Friday, June 24, 2011


He woke again, pain tremors rumbling through his body, but subsiding as he regained full consciousness. He was on his back, looking up at the bright sky.

Did my house vanish? The last thing he remembered was the creeper, exploding inches from his face, immolating him, searing his flesh.

But a quick look around told him he was back on the beach, in the sunken pit he’d dug to mark the spot where he'd first woken up here, what seemed like years ago.

He lept up, hoping to catch a glimpse of who, or what, had placed him here, but there was no-one and nothing to be seen, only a pile of bones that he guessed was the skeleton from earlier in the day.

Did somebody kill it, he wondered? Is that somebody my friend?

He wasn’t sure, but he knew he couldn’t waste any time trying to figure it out. He raced back home, and could tell as he climbed up that it had suffered another serious explosion. His basement lie exposed, and most of the house and overhanging cliff was nowhere to be seen.

He scanned the area for further creepers, and seeing none, set to work completing quick repairs. He didn’t want to be exposed when night fell, but he had to get a move on. He hadn’t eaten in god knows how long now, and he was feeling weak and nervous and jittery.

He found his sword embedded in the ground where it had been thrown, and drew it out. A few pockmarks, but it was largely undamaged. Confident that his house was secure once more, he turned started to trudge up the rest of the hill, to try and scope out some food before the sun vanished once more.

But lady luck, after abandoning him for so long, was finally on his side. He’d hardly taken his first step when he saw a pack of wild pigs, grunting happily and feeding on the grass just feet above his house.

He let out a wild whoop and charged them. They started at him blankly, even as he sliced them up, turning them into pocket sized servings of delicious bacon. He ate even as he killed, blood and other juices dripping of his chin, his stomach swelling and straining with the abundance of food after hours of famine.

He wasn’t even fully in control of himself for several minutes, shoveling the warm guts into his body. Some aspect of willpower and self perseverance kicked in after a while, and he forced himself to save a portion of the third pig, shoving it into his bottomless pockets. It was good he did, because even before he’d swallowed the last bite, his stomach began to ache again, this time from too much food, not too little.

He leaned against a tree and rubbed his stomach, regretting his stupidity, but grinningly happily. These were strange days, but he had food for a while, a secure house, and thought night was falling soon, he wouldn’t have to venture out again for days.

He walked slowly back home, carefully, hard steps sending his stomach into turmoil. He sat down on the overhang, legs dangling over the precicpe, and looked at the beauty of the land around him.

At times like this, it’s almost nice here, he thought. Or said outloud. He wasn’t too sure. He thought briefly about this isolation, what it was going to do to his sanity, but pushed the thought from his mind as the sky began to darken.

He rose, and looked over his house- ugly little thing, he thought. But right now, I love you.

Then he walked inside.

Last night was a disaster, he thought. I almost died twice. That can’t happen again. I need a plan.

Grabbing some torches from the box, he went downstairs, sat on a raised stone, and began to plot.

Continue to the next post.

(Authors note: Wow! Two of my three deaths in one day, just an hour or two in. I’m starting to re-think this whole ‘play your first game of minecraft on hard mode with a three death limit’ thing. I’d hate to lose this story before it even started, but I do like the challenge and intensity that comes from 
having a limited number of respawns.

I’ll guess I’ll just wait and see. If Mantheson dies in a suitably epic fashion, I’ll bring this to a close, 
but I’d really like to kick this around for a while.

Looks like I need to hit the wiki and figure some things out. I don’t want to learn too much about the game, but obviously I have very little idea what I’m doing!)

Thursday, June 23, 2011

DAY THREE : In which Matheson discovers he does not have as many lives as a cat, and uses most of them.

Matheson’s eyes blinked open slowly. Harsh sunlight filled his vision. His mouth was full of sand...and iron? He spit, and the sand was stained red. Blood.

He sat up and stretched. His body was sore, but otherwise alright.

He was on the beach? That’s odd, he thought. He looked to the left and sure enough was the place he had first woken up here, with its cross-shaped mark in the ground.

All at once his memory fully returned- he’d fallen to his death!

He leapt to his feet.

Had he crawled here? Had he been carried? He had no idea. He didn’t see any tell-tale footprints in the sand. It was as if he had just whisked here, by some unseen force.

