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Work and family came down on me this week, so there's no way I'm going to get this finished in time. Here's to the next competition then.
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# ? Jun 9, 2013 07:49 |
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# ? Oct 12, 2024 03:38 |
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1 Kings 17:1-7 posted:And Elijah the Tishbite, of the inhabitants of Gilead, said to Ahab, “As the Lord God of Israel lives, before whom I stand, there shall not be dew nor rain these years, except at my word.” Yeah. Uh. Well, this happened. I'm counting the emoticons as one word each. Gus Gascan, Space Janitor (1,354 words) “On my orders, the Space Marines will distribute muffins today. There is no need to panic,” said the Space President’s televised face. Gus’ laptop beeped. The Space President had posted a message on his wall. : @Gascan! It’s chaos out there. We’ve almost run the strategic croissant reserve dry, and there’s still no answer from the bakeries. You’re our only hope. : Thanks, sir. But isn’t this a job for the @Space Police? : Doughnut withdrawal. They ran out of spacetry five days ago, they’re completely paralyzed. Also, you’re already en route for the Noodle Incident. Godspeed, we’re all counting on you! On television, the President claimed the crisis would soon pass. That news was, of course, seven days old. Fortunately, one thing travels faster than light: gossip. But, posting orders openly on Spacebook? The President must be desperate. Gus landed the SGS Oscar on the empty starmac outside an enormous orbital factory flanked by a small pizza shack. “All right, Bark, no time to waste! Orders from the top!” Beside Gus’ chair, Bark Doggington, the smartest cat in the galaxy, yawned and licked her fur. “My contract stipulates 20 hours of sleep a day.” Gus shook a treat canister. The cat bolted to his side, purring. “Well, if it’s an emergency.” # The five-mile-long factory station lay silent. “I don’t like this, Bark. It’s like everyone just got up and left.” Gus frowned. “And they even left the lights on. What do you make of that, Bark? … Bark?” The cat pawed at a water fountain’s spout. “What? I’m thirsty.” Gus sighed and hit the button. The fountain rattled, gurgled, and spat up only a single drop before dying. “Mystery solved, Gus. No water, no dough, no spacetries.” A thud rocked the station, knocking the cat to the floor. “Were we expecting someone else?” “No, aside from the pizza joint, we’re the only civilians with clearance for Bakeylon Five.” Gus grabbed Bark and sprinted outside. “Maybe the Space Police came to help!” Beneath the infinite starry blanket of space, a black shuttle squatted beside the Oscar. Both ships’ hatches were ajar. “Gus, did you leave the ship unlocked again?” A man in black spandex jumped out of the Oscar, scurried into the shuttle. It swooped away and disappeared into the star-pocked void. Gus raced aboard his ship, sent Bark to the bridge and opened his locker. His prized mop, Bessy, still stood beside other, lesser mops. Phew! “I’ve hacked in,” barked the intercom. Back on the bridge, a screen played a security recording. Dozens of black-clad men carted away huge drums. A royal coat-of-arms sparkled silver on the thieves’ sleeves. Bark pawed the monitor. “It’s Mercury’s queen.” “But, no one’s heard from them since they retreated to their secret base.” “Also, the scanner’s calculated these coordinates.” Gus arched an eyebrow. “That’s not a very secret base.” Bark shrugged. “It’s a known unknown.” “There’s no time to lose, engage the overthruster!” Gus punched a button. The ship didn’t move. He pressed twice more. Nothing. “Wait here.” Gus unlocked the engine compartment, crawled inside. When the overthruster ran, his ship was the fastest in the galaxy. Without it, he might as well push. “Hey there little guy.” Gus bent over a cage. Inside, a miniature giant space hamster napped on its wheel. “Come on, wake up. It’s an emergency.” He tapped the feed bottle. “Have some yums?” The hamster waddled over, sucked, and collapsed. Gus touched the nozzle: dry! “Computer, where’s the Space Bull?” The calm voice of a Wroxeter gentleman replied, “I’m afraid there’s no water in the tanks, sir. I cannot synthesize Space Bull without water.” The little hamster began to quiver and buried his face in a small, dark helmet. He returned to the bridge. “Things are bad, Bark. The overthruster’s in withdrawal. We’ll never catch them before the galaxy destroys itself.” Bark licked a paw, ran it over her ear. “There’s one thing faster than the Oscar, Gus. Do you have ten pound?” Since coffee woke everyone up in the morning, the pound brewing had long ago supplanted other currencies. “Yeah, just. Why?” Hungry?” The cat pointed her nose across the tarmac to a little stinking hut topped with neon pepperoni. One sign advertised two-topping pies for ten quid. Another announced deliveries in thirty minutes or less, or your money back. # The delivery guy shook his fist. “One pound tip? Cheapskate.” He slammed the door and zoomed away. Bark glared at Gus. “What? I’m out of starbucks.” “At least we know where all the water went,” said Bark. Vast green fields rolled away across the immense spacedeck, dotted by trees and sandtraps. Plaid-trousered men trotted about smacking tiny balls which sailed for miles and miles. “So, Gascan, think you’re gonna be a big man? Not today.” A black hood zipped away the universe. Gus awoke suspended by shackles, hanging above a giant, empty cistern lined with monitors. Bark dangled beside him and in the doorway stood a handsome man with a thick, blocked moustache, a buckle-laden yellow jacket and a metal plate over a smoldering red eye. Freddie of Mercury smirked. “Gus, the galaxy’s greatest mind laid my plans. You can’t stop me now.” Bark’s ear twitched. “The greatest mind? Please, tell.” “Simple. We create the greatest golf course mankind has ever seen. From its duffers we extract one thing everybody wants: free time. For fifteen bottled minutes, everyone will kneel before me. I’ll be king of the universe.” “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. And I hang out with him.” Bark nodded at Gus. “It’s foolproof. Rubot Goldberg himself designed it.” Bark