], sometimes never to be seen again. At night, they head for the bracken and a break from the wind, [[light fires|a campfire]] and sniff chemicals from bags, before letting them go like Chinese lanterns, green in the gloaming. <</timed>>

<<timed 1.5s t8n>> A cross hatch of salt water, mid-afternoon blaze, and eyes blurred from too much [[dehydrated sky|one atmosphere]]. It's a condition you tried to catch at [[every opportunity]]. If you could do it all again, [[you would|Start]]. You figure [[some people|your people]] are just wired that way - chasers of the sunwet state of mind. <</timed>>

<h3>the ectobruise</h3> <h4>a trip down branching paths by <a href="http://www.rob-yates.co.uk">rob yates</a></h4>

<<timed 1s t8n>> Not many have seen it, but those who have glimpsed the moonstrip at the bottom of the waves say it's the only light left down there. Some people have managed to follow this lunar glyph [[all the way back|Start]] to the safety of shore and sand, out in the sun again, exposed, but living. Others say that if you can capture the moonstrip in your mouth, wrap your tongue and teeth around it, stop it from dripping through the cracks in the gums, you'll [[have another chance|Start]]. <</timed>>

<<timed 1.5s t8n>> The old stories say that this is their beach, always has been. It doesn't matter who sets up on the shingle, how many tents are pitched, how many sound systems erected or glass pipes smoked - this shore belongs to the ghouls. At night, they drift in and out of [[campfire|a campfire]] gatherings, offering food that smells strange, water bottles containing unusual fluids, wisdom that sounds skewed even at a late hour. Anyone with a dog can spot them. The dog will snarl and dribble. Otherwise, they keep to the low light, never want to be seen up close unless it's in the water. That's where they really live. During the day, they line the underbelly of the waves, seep into the shallows to frolic and beckon - long, kangaroo-like arms, pale faces, bodies like wax. If you draw too close, the drowning begins. No one knows where they want to take you, or why. Sometimes [[you'll end up drifting back|Start]] to the beach. Occasionally, people are resuscitated. All they say is that they couldn't believe the strength in those wire limbs. They say it's a [[life-changing experience]]. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> Phosphorescent, ghostly hues in the clutter of the marsh. Nothing you can name or paint. Reminds you of [[dead relatives]], curled hands, and a hushed, unbelieving bedside manner. A pigment that has you picturing [[a bird turned inside out]] lines the outer edge of a cloud formation, moving faster than any bird you've ever seen, a marching vapour. Other colours dart like particles of spit every time you open your mouth, but nothing resembling sound comes out. You reach for your brushes and open your eyes, tired, hungry, and washed up on the beach - unsure whether you want to [[go through that again|Start]]. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> The old beach huts - one of the only places to take shelter on this exposed patch of shore. Built by some mythic race of holiday makers many moons ago, before the gorse worshippers, witches in the nude, and nibblers of shrooms made the place a no-go zone for families or the relatively sane. Today, most of the huts are without owners, but small, sometimes bloody wars have been fought over the right to squat. Where the doors haven't been prized away, people tunnel through the floor or roof, set up camping stoves, electrified mosquito nets, dreamcatchers, and cots. A few unlucky travellers end up having to sleep beneath the shacks, brave the autumn frosts and hope the rain doesn't drown them in litter washed down from the headlands. A few [[casualties of the beach|unlucky paddlers]] live under the huts as well, sightless, scrabbling for change and the well-wishes of passing tourists, wishing they'd made [[different choices|Start]]. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> There are others who call this wild shore their home. Once, you thought of them as your people - the moon dribblers, the gorse munchers, the witch whisperers - you even thought of yourself as something of a leader, a king around whom wandering folk would sit, stare, and sleep. Times change, and so do kings. You have no worshippers any more. Not since [[you poisoned them|the poisoning]]. Not since you poisoned yourself. All you wanted was to [[see further than before|Start]], and you wanted to take them with you. People still roam the beach though, trying their luck just beyond the shallows, seeing how far they can peer into the horizon, fashioning costumes out of scavenged feathers and dead birds, stripping roadkill for any lingering nutrients or colour. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> Again and again and again - you keep coming back, hoping [[it will be different this time|Start]], hoping you can catch whatever it is that glints just under the sharpest ridge of the reef, whatever it is blinking on the surface of [[the muttering moon|moonstrip]]. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> They were the ones who tried to make something holy of the shore, who sang sober, attempted to drown out the sounds of the drowning. Many of them were buried when the church came down. They say if you listen closely to the sand at night, you still can't hear a single peal. [[The ones who escaped]] headed inland, never spoke about what they'd seen, like reluctant survivors of a damp and hectic war. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> The rafters felt like the safest place going. As far away from earth as possible. Most people down there couldn't be trusted - people would turn up in the night, their eyes unusual, brown sludge up to the elbows, talking about razors in the waves. Of course, [[when the steeple collapsed|the steeple came down]], the sanctuary was no more. Hiding high up in the air no longer felt like a safe bet, especially as it came howling to ground. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> It's a great shame, the amount of time people spend on land, but gazing out to sea. That's what people on this coast do - blind themselves gradually with the endless stare of waves, ignoring what they can get from the safety of dry ground. But you can stare far, that's for sure. And every time you look, [[something different|Start]] appears. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> Scraps of metal from [[the old steeple|a church tower]], patches of skin from slipping on the rocks. The shallows can be as treacherous as the deep. Whatever you find left over from your time here, you can always [[refashion it into something new|Start]], something you'll want to peer at again and again. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> Sometimes, if the light has fallen away, smell is the only thing you can see by. Once, when you were very young, you scrambled through the heather, discovered with your nose a dying fox. It sniffed back, then screamed. So young, but even then you knew to promise never to come back. The problem is [[something just kept pulling|Start]]. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> Dead family - they seem wiser once they're gone. They always told you to stay away from here, or that's what they would have told you, had they ever given sound advice. Now, you hear them as if they're muttering through a wall, a mud partition, occasional globs dropping to the ground. You patch the failing slop of fence, a toddler hammering clay upon clay, the low ebb rising. You don't want them back. You don't want to [[repeat the same cycle|Start]], generation after generation, wave after wave. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> It looked like a misshapen glove, something only a bad dream would cough up on the shingle. An exposed stump of the land, showing just how poisonous the ground here has become, after years of chemicals dropping from the vials and noses of bonfire whisperers, witch huggers, boilers of the moon and the acid spark of stars. It became just another reason to never come back, another reason it was [[so hard to stay away|Start]]. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> You were all sitting in a circle round a solar-powered torch - that was the last, solid form that held together. You opened up your satchel and passed it around. Everyone ate, following your lead. No one followed you after that. The rest of the night, and for much of that week, a retching and a wailing out on the heathland, occasional cries for help further up the beach, people losing their way in the surf. The newspapers had said there were bodies, but you don't know if that had anything to do with you. Every now and then, as you cradled what was left of your kingdom, a shaking hand would brush against yours, a voice would ask out of the darkness whether it was going to be alright in the end, and you couldn't say for certain if it would. You retreated after that - [[headed for shelter|a church tower]], kept to yourself. You've always wanted [[a chance to do things differently|Start]]. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> Of course, anything labelled a life-changing experience by the few who have survived it inevitably leads to people seeking it out for themselves. That's why people dare beyond the shallows, why people hold hands with the water ghouls. No matter how dangerous it might be, we all want our [[life changed|Start]]. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> Any jewellery fashioned from the old metal husk of the church is prized in these parts. You can tell it from the aquamarine glint it gives off under weak light. At dusk, you'll find people fighting over bracelets in [[the scud of the heather|the gorse and heather]]. People emerge from the gorse bloodied and proud, clutching relics. If you ask them whether it was worth fighting for, they often don't know what to say, unsure as to whether they'd want to [[do it all again|Start]]. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> The church coming down is marked in local history as the bloodiest and holiest of days. They say the noise carried all the way to the reef, rattling the clown fish and the spikes of the urchins. Even today, people disagree as to whether the cries of the buried faithful or the cries of the falling brickwork were louder. They combined to form a grating harmony, [[difficult to forget]]. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> An early curtain is, unfortunately, the only logical end for a lot of wanderers on this beach. A grinding down of the cosmic light, sure as glacial drift. The [[ones that drift too far|bugwags]] from the safety of the sand can end up getting dragged under, the surf pulling the glint from their eyes. Anyone unfortunate enough to see the spectacle from the shore often find themselves reflecting on how [[they might do things differently|Start]], then forgetting all about it. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> Evening campfires, sometimes the only warmth available. If you like solitude, you'll avoid these embers out on the heath. The cold and the vacant and the drugged coil around each flickering beacon like plastic sheeting in the wind. This is where people come to gather and discuss the things they should have done differently, talking about a way back, and how [[if there was such a thing|Start]], they might never take it. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> Just beyond the reach of the salt spray and the grim beach, this is where people climb to get out of the worst of the weather. At night, campfires are lit in their thousands, by invisible hands. Breath reeks of spirits. People gather round and talk about the mistakes they've made during the day - talk about how if they could go back and [[do it all again|Start]], they might. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> People try to forget as best they can, [[starting over|Start]] every time an unwanted memory surfaces, burying what they can, hoping the sound stays [[down, down|deeper than deep]] where it can never get out. <</timed>>

<<timed 1s t8n>> Tracking the survivors down is never easy. Raises the question of what surviving actually means. If you ask the ones who escaped being buried whether they'd [[do things differently|Start]] - ask them if, given the chance, they'd ring the bells a different way - they usually remain silent, peer back at you from watery eyes, brimming like rockpools, thinking of that [[barbarous coast|one atmosphere]] and wishing they could forget the sound of the ghoulish waves. <</timed>>