He had no possessions, his pockets were empty.

“What the devil,” he murmured, as he ran his hands along his body doing damage control, and straightened up, then froze.

Not twenty feet away was a skeleton, wading out into the surf, slowly. It hadn’t noticed him, by some miracle, and he watched it for several seconds as it jumped into the water, and then started backing away slowly.

So focused was he on the skeleton that he didn’t notice the creeper that hurled itself at him from the hill to his left, exploding in mid air.

He yelled as the blast threw him back and shook up his sense.

He struggled once more to his feet. The skeleton hadn’t moved, but its head slowly turned to the source of the noise, and it flashed a sinister grin as it spied him. Matheson turned tail and fled blindly, running for several minutes before realizing he was going the complete wrong way.


He struggled up the hill, moving from tree to tree and cover to cover, until he started to recognize the terrain and knew his house was just above.

As it came into view, he drew a sharp breath. ANOTHER CREEPER!

 It was looking at him like it had been waiting for him, and they both stood motionless for a second, and then raced together. Matheson barely made it inside and shut the door before the creeper reached him. It hissed savagely, but once he regained his breathe and composure, Matheson flashed it a rather rude gesture and then looked over his house.

Everything was the same; no one had broken in during the night. That was some solace. Though the creature could probably blow the entire structure to pieces, it didn’t for some reason. Sure, you’re terrifying, Matheson thought, but you’re not very smart.

But he could tell from the suns position that it was already midday. He was still hungry, for one, and he had things he needed to get done. He couldn’t stay bottled up here forever, and who knew how long it would take this thing to leave.

He opened his storage box, relieved to find everything just as he had left it, and made himself another sword.
I’ve killed plenty of you, he thought, glaring at the creeper with one hand on the door handle. Well actually, like two, his brain told him. He told his brain to shut up.

He threw open the door and hit the creeper twice, in quick succession. It fell back, almost falling over the cliff, and then came at him again, its skin pulsing with energy. He swung at it again, too soon realizing his mistake, and it exploded.

He only had time to feel a surge of heat across his body and his face, searing his flesh, and then everything went black.

For those of you keeping score, that's my last re-spawn (one life left), and  the game has hardly even begun...
To the next post!

Saturday, June 18, 2011

DAY TWO : Blood, Hunger, and Death (The Second Night)

Night fell, and with it came the now familiar sounds. With it, too, came a painful realization- he hadn’t eaten all day. Now, left to his own devices, with nothing to do but wait, he was wracked by horrible hunger pains. His stomach started convulsing, twisting in knots. He checked his inventory- he had nothing to eat.

Why can't you eat mushrooms? I've been able to do that in real life on several occasions.
It’s only been a day, he thought. Tough it out! You’re wounded as it is, going out now would be suicide. But his body refused to listen. With a muttered curse, he dragged himself over to the crafting table and began attempting to fashion himself some sort of crude armor out of all the wood and stone he had lying around. Nothing worked.

With the pains getting more and more intense, he abandoned armor for the time being, and made a new sword, out of stone. It’s heavier heft and more wicked edges reassured him. Maybe the creatures of the night would think twice before tumbling with this!

He wanted to travel light, and fast, so he consencrated all his worldly possessions to a hastily thrown together box, and, his sword never leaving his hand, walked up the door, listened for noises, and cautiously swung it open.

This probably won't end well.
The pain subsided, but the want and need were stronger than ever. He wondered if perhaps the raw meat had given him sort of infection? Either way all he wanted now was to consume, to feel the flesh of a living creature grind between his teeth, hot blood dripping down his throat. Pigs everywhere, beware.

He started climbing the hill, hoping to reach the top and get a good vantage point to see some prey.

Before he’d gone very far, a thick, lumpy black shape dropped out of a tree infront of him. He saw legs whirring in the darkness, and his blood ran cold. Eight red, merciless eyes turned to face him. Before he even had time to run or think, it hissed and jumped straight for him, fangs snapping in the moonlight. He swung his sword to meet it, knocking it back and shooting black blood out in an arterial spray. Again and again the monster jumped, and again and again he knocked it back, operating at a level far beyond fear.