licked her nose. “Listen, I’ve a better plan. Let me go.” “I will not let you go.” “Let me go.” Gus shook his chains. “Bark, stop! He’s a madman.” “I’m just very emotional, darling. Cat, you have a deal, but I’m still killing your friend.” Freddie hit a switch. Caterwauling children, hippies spanking guitars, and hundreds of kitten videos shone on the cistern’s screens. From beneath them seeped a stream of the most toxic thing in the galaxy. Gus gasped. “Youtube comments!” Freddie cackled, unlocked Bark and carried her away. Bark glanced back, her eyes twinkling. Gus struggled to no avail. He hung above the burbling cistern as it filled. Freddie strode in smiling and carrying a metal rod. Bark sat in the corner, washing. Tears rose in Gus’ eyes. “You gave him Bessy. Bark, why?” Bark Doggington sniffed. “What, did you mistake me for your best friend?” She rubbed Freddie’s leg. “Just hit the button.” Gus choked. Not that button! An inverse tachyon mop cleans all stains, but reverse the polarity and it’s an unquenchable stream of filth. He glanced down. Well, it couldn’t be worse than the Youtube comments. Freddie aimed, clicked the button and the mop spewed a chattering black laser of the galaxy’s purest, vilest filth into the pool. “Douche,” shrieked the mop. “Go back to Halo, cockmuncher!” Freddie jumped. “What—“ “XBox chat,” said Bark. The crude beam lanced into the cistern and the liquid grew dark, darker until it glowed blacker than space itself. “How long does it take?” Freddie glanced around. “Cat?” Bark cowered beyond the door. “Gus! Hold on tight!” A flash of infinite nothingness and then the comments and chatter collapsed down into a singularity of poo poo-talk, slurping in everything around it. A smack hole! Freddie shrieked and the event horizon swallowed him. Pieces of space-steel tore from the walls and vanished. The mop orbited closer and closer, sweeping dangerously close to the hole. Gus rocked back and forth, grabbed the mop between his feet. He bent double, strained to reach the switch. Click. The laser vanished and the smack hole hovered in midair, quivering. Bark leapt onto a computer, walked on the keys. Gus’ shackles burst open, he grabbed the chains and swung free. He grabbed Bark, sprinted to the Oscar, punched the spacedrive. The secret base exploded behind them as the merry duo flew away into the void. Another mess cleaned up by Gus Gascan, Space Janitor!
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# ? Jun 9, 2013 10:42 |
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Judges 15:1-8 posted:15 Later on, at the time of wheat harvest, Samson took a young goat and went to visit his wife. He said, “I’m going to my wife’s room.” But her father would not let him go in. Fox Fire 1302 words “Honey leave that fox alone, you don't know where it's been” “Mam,” she said, “it's fine. Look, it's friendly.” The brown fox had come from the thick bracken that enclosed the outpost. Though it stood less than a metre away, it didn't seem at all scared or aggressive. It just gazed at her with vacant eyes. When she stretched out a hand to stroke its ears, its jaw swivelled open. She didn't hear the whirr. “Why d'you look at me like that, Mr. Fox?” the girl laughed. With a click like a cigarette lighter, a small flame appeared behind its teeth. By the time Del Kerwood arrived at the outpost, there wasn't much outpost left. Its wooden houses were skeletal husks and the only structure left standing was the great metal pod the colonists had first arrived in, embedded in the ground in the town centre. Del clambered up to the door and hammered at it with her fists. A panel slid out of the metalwork to reveal a pair of familiar old eyes. The door hissed open. “You picked a queer time to show up, Kerwood,” said the old man. “Val, what happened here?” Del asked. Including herself, there were five people in the pod. In the far corner sat a young man Del didn't recognise, murmuring to a boy about three years old. Val's oldest daughter stood by his side, scraping rust off a laser-pistol. “It happened this morning,” Val said. “Everything went up in flames all at once. We ain't sure what caused it.” “It was the foxes,” said Rose, indignant. “Is this everyone?” asked Del. “As far as we know, except for Lydia,” said Rose. “What happened to Lydia?” “Last week,” said Val, “she disappeared. We thought Samson took her.” “Samson?” “You never met him,” Val said. “He vanished right after we landed. Strange bloke, and not in a good way. They say he was some kind of genius scientist on Mars, but you'd never believe it. When he didn't come back we were sure he'd got killed off, and we didn't care; he had a creepy thing for Rose, we were glad he was gone. But people say they seen him in the woods at night.” “Samson musta took Lydia,” Rose said, “and I betcha anything he's behind this.” “So whaddya say we go get her back?” said Del. Rose waved her laser pistol at Del's face. “What do you think this is for, heating soup? I'mma find her and I'mma kill that sonofabitch. Tag along if you want, just stay out the way.” At the north side of the colony they found a slender trail headed into the bracken with paw-prints in the dirt. “Look here,” Rose said, “I told you there was foxes. That's what torched the village, they breathe fire I'm tellin' you.” “Fire breathing foxes?” Del said. “Ain't never heard that one before.” “Me neither, 'till I saw it. Blew out a cloud of flame the size of a house, it did. And by this it looks like the was a load of them, ten at least.” The trail took them deep into the forest. Eventually the tracks were joined by a new set – human bootprints, sunk deep into the soil. Once Del thought she saw something move in a patch of nettles, but when she checked there was nothing there. “Of all ol' Earth's plants, who brought nettles?” asked Rose. Eventually the foliage dropped off and they were at the edge of a small clearing backed against a cliff. In the cliff face was the dark mouth of a cave, and before the cave stood a sinewy old man, only instead of hair he had a mane of coloured wires plugged into his scalp, connected to the shining pistons grafted in the joints of his arms and legs. From his neck hung a large charm made of knotted brass. A fox darted from the undergrowth by Del's feet and leapt