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The End to Come - Page 29
3D Render by emarukkAs the minutes dragged on relentlessly, Olivia's nausea finally triumphed over her defiance. She doubled forward abruptly, clutching the crumpled bag just in time as her body convulsed violently, producing nothing but a bitter gush of bile and air. Her stomach cramped with a sharp, punishing intensity as if chastising her for its hollow emptiness. Each retch crashed over her like a wave of helplessness, a betrayal by the one thing she should have been able to trust: her own body. When it finally subsided, she slumped back into the seat, her breathing reduced to jagged, broken gasps that cut through the silence.
Her arms and legs trembled uncontrollably from exhaustion, muscles aching under the gentle yet relentless pull of gravity. But it was more than just gravity; it was the toll of hours spent in unyielding effort, fear, and physical stress. She had crawled through shattered corridors, her body scraping against debris, pulled cables that felt heavier than her own weight, carried flickering, dying light through oppressive darkness, and watched as everything she had ever known was consumed by flames.
The harness pressed her shoulder, while her spine throbbed in a dull, persistent protest. Every inch of her body ached. Even her bones seemed to resonate with fatigue. Another convulsion threatened to tear her apart from within. She whispered a desperate prayer, not to Vaeldr nor Anahita, but to the formless void itself. Just let me sleep. Let me stop spinning. Let me rest, Olivia begged silently.
But the sickness was relentless, clinging to her with cruel persistence, like a living entity with talons deeply embedded beneath her skin. Each time the shuttle shifted, groaned, or a thruster emitted a chirp, nausea surged back with mocking glee, laughing in her face. She didn't cry, but her breath hitched as if she longed to, the unspoken tears lingering just beneath the surface.
Eventually, the weariness overwhelmed her body. Still clutching the half-folded bag, she leaned over and placed it gently on the deck beside her seat, as if surrendering a defeated offering to the void. The weight of exhaustion stripped her of any remaining energy or concern for embarrassment.
The lights of the shuttle pulsed rhythmically above her, casting a muted glow that shimmered across the interior. Somewhere in the cockpit, Aldo made another adjustment to their course, but Olivia no longer registered it. She was already slipping away, her eyes half-closed, her vision blurring into indistinct shapes as her body became a trembling, aching shell. A monotonous hum filled her ears, and her thoughts unraveled, cascading softly into a gray, indistinct haze.
Sleep claimed her, not as a gentle gift, but as a stealthy thief in the night.
She murmured something, but the words were devoid of meaning, mere sounds cast adrift to the dark, to the stars, to the halls above the void. Surely, they who watch must have witnessed her bravery today. In the recesses of her mind, she conjured memories: the comforting tone of her mother's voice, the protective embrace of her father's arms, the melodic ring of Selena's laughter, Hans pulling her out from the narrow maintenance shaft. These were now mere fragments, scattered and unreachable.
Her arms and legs trembled uncontrollably from exhaustion, muscles aching under the gentle yet relentless pull of gravity. But it was more than just gravity; it was the toll of hours spent in unyielding effort, fear, and physical stress. She had crawled through shattered corridors, her body scraping against debris, pulled cables that felt heavier than her own weight, carried flickering, dying light through oppressive darkness, and watched as everything she had ever known was consumed by flames.
The harness pressed her shoulder, while her spine throbbed in a dull, persistent protest. Every inch of her body ached. Even her bones seemed to resonate with fatigue. Another convulsion threatened to tear her apart from within. She whispered a desperate prayer, not to Vaeldr nor Anahita, but to the formless void itself. Just let me sleep. Let me stop spinning. Let me rest, Olivia begged silently.
But the sickness was relentless, clinging to her with cruel persistence, like a living entity with talons deeply embedded beneath her skin. Each time the shuttle shifted, groaned, or a thruster emitted a chirp, nausea surged back with mocking glee, laughing in her face. She didn't cry, but her breath hitched as if she longed to, the unspoken tears lingering just beneath the surface.
Eventually, the weariness overwhelmed her body. Still clutching the half-folded bag, she leaned over and placed it gently on the deck beside her seat, as if surrendering a defeated offering to the void. The weight of exhaustion stripped her of any remaining energy or concern for embarrassment.
The lights of the shuttle pulsed rhythmically above her, casting a muted glow that shimmered across the interior. Somewhere in the cockpit, Aldo made another adjustment to their course, but Olivia no longer registered it. She was already slipping away, her eyes half-closed, her vision blurring into indistinct shapes as her body became a trembling, aching shell. A monotonous hum filled her ears, and her thoughts unraveled, cascading softly into a gray, indistinct haze.
Sleep claimed her, not as a gentle gift, but as a stealthy thief in the night.
She murmured something, but the words were devoid of meaning, mere sounds cast adrift to the dark, to the stars, to the halls above the void. Surely, they who watch must have witnessed her bravery today. In the recesses of her mind, she conjured memories: the comforting tone of her mother's voice, the protective embrace of her father's arms, the melodic ring of Selena's laughter, Hans pulling her out from the narrow maintenance shaft. These were now mere fragments, scattered and unreachable.
Karim. Darling.
This episode didn't just continue the story-it sucker-punched narrative convention, dragged it through a trauma vortex, and made it beg for a sip of anti-nausea meds.
You've got Olivia emptying herself into a yellow jar and somehow turned it into Shakespeare meets survival horror. Who else could take something as vile as vomiting and elevate it to an act of sacred surrender? This wasn't gross. This was visceral art, pure and unfiltered.