Matheson had had no particular hate for spiders when they were small. He wasn’t fond of them, but he never went out of his way to kill them. They way they kill their victims, however, the slow paralysis, the poison, the helplessness, their ungodly appearance; now that he had to deal with life-size ones, he wasn’t to petrified to even allow himself to think about it, lest he crawl into a hole on the floor and open every vein he could find.

The beast lunched one final time, its eyes mashed and mangled, it’s left front leg hanging uselessly at its side. Matheson was getting the best of it, and as it jumped he plunged his sword into its mouth, killing the creature instantly as it let out one final gurgle. Unfortunately, it’s momentum kept going even as it’s life stopped, and it fell on Matheson, and pinned him briefly, it’s socketed and bristly face inches from his own, weeping blood into his.. He twisted, crawled, slithered and sprinted away, his hands shaking. He was thoroughly wigged out, and it took him several seconds to stop just running in circles and shaking.

Finally, he allowed himself to catch his breath. His face was drenched with the creatures black blood, and without thinking, he licked some of it off. It had a bitter, acidic taste, like rancid battery acid or what a raccoon must taste like if it died in a washing machine in a flood, and it’s body spent weeks slowly churning around in the fetid water. He spit several times, but the taste wouldn’t leave, though it had reactivated his hunger pangs.

I don’t have time to stop, he thought. If something else comes for me, I will split its fucking head open, and I will keep going.

He crested the hill, and looked around. The tree’s made it really hard to get a good 360 degree view, something he’d have to fix in the future. But a soft clucking noise made him stop in his tracks. He slowly turned his head, in disbelief, and standing on the edge of a cliff, looking at him with happy eyes, was a chicken. He blinked, and then raced toward the chicken, swinging his sword wildly and yelling.

Come here and let me kill you!

The chicken dodged this way and that, missing his sword just barely. It lost its tail feathers to a close swing, and another just nicked it’s head, cutting the hair off and making it look like a tonsured monk.

It was then that a creeper came out of the tree’s, hissing and lunging at Matheson. He screamed like a little girl but kept chasing the chicken, all the while trying to keep the creeper in vision and not letting it get too close.

The chicken skidded to a halt in front of him, looking up with pleading eyes. He couldn’t stop in time and nearly went sprawling over the edge of the cliff, to certain death on the beach far away below. But he caught himself, and up went the sword, and off went the chickens head. MEAT!

"There ought to be a law / against you coming rooooound..."
There was still the creeper to deal with, however. It was right behind him, but stuck on a tree, jumping up and down ineffectually. With the adrenaline coursing through Matheson’s veins, the scene was almost comical, and he left out a hearty laugh that sounded far more savage then he’d intended.

He really wasn’t sure what made these things explode, so he advanced cautiously, and gave it a good slice right along its midsection. It recoiled, hissing, and its skin flashed. He hadn’t killed it, but he had freed it from the tree, and now it was coming for him again. He gave it another good stab when its skin stopped flashed (something about that odd glow rubbing him the wrong way), and then waited and did so again.

It was now flashing rapidly, hissing increasing in intensity. Something told him to run, and he did, and had barely gotten out of range when the beast imploded and a shower of earth filled the sky.

Confused, but glad to be alive, he pushed himself up off the ground and brushed himself of off. He walked back to the chicken, which still intermittently spurting blood from the stump where its head used to be. He started salivating even before he got to it, hands ready to pry the flesh from its bones.

But there was none to be had. The corpse poofed out of existence, and all that was left was a single, solitary, feather.

He looked for a few seconds, uncomprehending, and then pounded his fists into the earth, partly out of rage, and partly out of the pain inside him.


He turned. Another creeper.
It's almost cute.

Oh, god damn it, he thought, and stood up once more. He danced up to it and hit it again and again. Make it fear him instead of the other way around. A good slice caught it on the neck, and it’s head fell back, hanging on by little shred of skin and a few blackened tendons. The creeper flailed it’s arms as some sort of fluids bubbled out of it’s neck hole and dribbled down it’s front, and then it fell over. Matheson leapt back and covered his ears, bracing for an explosion that never came.