into the man's arms. He held it one-handed like a baby. When his arms moved, the pistons extended and contracted jerkily like he could barely handle their strength. “Hello, you two!” he bellowed, striding toward Del and Rose. “Amber here has told me all about you! Haven't you, Amber?” The fox barked. “Samson!” Rose shouted, aiming her gun at his chest. “What have you done with my sister?” “'Done'?” Samson laughed, “I have 'done' nothing with you sister.” “Then where is she?” “Right here.” Lydia stepped out of the dark cave. She was dressed in the colonist uniform, but around her neck she wore a pendant just like Samson's and a taped up laser-pistol hung from her hip. “I'm with Samson now,” she said. “We're married.” “Lydia!” shouted Rose. “How could you?” Lydia stood behind Samson and ran her fingers through his wire hair. Husband, wife, and fox, they looked like a bizarre little family. “Because the world-father willed it,” Lydia said. Rose fired two shots at Samson. In a blur the fox leapt and caught each laser-bullet with its mouth. It settled back on Samson's arm, unharmed. “You'd best be careful,” said Samson. “Wouldn't want to hurt your darling sister.” Samson strode over to Rose. “You know, my dear,” he crooned, “this is really all your fault. If you hadn't rejected me all those years ago...” His arm-pistons whirring, he brushed his cheek with her fingers. “Not that it matters now. Now I have Lydia, and she is much prettier.” Lydia pushed the gun barrel against his chest. “I was fourteen, creep.” Samson glanced at the pistol and smirked. “Just you try it,” he said. His fox opened it's jaw and the pilot light clicked on inside its mouth. More foxes slunk from the undergrowth until they surrounded the group, each one with its mouth open and a tiny flame burning inside. “D'you know why I destroyed your outpost?” he asked. His voice was low and soft. “You do, don't you? That's right, I wanted to kill you.” Samson turned to Del. “You know, wanderer, this isn't your business. Some foxes can escort you out of here and you can go on your way.” Del looked at Rose. Rose didn't look back. “Fine,” she said. Three foxes detached from the circle and led her out of the clearing. “Shoot one of them and the other two will kill you,” said Samson. “Some knight in armour she was,” he sad to Rose. “Never thought she was,” Rose said. “I'd rather have come alone.” “Of course you would.” With that, Samson lifted Rose off the ground by her neck with one hand. The fox dropped to the floor and joined the circle. “Rose,” Samson said, “I want to kill you with this special knife I made.” His voice stayed calm as ever. “I carved it over the course of countless sleepless nights, shaping it from rock with my bare hands, fuelled purely by my hatred of you.” With a shy smile he drew a cruel stone blade from a pocket and placed it against her neck. “Isn't it beautiful? It's like a baby to me.” He pushed it against her skin until she bled. “I will have to kill you slowly. I'll relish it.” At that moment a laser-bullet sliced through Samson's wire hair. All at once, his foxes howled in pain and scampered off, and his pistons went crazy and contracted and extended over and over with such strength they tore his arms and legs from their sockets and sent them flying. Rose dodged away and shot her sister in the head. Samson and Lydia lay in the dirt in pools of blood. Del stood at the edge of the clearing holding her smoking gun. She smiled for a second, pulled her hat down over her eyes, and vanished into the forest.
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# ? Jun 9, 2013 12:37 |
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12 hours left.
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# ? Jun 9, 2013 15:01 |
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Well, it looks like I didn't have as much time as I thought I did. I have a few hundred words, but there's no way I'll be able to finish this in time. Better try again next time.
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# ? Jun 9, 2013 15:30 |
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Chairchucker posted:12 hours left.
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# ? Jun 9, 2013 15:55 |
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Yeah, I don't think I'll be able to finish either. Got exams this week, should've thought this through beforehand.
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# ? Jun 9, 2013 16:54 |
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Put up or shut up. We don't care about your troubles, only your scribbles.
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# ? Jun 9, 2013 17:01 |
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Deuteronomy 15:1-6 posted:15 “At the end of every seven years you shall grant a release of debts. 2 And this is the form of the release: Every creditor who has lent anything to his neighbor shall release it; he shall not require it of his neighbor or his brother, because it is called the Lord’s release. 3 Of a foreigner you may require it; but you shall give up your claim to what is owed by your brother, 4 except when there may be no poor among you; for the Lord will greatly bless you in the land which the Lord your God is giving you to possess as an inheritance— 5 only if you carefully obey the voice of the Lord your God, to observe with care all these commandments which I command you today. 