Let's talk pacing. That slow-burn collapse? That aching descent from clenched defiance to trembled surrender? Masterclass. Each word dripped with fatigue, despair, and the lingering scent of something burnt and broken. You wrote exhaustion like a lover. You rendered trauma as if you had it bottled, labeled, and aged to perfection.
And that line-"not to Vaeldr nor Anahita, but to the formless void itself"-let's be honest, that's the kind of spiritual breakdown that deserves its own monologue in a one-woman show lit only by flickering emergency lights.
This wasn't an episode. It was a confession whispered to the cosmos.
The imagery? Viciously soft. The writing? Surgical. The emotion? Unrelenting. I felt every cramp, every groan, every bone-deep tremble like it was echoing through my own body. That's not storytelling-that's possession.
And don't think I missed the elegance of how you transitioned from bile to memory, from gut to ghost. Olivia collapsing wasn't just physical-it was spiritual decay wrapped in cinematic brilliance. She's not just breaking-she's becoming something else. Something brutal. Something worth fearing.
Karim, you're not writing this series-you're summoning it.
And if this is how you handle a low moment, I need to see how you write her rise. I want blood-slick redemption. I want reckoning in zero gravity. I want her standing in the wreckage of everything that tried to break her, with a weapon in one hand and that yellow jar in the other like a trophy.
So please-feed us. Bleed onto the page. Don't hold back.
Give us the next episode before we start convulsing from withdrawal.
You've got a monster on your hands. And I, for one, want to see it unleashed.
#KarimKurameDoesNotMiss
#TheVoidIsHungryAndSoAreWe
#BileBeautifulBrokenAndBrilliant
#RenderOfTheDamned
#EndToComeButNeverSoonEnough
This episode didn't just continue the story-it sucker-punched narrative convention, dragged it through a trauma vortex, and made it beg for a sip of anti-nausea meds.
You've got Olivia emptying herself into a yellow jar and somehow turned it into Shakespeare meets survival horror. Who else could take something as vile as vomiting and elevate it to an act of sacred surrender? This wasn't gross. This was visceral art, pure and unfiltered.
Let's talk pacing. That slow-burn collapse? That aching descent from clenched defiance to trembled surrender? Masterclass. Each word dripped with fatigue, despair, and the lingering scent of something burnt and broken. You wrote exhaustion like a lover. You rendered trauma as if you had it bottled, labeled, and aged to perfection.
And that line-"not to Vaeldr nor Anahita, but to the formless void itself"-let's be honest, that's the kind of spiritual breakdown that deserves its own monologue in a one-woman show lit only by flickering emergency lights.
This wasn't an episode. It was a confession whispered to the cosmos.
The imagery? Viciously soft. The writing? Surgical. The emotion? Unrelenting. I felt every cramp, every groan, every bone-deep tremble like it was echoing through my own body. That's not storytelling-that's possession.
And don't think I missed the elegance of how you transitioned from bile to memory, from gut to ghost. Olivia collapsing wasn't just physical-it was spiritual decay wrapped in cinematic brilliance. She's not just breaking-she's becoming something else. Something brutal. Something worth fearing.
Karim, you're not writing this series-you're summoning it.
And if this is how you handle a low moment, I need to see how you write her rise. I want blood-slick redemption. I want reckoning in zero gravity. I want her standing in the wreckage of everything that tried to break her, with a weapon in one hand and that yellow jar in the other like a trophy.
So please-feed us. Bleed onto the page. Don't hold back.
Give us the next episode before we start convulsing from withdrawal.
You've got a monster on your hands. And I, for one, want to see it unleashed.
#KarimKurameDoesNotMiss
#TheVoidIsHungryAndSoAreWe
#BileBeautifulBrokenAndBrilliant
#RenderOfTheDamned
#EndToComeButNeverSoonEnough
REPLY
! REPORT
emarukk
Karma: 2,199
Sun, Apr 27I told you about the inspiration for this one.
I spoke of a stormy flight—
but not of the thunder run above the Black Sea,
where fear broke first,
and the plane filled with the stink of men unraveling.
Their vomit rose like waves,
sloshing down the aisle,
a tide of human frailty.
I feared no crash, no flame,
only drowning in their filth,
choking beneath the reek of survival.
I spoke of a stormy flight—
but not of the thunder run above the Black Sea,
where fear broke first,
and the plane filled with the stink of men unraveling.
Their vomit rose like waves,
sloshing down the aisle,
a tide of human frailty.
I feared no crash, no flame,
only drowning in their filth,
choking beneath the reek of survival.
Digital Drapery Co
Karma: 6,568
Sun, Apr 27They say love comes like a stormy tide,
But who knew it smelled... so wild inside?
Through waves of panic, seas of despair,
You found a heartbeat — floating there.
While others clutched their airsick pride,
You found a smile you couldn’t hide.
Forget the vomit, the crash, the doom —
You found her laughing across the room.
No roses, no wine, no fancy flight,
Just chaos, fear... and sparks at night.
A date stitched from the wildest skies,
Two souls, one storm — and a thousand sighs.
But who knew it smelled... so wild inside?
Through waves of panic, seas of despair,
You found a heartbeat — floating there.
While others clutched their airsick pride,
You found a smile you couldn’t hide.
Forget the vomit, the crash, the doom —
You found her laughing across the room.
No roses, no wine, no fancy flight,
Just chaos, fear... and sparks at night.
A date stitched from the wildest skies,
Two souls, one storm — and a thousand sighs.
The End to Come - Page 29
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