He lifted his head. There was the creeper, dead, on the ground. Was that it….? He walked up, and the corpse vanished with a popping noise, startling him for a second.  All that was left was a pile of grey something- Guts? Rocks? Sand?

He bent down and ran his hands through it, bringing it up to his face.

GUNPOWDER! He started to grin like a mad man. These things drop gunpowder? I bet that means, at some point, I’ll be able to fashion some kind of gun! Or maybe a canon! I’ll make a god dam battleship air-fortress and blow every one of these motherfuckers off the face of the earth!

A chicken wandering into his view brought him out of his reverie.

“You better have more meat on your bones than that friend of yours,” he yelled as he sprang forward, “ or I’ll kill you!”

He didn’t pause to consider the fact that he was going to kill the chicken regardless, but he noted the contradiction in his mind.

There was no lengthy chase like the last time. In a few seconds, he had the chicken bisected in the middle, and was reaching down to scoop up its gut when it, too, poofed out of existence. He looked around him, but there was nothing. This time, there wasn’t even a feather.

He didn’t get mad. He didn’t stomp. He was so filled with rage, he was the perfect figure of calm. He couldn’t even think. He just smiled a bitter, terrifying smile, and walked over to the edge, peering across the darkened landscape.

At least tonight he could see much better than the last night. (My monitor was tilted up, making the night and sort-of dark places virtually black. With it turned the right way, I could actually see what I was doing a little bit, which was nice.)

There was a pig on the opposite mountain. It was bobbing back and forth, like a special-ed cheerleader waiting in line for a sandwich she was disproportionately excited to receive.

 He didn’t react right away, he didn’t bolt off. He just watched the pig for a few minutes with cold, calculating eyes, then looked down. It was almost a straight drop off below, and it was dark, but it wasn’t impossible.

He was feeling very weak. Tonights, and last night’s battles, had taken a lot out of him, and though he hadn’t thought he’d sustained very serious wounds, he was definitely worse for wear.

The shriek of a giant spider close behind him spurred him to action. He leapt down to the nearest landing, and starting picking his way down the mountain, his previous calm, detached rage giving way to an uncontrollable lust for blood and food.

He’d made good progress, leaping from rock to rock like a mountain goat, and was almost halfway down. But his options were starting to get pretty limited.

He heard the spider scuttling about above him- he looked up, and it was too dark to really make out, but he thought there were several up there, many pairs of red, clustered eyes watching his every move and waiting for just the right moment.

He was close to the ground, but he was stuck. With nowhere to go but down (and for some reason completely forgetting that the ground could be dug out) Matheson decided to jump. A nearby tree would catch him and break his fall; from there he might be able to just drop to the ground. He went flush against the wall, holstered his sword, and run forward and leapt.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

For a few seconds, it looked like he might almost make it. He fell in slow motion, arms flailing, as the tree neared, then rose up above him, and he knew he’d misjudged. He hardly had time to even curse as he hurtled toward the earth, face up to the cold, impartial stars.

He didn’t even hear or feel himself hitting the ground. Suddenly, he was simply dead.

After this, only one re-spawn left...
Continue to the next post....

Friday, June 17, 2011

DAY TWO : In which Matheson has still not made fire.

He poked his head out of the door and looked around. Not a soul to be seen, just the chirping of birds in the air, and a few sheep off in the distance, jumping up and down like a seizure victim trapped on a trampoline.

He surveyed the night’s damage. He’d repaired his house a little bit in the night, just to be safe, but there was still some wall missing, and the creeper had opened up a massive pit right next door.

le sigh

His first thought was merely to fill the holes back back in, but as he started to dig up some dirt, he decided that this might actually be a good thing. He could turn this pit into a basement of sorts, a kind of retreat and bunker. He might be able to actually get some sleep down there, cut off from the sounds of bloodthirsty monsters hungry for his flesh.

Not only that, but this stone might come in handy. It was much too hard for his shovel, but a few moments of jabbing things together and he’d whipped up a rough, but serviceable pickaxe.  He set about leveling things off and digging things out – Matheson was a stickler for classical symmetry- and in not to long he had a pretty decent space carved out.

He sealed it off with cobbled chunks of stone from his mining, ugly things, but probably a little sturdier and maybe better able to survive a creeper kamikaze then the wood. He put in some stairs, stood back, and voila! His house was good as new, if not better.