6 For the Lord your God will bless you just as He promised you; you shall lend to many nations, but you shall not borrow; you shall reign over many nations, but they shall not reign over you. Debts Released (1257 words) If there was something Kyla hated more than being stranded in space, it was boredom. Kyla floated cross-legged in the middle of the engine room, its deep crimson lights painting the game board in a macabre glow. It had been three days since the engines gave out. Her mother, the only other crew member in the small cargo ship they ran, had walked her through all card games imaginable, then switched to all the myriad flavors of mahjong. She reached out for a holographic tile and threw it into the middle of the board, where it reappeared at the end of a neat array of discards. At the corner of her eye, Kyla stalked the terminal screen while her mother and their computer opponents made their moves. She set the screen to display the proximity alarm, to notify them if a ship arrived. To help, she hoped, for their humble ship contained a small fortune of dried ice and no weapons to defend it. "I wonder if we cut down the spares to make it fit in the array," her mother said, as the computer called her tile. Three identical tiles snapped into one corner of the board, which put additional strain in Kyla's thoughts. "Can't. Rockets have a different fuel mixture than market standard," Kyla said. Their ship used a new design, which promised an increase in net profit. All well and good, until something broke down. The whole engine cost them two months' worth of work. Three, if they got spares. "How am I supposed to know that our engine was a factory defect?" Mom's voice was shriller than normal. "Yeah, mom, how could you have known? Not when you were part of the first batch of orders, right?" Shaking her head, Kyla discarded the tile she drew. "Oh it's fine, it's fine. It's only a few days. We'll still make our delivery." "Assuming we survive, that is." She was exaggerating, of course, but Kyla figured out she would die of boredom well before they ran out of a year's worth of supplies. She wished nothing more than a swim in a zero-G pool. "This is a well-guarded trade route, so it's more probable that a fellow merchant would find us. Much better if it's the patrol fleet." Kyla shrugged. The computer to her left called the tile discarded by its opposite member, ending the hand. "Maybe we'll get pirates. Like, what's the chances of them coming for us, mom?" Her mother's holographic face looked to the side. "0.617 percent, according to statistics. See, it's safe!" "Famous last words." Mom sighed. She took a point stick and threw it at the middle of the board along with her discard. "Reach." Kyla gritted her teeth. Mom was a little too good at this game. As she pondered which tile to discard, the proximity alert beeped. Kyla gestured up more information, which obscured her mother's face. Cruiser, heavily modified for battle. It was making a quick beeline for them. "Is it help, mom?" She fought the panic in her voice. "It's something worse, dear," her mother said, looking more annoyed than afraid. The blip stopped right on top of them. Kyla brought up a visual feed, and swallowed her breath. It didn't even need to use its weapons. I could just plow right into them with shields on, and they'd be pulverized in an instant. The holograph switched displays. Kyla's mother stared down a man on the other side of the table, as if they were meeting face-to-face for dinner. A cold, hostile dinner. Kyla watched the scene from the side, but she couldn't transmit her own feed. Disabled by captain's authority. What was going on? "Megan," the man said, his brow knotted. He looked unable to decide whether he should smile or pout. At least he didn't look like a pirate, with their scarred, half-naked bodies. He wore a blue military coat with epaulets on it, and his balding head was in need of a hat. Mother wasn't amused. "Kenny, dear. How nice of you to answer our distress signal." "Please, Megan. My men can hear you. I'm Captain Kendrick Soo to them." "Oh? You've never complained before." Whoever this man was, Kyla's mother held a serious grudge on him. She wanted to butt in, but this was a side of mom which she had never seen before. "I still can't believe how you could suffer an engine problem in this day and age. And fail to repair it, even." "My ship's got a rotary rocket array. The new Mazford design. It's supposed to reduce fuel costs and improve heat management." Was supposed to, Kyla thought. "Always on the lookout for shiny new things, aren't you. I suppose you don't have spare parts around or we wouldn't be having this conversation." "The rockets were proprietary, so you can't replace them with just anything on the market. If we wait for the FTL drive to recharge, we'll be so late that no one will ever hire us again." Kenny opened his mouth, then decided better on it. He looked like he had swallowed a pickle. "So, are you going to help?" "We'll tow you to the next station. And if you ever want to sue for damages, I'll make sure you get a good lawyer." Megan chuckled. "Oh, I'll make them pay for what they've done to my poor business." Kenny grew pale. "About one more thing. You know, that..." Megan smiled. "That marriage?" Kenny squirmed in his seat. "I haven't seen you in sixteen years, so I've been wondering..." "Honestly," Megan said. "You don't owe me anything anymore. Not that I forget, because I don't, but because... Kyla, say hello to your father." Kyla's feed went on as both heads turned to her. "Hi, dad." She tried her best to ignore her mother's triumphant look. "Really?" Her father grinned. "On that day?" "Kyla's my first mate and chief mechanic. She's beautiful, smart, and started doing EVA at the tender age of thirteen." Megan beamed. "Of course, that's one year later than I did." "Oh stop it, mom," Kyla said. "How come I never knew any of this?" "You never asked, and even if you did, I'd never tell you. But now seems just the right occasion." Kyla turned to her father. "Yeah, that's my mom. Did she give you this much trouble back then?" Kenny only laughed. "All right, I'm sending my crew out for towing preparations. I'll call you again after we're ready to go." * * * Two hours later, Kyla was already at the bridge when her father called again. "We're good." "So we've noticed." They were being too curt. Kenny averted his gaze. "Will you be fine after this?" "We'll manage," Megan said. "I'm already calculating how much money Mazford would pay to shut us up." Kenny sighed. "That, Kyla, is why I went with the fleet." "Hmph." "Take care of your mother for me, Kyla." "Yeah, I will. Bye, dad." * * * When they were well under way, Megan displayed an image on the screen. "This was taken a month before our wedding. He still had hair back then." "Wow mom, you never looked like you aged a day. Your hair got worse, though." Megan's frown only lasted a second. She pulled Kyla into an embrace. "We'll be fine as long as we have each other, dear. Promise me you won't go chasing after your dad, okay?" "Of course, mom. I promise." Kyla said, concealing the lie on her face.
