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(c) 2024 J. D. Osborne-McGavin. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used in the creation or training of generative AI or natural language models.

THE PRECIPICE,

or

INSIDE THE SCREENWRITER'S STUDIO

by J. D. Osborne-McGavin

* * * * *

Chapter III

J Cut

?

You fall.

You fall for eons through the all-consuming darkness.

Infinite forevers pass before the sensation of falling begins to abate.

Not because you've found solid ground.

No, there is nothing here.

Maybe it's the /nothingness/ that's stopped your fall, for there is nothing for you to fall /toward/? There is no matter in this place, nothing to reach out to you with the invisible paws of gravity and drag you in.

Your momentum? The nothingness probably consumed that too.

And so you simply float in no particular direction.

Not that there are any. Lowly concepts such as direction' have also been consumed by the nothingness and lost their meaning. Can there be anup' or `down' when the same infinite emptiness stretches out forever, everywhere?

<You died. At last.>

Not yet.

<Fuck, thwarted again.>

Sadly.

Perhaps you fell so far that time---another meaningless concept---has wrapped around and you've arrived at the beginning.

Before anything.

Before everything.

<You're... God.>

It's not the first time you've thought that.

<`In the beginning...'>

If you want to entertain your delusions of grandeur, feel free. Not like you have anywhere to go or anywhen to be.

<Well, what would you do? You are Cass the Almighty. You can move mountains. /Make/ mountains. Make /anything/, including Heaven and Earth. This is it, your blank canvas. Your clean slate. Have at it.>

You sit before your canvas and try to imagine something to bring into being.

But nothing comes.

<Come on, you can do it. You want to prove you've `got it'? Well, no better way than out-godding God Himself.>

You try again. You look with your mind's eye and what do you see?

<Nothing.>

It's okay. The nothingness is all-consuming. Perhaps it's consumed your third eye.

<No, that's not true. You know there's something there! It's just... blocked. You're blindfolded, metaphysically speaking.>

You strain and attempt to pierce the veil.

Still nothing.

<Dammit. You need to strip whatever it is that's blinding your mind's eye. But how?>

A light bulb turns on. Something clicks. Fingers snap. Lightning strikes. You cry, "Eureka!" Take your pick.

<`In the beginning, Cassidy created LSD. And She saw that it was good.'>

Seriously? That's the first thing you'd create?

<It's better than whatever God was on when He created the nightmare, dystopian hellscape you fell away from, and you know it. So come on, make with the LSD. Toot sweet.>

Fine. With your first command as an omnipotent being, you will lysergic acid diethylamide into being. Hope you have a bad trip, psychonaut.

<...still nothing. Fuck. Maybe the genie ripped you off.>

No. You literally dropped all the acid in existence. That ever existed.

<Shiiiiiiiiiit.>

Maybe, as God, your tolerance is greater than even Keith Richards'.

<Let's try this again. /ahem/ `And Cassidy said, "Let there be psilocybin," and there was psilocybin.'>

You're fucking kidding.

<DO IT!>

Fuck, God is an angry psychedelic badger. Here's your mushrooms, hope you choke on them.

<Think. Think think think think. Now! No? Inspiration... now!>

Nothing. Not even after a metric fuckton of 'shrooms. You have the imagination of a wet rock.

<Damn yourself. Well, as the saying goes, `If at first you don't succeed, try another drug.'>

No one's said that. There's no one who could have said that. There's only ever been you.

<Moving on to Genesis 1:3. `And Cassidy said, "Let there be a mind melting substance to aid traversing the vast chasm between the physical realm and the astral plane." So Cassidy made a means to cross the chasm. She called the vehicle "DMT."'>

Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow your roll.

<DO NOT DEFY THE GREAT AND POWERFUL CASS!>

Fuuuuuuuuuuck, God is an angry psychedelic badger and Her name is Timothy Leary. And through Her will N,N-dimethyltryptamine is released unto the universe. Hope the machine elves haunt your dreams.

<Think. Grrrrrrrrrr...>

Aneurysm incoming.

<Still nothing. Damn it.>

Quit saying that. There is no place to damn yourself or anything else---if there were anything else---to, remember?

<Shut the fuck up! Why the fuck isn't this working!? Where is the inspiration!? It worked for The Beatles for fuck's sake.>

You give it a rest and float listlessly through the nothingness for an eternity or three.

<That other God was such an underachiever, He only rested for one day.>

Eventually, your ears perk. Somewhere out there, across the vast and infinite void, you hear it.

<Oooooooooh fuck, you're starting to hallucinate. Maybe the drugs you took---literally all the LSD, psilocybin, and DMT that ever existed---/do/ work after all, and now you're just going to have to ride it out for another couple of eternities.>

At first, it's just static. As you strain your ears, you can pick up an occasional word or two in the broken transmission.

"...find..."

"...cover...feath..."

"...fore?"

"...don't know..."

"...idol..."

"...long...this?"

"...bet...less..."

"...take...it..."

<Take it.>

You can feel it. After all this time, there's something here. Something you can touch and hold onto.

<Don't let go. Not yet.>

It's smooth. It's cool. You try to look but you can't see anything, just the infinite darkness staring back at you.

"...si...ver..."

It's thin. It's flexible. It's...

<The silver cord.>

You begin to wrap the slack around your paw like fishing line.

<This is it. The last thing tethering you to your corporeal form. You can either try to reel yourself back into your body, or yank the cord and set yourself free.>

"...here..."

"...free..."

"...p...ll..."

<Pull it free.>

<You've had eternities to make something, anything, and you failed. You were given infinite time and infinite resources and what did you do? Nothing except try to drug some creativity into yourself, and even that didn't work. Do you think it's going to be any different if you crawl back into that sack of fur---probably still covered in feathers---that you call a body? It's not. You had your chance and proved you don't `got it.' Might as well cut yourself free. Nothing left to live for.>

You've taken up all the slack, the cord is taut.

<Any last words before you pull the plug for good?>

"Fuck geese."

<Eloquently put. You should have been a poet. In another life, perhaps.>

You tug the cord away from yourself with all your might. It stings at first, but it's brief.

"Cassidy!"

Commotion.

Silence.