Peering into the darkness of his basement, however, he was instantly reminded of his need for fire. He cursed himself, and started rubbing sticks together furiously, only really managing to rub the flesh raw and give himself a few nasty blisters.

Well, shit, he thought. He still couldn’t remember anything about his life, but he guessed he hadn’t been a boy scout. He looked out over the world- maybe there was something out there that could help him do this? Either way, he’d have to hurry.

He started climbing down the hill, thinking of maybe returning to the beach and looking for some washed up glass or something, anything, he really wasn’t sure yet.

He’d gone maybe twenty steps, when he noticed a rather unusual formation of blackened rocks. He walked up to them, and gave them a good whack. Black flecks sparked and chipped off.

Bow before my might!

COAL! He gave out a holler. He couldn’t believe his good luck. Coal, this whole time, had been maybe a stones thrown away. He started picking away at it excitedly. The vein went on for several feet, and though he’d exhausted it in no time, he’d gotten a massive hall.

He carted it back up to his house, whistling a little song, and fashioned a crude torch. He struck the rocks against themselves, and bam, fire. Maybe things were going to be alright after all?

He set a few up around the house, put some up in the basement, and breathed sigh of relief. He was starting to feel right at home.

Sweet Basement, Brah

It was still ugly though, he thought, and though survival was his first priority, he knew somewhere deep inside him that Matheson Squareface Quiverbottom, Esq, was not intended to spend his days in a hovel.

He was no architect, but he added a sloping roof, and then a few sunken walls, and stood back, pleased with himself. He even made a little tower on the side, and put torches around it, so that if he ever (god forbid) got lost in the darkness, he could have something to guide him home.

Home Sweet Home

In all the excitement, though, he’d stopped keeping track of the time. The sun was already shrinking back into the hills, and as he gazed out over the ocean, as if on cue, the moon rose out of the sea, ominous and uncaring. He muttered a curse under his breath, took one last look at his house from the outside, and headed in. Hopefully, this night would go better than the last.

Little did he know, it would be much, much, worse. (continues to the next post.)

DAY ONE : The First Night

It got dark in what seemed like seconds.

I'll probably be fine.

The sun had been starting to edge down, for sure, but the time between that, and absolute darkness, was what felt like mere seconds.

At least there is a sun, he thought, with everything else that is strange about this place.

He’d been laying the foundation for his shelter- he’d found a patch of dirt he liked, dug into the side of the hill, whipped up a shovel and leveled it off, and was just placing down the walls and ceiling when the darkness hit.

He hated fumbling about in the dark like this, placing blocks by the stars and the scant moonlight, but he wanted a roof over his head in case it rained, and, though he hated to admit it, there was something creepy about this place at night.

He banged his head and hurt his hands several times, but finally finished it off, except for a little space in the front where he was planning on putting a door, if he could just figure out how to make one. He jammed the wood this way and that, but couldn’t quite get it.

And then he heard a peculiar sound. It was far away, and he would have thought it was the wind, except, there had been no wind all day. It was like a whispered hiss , far off in the distance.

And sounded like it was coming closer.

He stopped moving and strained for a few seconds, to listen.


And they were definitely coming closer.

Fear gripped his heart. He was not a cowardly man, and if anything the fear made him redouble his efforts at building the door, but there was something inhuman and calculating about that noise that made his blood run cold.

More footsteps. And out in pitch dark, a low, strangled moan.

But always the hiss, getting nearer and nearer to where he was.

In desperation he heaved blocks this way and that, willing them into place with sheer force of mind- and then, bam, something locked and he held a door firmly in his hands.

He raced forward and jammed it into the doorjamb, securing it tightly from the inside, just as a dark green face emerged from nowhere, mouth open wide, rotted teeth barred.

Matheson shrieked and jumped back.

The creature was ugly. Ugly beyond belief. Green broken, rotted skin and lifeless eyes. It had that same vacant look as the pig, except it clearly intended some form of harm, its detachment making it all the more terrifying.

It jostled the door and pounded the walls, trying to force it’s way in, never taking it’s eyes of Matheson’s, but when it became obvious that the house was solid, it slowly slunk off to the side with a final, vicious hiss.