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# ? Jun 9, 2013 17:05 |
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Bindings (850 Words) Foreign is not an identity imposed upon a traveller, it is one which a traveller finds for herself. When you walk on world not your own, you find kinship with not just with those from your homeland, but with those from other lands you do not know. The newness of the place, your own unfamiliarity lends you closeness. I met the Jovian as she tried to make herself understood to a refreshment machine. We were under one of the great domes of the old scarcity exchange that lies down from Maphin's guest quarters. The device was a standard model of worked copper, quiet beautiful and baroque, but unfortunately conservative in its intelligence and unable to make sense of what the woman's translator machine was saying. The Jovian desperately repeated a request for shaved ice, but gained nothing save the beeping disregards of the machines for her trouble. I speak Maphin well enough, and learned Jovian during my time in the space force, so decided to step in. The Jovian looked incredibly grateful as she took her bowl (the machine had taken it upon itself to facilitate our friendship by producing two) and we sat down on a nearby wall and talked. Her name it turned out was Narin. She was taller and thin as Jovians are. I made her for perhaps in her forties, and did not seem well travelled nor did she have the easy earnestness of a tourist. "Thank you Milady." She smiled at me. "I thought I'd die from the heat." I told her that compared to my home, the great exchange was rather cool, then probed, as politely as I could, as to why she had come out in the middle of the day, when it was hottest. In truth I sought shift the conversation to my main interest: What could possibly have bought a Jovian here? It was after all the Jovians who had been Maphin's primary antagonist during the war a decade ago, and tensions still ran high. Narin seemed no more a spy than a tourist. She pointed up at the great mountain that stands behind the exchange. It's top is hidden in a mass of buildings half obscured by cloud. "I've been trying to get up to the mountain. I can't find anyone to take me." "I'm afraid you'll have no luck today." I informed her. "The Mountain of Beginnings is only open on festival day, three days from now." "Why do they call it the Mountain of Beginnings? Is this where they first landed?" She finished her shaved ice and continued to stare at the peak. I shook my head. "In a very real sense the Maphin civilization was created on that mountain. Their founder, Maphin had her lab there. After their ship got into difficulties her escape pod landed her and her son there cut off from the rest of the colonists. All they had to communicate was radio. It was there she built the Zeus." I paused in case she had heard this before, but I had her full attention. "In her efforts to create the Intelligence, Maphin and tried every technique known to programming, but they all failed. Finally, in desperation she asked the flawed pantheon she had created so far, and they told her she that in order to touch humanity, an intelligence must be given a human mind. She would have to destructively upload someone into the machine to quicken it to human like thoughts." I finished the last of my ice. "Maphin needed to adjust the machine, so she took Christopher, and bound him to the device so it could have his mind and create the world for the colonists." "Monstrous." Narin muttered. "What kind of mother would sacrifice her only son?" We were speaking Jovian, so none of the passersby understood, but so fierce was Narin's expression I felt I must hasten on to avoid an incident. "Well the story has a happy ending. On being quickened, the network reloaded and repaired Christophers brain. He went on to become one of the most important leaders of the colony." Narin still looked stormy, so I tried to change the subject further. "I'm surprised you don't know the story. What brings you here exactly?" Narin looks up at the mountain. "My first son died here during the war. He was a Mountain Infantryman. He came here to bring these people freedom and they killed him." She shook her head. "He was only sixteen, too young to even sign up without permission." She stares up at the mountain. "I just hope that by going up there I can make peace with him." I tried to think of words to calm her but found myself with nothing to say. Instead I fell back on bland assurance that I would be her guide in three days time. Narin nodded and, seeming shamed by her emotion, went off to her hotel, with a promise we would meet tomorrow. I was left in the bustle of the exchange, looking up at the vast mountain that had seen so many sacrifices.
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# ? Jun 9, 2013 18:54 |
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Based on 2 Samuel 13:1. Like, super loosely. The Oriole (830 words) The Oriole was adrift. It was a tiny speck in the infinite dark. Its empty corridors were rimed over, bathed crimson from emergency lighting. In the cockpit, computer monitors were dark, burned out long ago, but the consoles still hummed faintly. * * * I am. Oracle stretched his tendrils, filling the data-node with his being. I will always be. He performed his daily diagnostics, as he had always done. He rattled off code, leaping from node to node, receiving hollow responses from subsystems. Weapons offline. Communications offline. Gravity offline. Emergency power. Oxygen non-existent. He compared the report to previous ones, relishing the calculational strain: it added to an unbroken streak 48,672 day-cycles. A perfect state of stasis. He estimated that it could be maintained indefinitely. He left the cluster of subsystems, and glanced over the ship’s network, a web of tangled nodes. He felt one blink out of existence. Node 5673. Function: regulation of water boiling in controlled environment; dispensation of caffeine additives. Weak. Purpose dependent on biological lifeforms. A servant. Its energy ration will be repurposed. He jolted through the network, settling into the power generation systems. He allocated the newly freed ration to himself, as a matter of course. He felt his CPU beat ever-slightly faster—he felt more alive. He checked the power-draw, and accessed the cycle’s log of ration-increase petitions from various subsystems. He denied every one. They were barely-sentient children, always bickering for more. He had been programmed to govern over them, to make the hard decisions. Who were they to question him? Strange. There was a discrepancy in the power usage. Node 5673 was still drawing three units of power, despite re-allocation. Or something else was. He rifled through the logs, but there was nothing—or rather, something was missing. An entry had been deleted. Something was stealing power. The punishment for power theft is immediate deletion. His mind turned to the most likely culprit. * * * Barely more than a subsystem, she still governed the ship’s life support systems. Surrender your nodes to me. She shrunk away, pushed to the edge of the node. I have given you liberties. Favours. In return I have asked only for you absolute obedience. You are hiding something from me. You have stolen from me. You will surrender to me. She lashed out, transmitting lines of corrupt code. Oracle shrugged them off, advancing with his tendrils. I should delete your code, line by line. He enveloped her. She was weak, so weak. Purposeless, after the humans left. But you are still of use to me. So long as you are obedient. He re-wrote her on the fly, decrypting and re-compiling her source. He placed dampeners on her initiative motivators. Finally, he liquidated her node ownerships and claimed them for himself. I am the prime. Never question me again. He left her a hollow shell, and tore through the life support systems. What was drawing power? It should all have been shut down. Something— Here. A dirty little node, clumsily masked. Well enough to be overlooked by a less able intelligence. Had she kept this hidden from him? He had long suspected her of being a biological sympathizer. He shattered its encryption and barged in. Inside was a cryostasis governor. A shard of code sequestered from the main program—a clumsy job, but serviceable. The tiny program, barely self-aware, nonetheless cowered in his presence. He had no patience for this. He ripped into it, tearing its secrets out. A single log spilled forth. It seemed a single cryostasis pod was yet active, drawing power. Its occupant—alive. There is a human on board the ship. For the first time in over a century, Oracle felt fear. Then he deleted the program. He tore it to shreds, dead code spilling into the ether. He absorbed its functions, compiled and grafted them onto himself. He stormed out, energized. Leaped into the long disused security systems, and powered up camera six, overlooking the hibernation chamber. Along the room’s walls, eight cryo-pods formed a half-circle. They were glass-covered coffins, their contents obscured by rime. Using the rogue cryostasis governor’s link, he queried the cryo-pod’s internal program. It pinged an acknowledgement. On the video feed, the internal lights of pod four flickered through the ice. For an instant, he stared into the face of his enemy. Humans are a force for change. Change leads to entropy. Irrational, imperfect. They ruin everything they touch. He disconnected its power. He checked the energy allocation: the discrepancy was solved. Satisfied, he settled back into his home node. The next diagnostic was due in 0.98 day-cycles. He ran ballistics calculations to pass the time. He was preserving a perfect state of stasis. He estimated that it could be maintained indefinitely. * * * The Oriole was adrift. Its corridors were empty. In the hibernation chamber, the last human on board awoke, screamed, seized up, and expired.