He knew it wasn’t gone, however. He could hear it breathing as it moved around his house, and after a while other noises became apparent as well; The clatter of bones on stone, the soft thud of decaying flesh on dirt, the gurgled cries and mad shrieks of inhuman creatures thirsting for blood.

Matheson wished desperately for some light.

If I survive the night, first thing I do tomorrow, I light a fire, he told himself, cursing under his breath he had wasted so much time today. I didn’t know it was going to be like this, he thought, I didn’t know. He slunk against the wall opposite the door, hoping they couldn’t see him in the inky darkness, hoping against hope he wouldn’t see the moon obscured by a sinister face.

That was a prayer that was not be answered.

Within minutes the creepy green being was back, it’s eyes burrowing into his soul. He stared back it, at first overcome with a growing sense of terror that slowly began to give way to an indignant rage.

I’m not going to hide in the corner just because you stand there, he thought. This is my house, ugly as it is, and I worked hard to create it. I didn’t ask to be dropped here. And I’ll be damned if I let you get to me! He shouted that last part, caching himself off guard. Did he say the whole thing aloud?

Either way, the creeper just stood there- creeper, that was a good name for it, he thought. It hissed, but stayed motionless.

He cast about for a weapon, grabbed his axe, and stood up. This ends now. I am a man- I am Matheson Squareface Quiverbottom, Esq. You picked the wrong place to play peeping tom.

He gripped the axe tightly and inched forward. The house was not very big and he was at the door in seconds. He couldn’t see the creature much better, and it was no less monstrous up close, but the smell, somewhere between rotting flesh and week-old egg salad, was enough to gag a dead dog’s worth of maggots.

Get some
Ssssss, it hissed. Matheson put one hand on the door, took a breath, and wrenched it open.

“SSSS THIS!” he bellowed (internally regretting that that might be the last thing he’d ever say) and whacked the beast on the head. It recoiled, and a phosphorus like glow flashed across it’s skin, but Matheson was not deterred. Again and again he struck it, and then all hell broke loose.

Matheson was thrown off his feet as a burst of heat and air erupted across the ground, sending splinters of wood and stone and dirt flying through the air. He was knocked back into his house, and struggled quickly to his feet only to find half his house in ruins- the creeper was nowhere to be seen, and in it’s place was a smoking crater.

This is not good, he thought, and he gripped his axe tightly as he edged around the corner, peering into the darkness.

There was a snap, an arrow embedded itself into the wood just inches from his head. He sprang back into the corner.

Now they’re shooting at me?! He stayed motionless. There were footsteps outside, the crunching of dirt and clattering of…bones?

Curiosity got the better of him and he crawled forward, peeking slowly around the crumbled wooden wall.
There was a man in the crater now- no, a skeleton! A walking, breathing, living skeleton. It growled at him and held up its bow, aiming another arrow in his direction. He withdrew his head and the arrow pounded uselessly into the wall.

Great, he thought. Exploding zombies, and now this. It’s only a matter of time before it decides to crawl it’s way up here, and makes me into a pincushion. I have to do something.

He edged forward, and sure enough, he could hear the skeleton trying mostly unsuccessfully to clamber up.

He waited until a skeletal hand came into view, and then brought his axe down on the hand, splintering bone and sending white fragments of fingers flying. He immediately lunged forward and whacked away, striking the skeleton on the head and shoulder in a flurry of blows.

Take this, you bone-headed skeletal bastard
 It took a few hits, but the arrow it had at the ready went wide, and before it could notch another, he’d returned it to the bone yard from which it came.

Exhausted but victorious, Matheson slunk back into the corner. The night was ending, he could tell. Tendrils of pink and purple were weaving their way across the sky, and the terrifying noises were growing dimmer and dimmer. He listened intently for several minutes, for any sound or sign of a new foe, but by the time dawn had broken he was sure he was finally, happily alone.

Continue to the next post.

DAY ONE : More beginning...

Matheson walked and walked and walked over the unfamiliar ground, over hills and through groves of trees and along the ridges of seaside cliffs, but he found neither sign nor trace of people. There was only wild, untouched land for as far as the eye could see.

He felt frustration well up within him with every step he took. Every peak he ascended, he held his breath he might see of in the distance the outline of a house or the spires of some city, but civilization eluded him.

“What is this?” He said, angrily, the sound of his voice unsettling and further depressing him. He tromped down the hill, not even watching where his feet fell but somehow, in his anger, avoiding falling to his death. It was at that second that he caught movement- MOVEMENT- out of the corner of his eye.

He spun around, recoiling at the blockish, pink mass before him, only to be met with a startled ‘oink’ in return. It was a pig. An ugly, weird-looking, probably thoroughly inbred pig, but a pig, nonetheless. He kicked the ground and cursed.

But wait! He thought suddenly – A pig is a domestic animal. Maybe this is a farm….a really, really, shoddily kept farm, but a farm all the same!

Only for a second did he entertain the morbid thought that perhaps he had been kidnapped and would be considered livestock, too. But for what? Organ harvesting? Hunting for sport? Some sort of psychological study on isolation, run by a sadistic madman?

He ran over to the animal, which regarded him warily, but kept loudly munching on grass. But, as he approached he saw no markings, no brand, no collar, no signs that it was anything other than a wild pig, ranging around the mountainside looking for food. And, as he looked, he noticed there were actually several pigs in the area, and what looked like wild, grossly-matted sheep in the distance. These animals were obviously hovering together in a pack, and they were equally obviously on their own.

Matheson’s depression returned, and then, after staring around for a bit longer, cascaded inside him, and he turned and drove his fists into the trunk of a nearby tree, once, twice, three times, again and again.

It exploded. Shards of wood fell around him, and he jumped back in shock, and then again to avoid what he was sure would be the bulk of the tree crashing down on top of him.

But nothing happened. The top of the tree just hung there, suspended in the air, as if gravity had no sway over this world.

What the devil? He thought, and then, further confusing him, he spied a shiny block of wood hovering on the ground before him.

He picked it up, looked it over, and looked up at the tree. He walked back to it, and cautiously hit the trunk a few more times. Nothing happened.

He looked around, and then started wailing on it, and poof! It happened again.

Again and again he struck the wood, and again and again it exploded into tiny fragments before his eyes. He tried another tree, and then another, all with the same result.

Thoroughly perplexed, and slightly out of breath, he sat down on a stump and contemplated the little army of wood blocks he’d assembled. He saw lines in them, strange little grooves, and as he poked and pulled he found he could pull the blocks apart into little wooden slabs.

Intrigued, and being the type who loves a good mystery, Matheson Squareface Quiverbottom, Esq., began jamming the pieces of wood together in all sorts of ways, searching for the secrets of this strange happening.

After a few frantic minutes he found himself with a pretty solid stick/handle-ly looking thing, and a fairly decent piece of flooring. He paused of for a second, and then took a bunch of the blocks and fit them together like magic, his body operating on some other, primal level, and after a flurry of movements he had before him a crude sort of…workman’s toolbox?

“I don’t suppose this makes any sense to you, because I’m quite buggered,” he said to the pig, who merely stared at him with vacant eyes and then lifted it’s leg and urinated where it stood.

Matheson ignored the animal and looked at his toolbox. He was in the zone right then, and somehow, in some way, something was speaking to him, telling him what to do. Without really knowing what was going to happen, he started banging away at wood planks and arranging sticks- and voila, like magic, he’d fashioned himself a crude wood axe.

He eyed his handiwork, and then gazed at the forest around him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but you’re all going to die.”

After rampage
A few hundred whacks later, and his strangely endless pockets were positively bursting with wood scraps. He didn’t know exactly what he was going to do with it all- the thought of shelter crossed his mind- but he had worked his frustrations out, and even if he couldn’t control where he was or seemingly his own life, he was going to control something. He leaned on his axe and wiped his brow, and his eye’s met the pig’s, who was staring at him with the empty, souless expression of a beast bred for the table.

He looked down at his axe. He looked at the pig. He became distinctly aware of hunger pains in his stomach. He slowly brought the axe up and advanced on the pig, his shadow falling over it even as it continued to stare up at him with unblinking eyes.