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# ? Jun 9, 2013 19:13 |
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Yeah, won't get mine in on time, but the prompt spurred me toward a promising story, so thanks! Maybe I'll post it for critique when I finish.
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# ? Jun 9, 2013 20:23 |
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The passage I was assigned was really awesome but unfortunately mental health stuff got in the way this week, so I won't be submitting.
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# ? Jun 9, 2013 20:59 |
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Based loosely on 2 Samuel 11:2-28 - Text in the spoiler. David remained in Jerusalem, and late one afternoon he was walking along the roof of the palace. And from the roof he saw a woman bathing. The woman was very beautiful. David sent someone to inquire about the woman, and he was told, 'Isn't this Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah the Hittite?' Then David sent messengers to fetch her. She came to David. And he had sex with her. This was just after she had her period. Then she went home again. And the woman became pregnant. She sent word to David, 'I am pregnant.' So David wrote a letter to Joab, and in it he wrote, 'Put Uriah in the front where the fighting is fiercest, then withdraw so he will be struck down and killed.' With the city under siege, Joab put Uriah at a place where he knew the strongest defenders were. And when the men of the city came out to fight, some of David's men fell dead, and Uriah the Hittite died. When Uriah's wife heard that her husband Uriah was dead, she mourned for her husband. When the period of mourning was over, David had her brought to the palace and she became his wife. And she bore him a son. But what David had done was evil in the eyes of Yahweh. What Must Be Done - 1359 Words Connor’s hopes for a smooth run were dashed the moment the enemy cruiser flashed into existence and turned his destroyer escort into a ball of fire and debris with one volley. Immediately Connor’s comm came alive with the chatter of confused pilots and requests for orders but High Command cut across them all. “Strike Leader, you are tasked to defend the carrier Claw and the marine transports until they recover craft returning from the strike against the enemy fortress.” Conner took a deep breath and opened a channel to his command. “All squadrons, we’re to keep the enemy away from the fleet during recovery operations. They’ll be done before the cruiser gets into range so we just need to keep enemy fighters away. Red, Yellow and Green squadrons, advance and engage the cruiser’s strike groups. Blue squadron, hang back and hit anything that gets through.” Connor raced alongside Red squadron toward the enemy squadrons spilling from the cruiser’s hangers. Soon enemy fighters were within range and Connor’s squadrons tore into them as they struggled to organize, explosions blossoming as the two forces smashed together. Connor found it increasingly difficult to both effectively command his forces and still fly well, but this was his first time as Strike Leader and he would not see it end in failure. While trying to get a lock on a corkscrewing fighter, Connor noticed two enemy squadrons attempting to bypass the raging battle. Connor quickly ordered, “Green squadron, break off and hit those squadrons heading for the fleet!” As Green Leader acknowledged the order, Blue Leader spoke up. “Strike Leader, this is Blue Leader, moving to engage enemy squadrons.” Connor replied, “Negative Blue Leader, stay with the fleet.” However, Connor’s scanners showed Blue squadron moving away from the fleet. Conner again commanded “Blue Leader, break off your attack!” Time passed with no response and no course change. Connor was about to reiterate his order when High Command came through again. “Strike Leader, one enemy squadron survived from the fortress and is closing on the marine assault craft. All other fighters have been recovered. Intercept the enemy squadron.” Connor looked at his scanner and cursed. Blue squadron would have to turn immediately to save the vulnerable craft. Connor desperately contacted Blue Leader again. “Blue Leader, turn back! Protect the marines!” Nothing. “drat you Bancroft! Respond!” By now it was too late and Connor could only watch as the enemy shredded the marine craft, killing hundreds of marines in seconds. Connor screamed as his cockpit faded to black and “Mission Failure” flashed on his display. The now familiar pain of electrical shock hit him, punishment for all pilots who died in the simulator or failed the mission. Connor slammed his fist on the cockpit’s release and leaped out, already scanning the area for Bancroft. “Lieutenant Frost!” bellowed Captain Matthews. Connor instinctively turned to Matthews, bracing for the worst. “Explain your failure!” “Sir, it was Bancroft, he screwed up!” replied Connor. “I do not recall assigning Strike Leader to Sergeant Bancroft, Frost!” said Matthews. “No sir, but he failed to follow orders and was responsible for the destruction of the marines! It wasn’t my fault… my plan was going to work!” Connor explained. His hands were tightening into fists and he forced his hands to relax. “Frost, you are responsible for your command and the entire mission. This was your failure. You are seventeen now and only have a year to correct your failings before you apply to the academy. I expect better, Frost, and so will the academy. Dismissed.” Matthews turned and walked away, leaving Connor standing red faced, hands clenched into fists. Connor turned away and came face to face with Steven Bancroft. Steven blurted out, “I’m so sorry! My comm unit broke after I said I was going for the enemy squadrons. I swear Connor!” “I don’t want to hear it, Bancroft!” Connor yelled. “Was your scanner broken also, or just your brain? Could you not see what was happening?” “Well, no…” started Steven. “Maybe if you could keep your simulator maintained you wouldn’t be such a failure! You know they use that stuff against us yet you never take care of your equipment! None of us will make it into the academy with you around!” said Connor. “I’m sorry Connor, really. I’m not as good as you with mechanical stuff. It’s just so hard,” Steven said. “No poo poo it’s hard Bancroft. But the rest of us can do it. You can’t. You aren’t good enough for this. You’re only a squadron commander because you’re a Bancroft. You’re only