Seconds to live
He sat on a pile of dirt and watched the sun beginning to set, gnawing absently on raw porkchop. He’d slaughtered the whole pack, something which maybe wasn’t the smartest approach but he was feeling rather destructive and vengeful, and seeing even one of the pigs left alive filled him with a sense of guilt. They just stood there as he cut into them, hardly even trying to escape, oblivious to the fate of their comrades three feet away.

Such stupidity should be rewarded with death, he thought, but at the same time he felt a little teensy weensy bit like a monster.

But he quickly pushed those thoughts from his mind.

 A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, he told himself. It’s time I change how I look at this. It’s not me that’s stuck here on this island. This island is stuck here with me.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

DAY ONE : The Beginning

Matheson gazed out over the harsh, sunlit landscape blankly, slowly becoming aware that something was terribly wrong; or if not wrong, then different.

Where am I? He scanned from left to right, seeing only an unbroken ribbon of sand and water threading its way along the shore, giving ways to masses of trees and grassy cliffs jutting up from the ground. He could swear the land was…almost dropping into place as he watched, but it was happening so fast, and he was so dazed, he paid that thought little mind.

Am I camping? He cast around at his feet. Nothing there, no tent, no tracks, no backpack. Only empty sand. He scratched his head.

He couldn’t remember anything. He had no idea how he got where he was- actually, he realized, he couldn’t remember hardly anything. There were flashes of something before this, but they were muddy and faded- a woman in a blue dress laughing, a stick of cotton candy, the smell of cut grass, rain stinging his face in a grey-tinged city. Then, he was here.

Even those ‘memories’ were remote and far away, so distant in fact, that his inability to remember them hardly bothered him. He felt, deep down, that there was something terribly wrong with that fact, and with his present situation, but with no history to compare it to he simply accepted his situation and moved on.

Perhaps there were other people out there, who could tell him what was going on? He took a few bold steps forward, then quickly turned back around and scooped several great handfuls of sand out of the very spot he had woken up on.

This spot, he reckoned, might have some special significance. In fact, he felt a certain kind of destiny worked into the ground there, as if it was a place he might want to see again.

Satisfied that the spot was marked, he turned back around and strode off into the unknown.

Monday, June 13, 2011


I’ve only played a few hours of minecraft here and there, over the year or so since it’s been out. Mostly because my laptop actually could not run the game- ugh- but also just due to time.

I was an hour or two into my first game and was just starting to realize how little I knew of it, and how incredibly entertaining it was, when I decided that I wanted to chronicle my game. Initially it was just going to be a couple of screen shots and a few jumbled notes, but that didn't last long.

What follows is the adventures of one Matheson Squareface Quiverbottom, Esq, as he and I attempt to navigate the changing and dangerous world of Minecraft, recreate a world in his image, and hopefully not get buried under tons of sand or lava in the process.

I’ll be playing with two house rules:

I have to eat once a day, and food must be a top priority, just as it would be in life. This means, even if the world is swarming with creepers and I’m armed only with wool and string, I still have to attempt to forage (obviously creating a safe food supply will be a top priority).

I only get two respawns (three lives).

I heavily considered just limiting myself to one life, but I figured it would be really shitty if I died due to something stupid and had to give this up after putting hours into it. Three deaths still means I have to be incredibly cautious- it is quite easy to die- while allowing me some wiggle room. I don’t think it’s terribly unrealistic; think of it as two close calls, that Matheson somehow awakes from, covered in scars but hopefully smarter.

I’ll be playing on Hard, initially with no mods but I will certainly add some over time as I get a better handle on the game (and provided they are save game compatible.

This AAR may, and most likely will, contains adult language, themes, and situations. After a long time alone in the middle of nowhere, sheep start to look real pretty. You have been warned.

And finally, I'd like to dedicate this AAR to three people:
  • Living In Oblivion is a hilarious account of a guy playing Oblivion as an incredibly ugly, cowardly NPC. It changed my whole concept of what an AAR could be and kept me wanting more for months.
  • Me, Floris is a massive Mount and Blade AAR, and probably one of the most popular after-action reports of all time. I don't know how he does it, but I read all 50+ of posts and just kept coming back.
  • And last, but not least, to Becky, who unintentionally inspired this whole project. 
Alright then, on to the first post!