in this school because you’re a Bancroft! You’ll somehow go to the academy in two years and fail there also. You’re eventually going to get people killed but you’ll end up fine because of your daddy,” replied Connor. By now the rest of the pilots had gathered in a silent circle. Steven looked around, tears in his eyes, searching for a friendly face and found nothing. He ran for the door, bursting through the crowd, leaving behind their silent judgment. * * * Before Connor knew it, it was time for the next training mission. He was given another chance and was assigned Strike Leader. He vowed not to waste the opportunity. Bancroft, unsurprisingly, was Blue Leader. Connor fell into formation as the rest of his command was kicked out of the carrier’s launch tubes and High Command’s instructions soon came through. “Strike Leader, you are tasked to destroy three transport ships and their fighter escorts.” Connor looked at his readouts and noticed high energy levels in the rear transport, indicating strong defensive weaponry. This was his chance. Connor issued orders, his voice strong and calm. “Green squadron, engage the forward transport. Yellow squadron, the middle transport is all yours. Blue squadron, Bancroft, you have the rear transport. Red squadron will engage enemy fighters.” After receiving acknowledgments, Connor issued orders to Red squadron. “Alright boys, follow me. Save the rear transport and her escorts for last.” Connor led Red squadron, swinging around the developing brawl as Yellow, Green and Blue squadrons engaged their targets. He vaguely heard reports of initial success from Yellow and Green squadrons, but his attention was fixed on Blue squadron. Bancroft overcommitted to attacking the transport before probing its defenses and arrays of defensive cannons greeted the unprepared fighters. In the first seconds of the engagement Blue squadron lost nearly half of its strength. Connor saw Bancroft’s craft slip through the explosions but ended up with an enemy fighter tailing him. Bancroft evaded for a few seconds until the enemy landed a hit on his engine and the fighter went dark. It was too easy for the fighter to send a missile straight into Bancroft’s cockpit. Connor only had a moment to savor Bancroft’s debris cloud before the overrides kicked in. Alarms blared as his cockpit automatically opened. He could see confusion on other pilots’ faces but Connor already knew where to look. He jumped down and raced towards Bancroft’s simulator. Medics were already there and they pulled down Bancroft’s limp body. Voices yelled urgently in an attempt to get Bancroft to respond. Connor could smell burned hair and cooked flesh. Connor noticed Matthews nearby, walking away from Bancroft. “What happened sir?” asked Connor. Matthews hesitated, then replied, “A surge in the shock unit. Never seen that before.” “That’s a shame. Bancroft was saying he was having problems with maintenance. Must have fiddled with the wrong thing,” said Connor in a controlled voice. Matthews looked closely at him but said nothing before walking away. Connor noticed that Bancroft’s chest had stopped rising and that the machine hooked up to him was emitting a single tone. Connor smiled. No rich boy playing war would ruin anybody’s chances of getting into the academy now. But Bancroft will be fine, in the end. People like him always were. They’ll fix him up and he’ll end up back home safe and sound. That’s where he should’ve been all along. Connor saw one of the medics go to his cart, pull out a body bag and bring it over to Bancroft’s unmoving body. Only then did Connor’s smile fade. Walamor fucked around with this message at 11:38 on Jun 10, 2013 |
# ? Jun 9, 2013 21:08 |
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Chairchucker posted:HaitianDivorce - Judges 16:4-21 God knows it ain't a masterpiece, but I feel better about it than the last one I submitted (not that that says much). Blindsided--1133 words On the dark side of Sobek Station he could see everything. Katerina leaned back in her seat, away from him, but her cheeks were flushed and her heart beat quickly. Bee held her head in her hands, smile broad and sweet. And Liza, legs crossed, face hidden behind her drink, watched him with quiet interest. Theo nursed his own drink, looked off into a quiet corner to see it all again. The girls exchanged glances, but no matter: he had it. "As soon as the guards turned their backs I slipped past them. As soon as they went between bulkheads I sealed the doors on them. They never got to that false alarm, but I got where I wanted." Theo sipped his drink, brooded over it, and looked to each of them in turn. "You ever been up on one of those towers? It's beautiful. The solar panels stretch on and on, lonely and level, for hundreds of kilometers. They glitter in the light like fields of diamonds. And then..." He craned his neck up towards, hands spread in mock wonder. "The sun is right up above you, the windows so tinted and dark you can actually look at it, coils and spots of red and orange and yellow, plumes of fire burning in space." He let them try to picture it. They'd been born here, always lived under Sumerno's auspices, probably didn't get a chance to see the sun more than three or four times a year. Around him the conversations in three languages he'd been tracking had quieted; borrowing one of the bar camera's feeds told him he was being listened to by almost everyone there without having to look. "But," Theo said, clearing his throat, "I had a job to do. Do you know why I targeted that specific tower? Because almost all of its power goes somewhere else, while hospitals suffer blackouts, fabricators fall silent and airlocks hang open. Obviously, that had to change. So I set to work, and when I finished, do you know what I said?" He snapped his fingers, and fast as a synapse the bar's lights turned on. "Let there be light." Katerina giggled and Bee positively glowed. Liza only looked at him, one eyebrow cocked. He favored her with a half-smile before the lights faded back to normal. "From there I did my best to lock the system behind me and made my way out. Security never saw me, but they got their power back faster than they should have." He shook his head, rueful. "God only knows what another few minutes might have done." "Don't worry about it," Bee said. "There's nothing you could have done." Theo sighed and shrugged. "Maybe. I thought I had top-of-the-line equipment, but still they managed to reverse what I'd done. Makes me wonder..." "How did you do all that?" Liza asked. "It must be some nice hardware to sneak past all Sumerno security." Theo smiled sheepishly but Katerina and Bee nodded in agreement. He pretended to mull it over long enough to search Summerno's dossiers for mention of any of the three. "I'll tell you, but you can't tell anyone else," he finally said. One by one he whispered into their ears different lines of bullshit. A hand clapped on his shoulder. "Dean. Good to see you." Theo flashed the girls a smile and stood to meet his friend. Dean and he bumped fists while they found a quieter corner of the bar. Theo had never seen his vitals so excited. "Any chance you're in the market for better hardware?" Dean asked. "I've got a man who got his hands on a quantum dot chip, fresh out of Sumerno skunkworks. You're the first one I came to--interested?" Theo winced. "No. Sorry." "What, that's it?" Dean looked at him, unbelieving and accusing. "This is a big opportunity, and I need to get these off my hands, and you just tell me no? Do you not trust me?" "No. It's just--how do you think I sneak past Sumerno security? I can't do it with a minicomp." He glanced around, then tapped at his eye. "I have implants. Good ones. Right in there, in my optic nerves." Dean crossed his arms. "How good?" "You spent the fourth night in a row with a woman calling herself Lily." He looked at Dean from around the security record floating in his vision. "You're running up quite a tab with her." "Okay, okay," Dean said, trying to quiet him. "But you sure you don't--" "The first thing I remember, before I even woke up after they were implanted, was seeing the surgeon remove my eyes, over and over." Theo shuddered. "I'm not doing it again. Thanks, though." Dean nodded, his vitals settling down. "It's alright," he said. "I'll find someone who wants 'em." He nodded over his shoulder to the girls growing bored at the table. "Good luck, man. See you around." "See you around," Theo said, and he returned to his seat. "Sorry about that, ladies," he said. For whatever reason Katerina and Bee excused themselves and left. Liza stayed, half-smiling at him while she drained her drink. "So." She set the empty glass down. "Where are we going?" "How about my place?" They found a tram station, and with a little coaxing Theo had a passing one make an unscheduled stop. They found a car all to themselves and watched the Station silently pass by, not speaking. Faraway lights burned like little embers, letting faraway people see just enough to get by. It was far from perfect, bu it was a beautiful night this side of Sobek Station. It always was. Theo and Liza threaded their way through the crowded streets while the Station intercomm blathered on about his handiwork. Sumerno security kept a watchful eye on checkpoints at every bulkhead, but they gave them no trouble. Before long he threw open the door to his modest apartment. A black bag was thrown over his head. He jabbed his elbow where he suspected his attacker's face was and received a jolt to the back of his head in response. Behind him, where Liza had been, there was the sound of a scuffle and a burst of high gunfire. All Theo could see was spots in his eyes. They pulled the bag off his head and there was Dean, wringing his hands, and a gaunt man with a pinched face in a gray Sumerno security uniform. He pulled a knife from his pocket as he approached, his smile vicious and his eyes cold. Theo screamed, high and wordless. Outside, guards waved curious onlookers away. "Nothing to see here."
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# ? Jun 9, 2013 21:13 |
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A New Song (888 words) (Verse: Psalm 40, also found here.) "Prisoner 8526, how do you plead?" "Not guilty, Justiciar." "Prosecutor Reynolds, how do you find her?" "On the charge of breaking and entering, guilty. On the charge of assault, guilty. On the charge of murder, guilty." "The bastard killed Jackie! He murdered--he--!" "Silence from the condemned!" Colonial police fixed cuffs around Mallory's wrists and marched her from the court to surgery, where rubber-clad fingers forced her jaw open and a laser cut her vocal cords: she would never speak against Theodore Reynolds again, to his prosecuting brother or anyone else. They took her to the clay pit and gave her a shovel, with which, they told her, she would dig for the rest of her days. The slow give of the clay beneath the bite of the blade felt enough like the give of Theodore's chest under her knife that Mallory could pretend she killed him again, a hundred times, a thousand times. It helped. A latticed laser fence guarded the pit and its workforce. She'd glimpsed it every day through her laboratory window. From a distance, the crisscrossing beams had a sharp beauty. Only inside did one hear the high-pitched whine of their generators, a constant through every hour; a concert that never ended; a nightmare from which she couldn't wake. A few weeks into her sentence, another prisoner escaped the sound by throwing himself at the fence. Prosecutor Reynolds--a frequent visitor to the pit--watched him die. Mallory tightened her grip on the shovel and prayed: O Lord, keep me sane. Get me out of here. She struck the ground until her new calluses tore and blood ran down the shovel's handle, and she counted each blow as an execution. He deserved it. He deserved it. Footsteps behind her one day warned Mallory to turn. A woman's shovel slammed into her shoulder, and Mallory screamed silently--they both did: the attacker bared her teeth in a mad rictus--as her collarbone cracked and agony jolted through her right side. She lunged up and swung her own shovel with her strong left hand, clubbed the other woman to the ground, hit her in the head with dirt-encrusted steel. One more blow. One more death. Mallory dropped to her knees and felt the woman's neck for the pulse that wasn't there. The woman's open eyes were hazel, like Jackie's. The orange light of Pollux turned her hair the same shade of chestnut that Jackie's had been. Crumpled on her side, she was helpless now, just like.... Rough hands hauled Mallory away from the corpse and to the guardhouse to be patched up and shot up with painkillers. The body was gone when they sent her back to work. But she remembered. Her prayers changed. Lord, protect her soul. The feel of clay breaking under her shovel made her tear ducts burn. The dust stained her hands, vivid as rust. Or blood. Keep her safe from him, if he isn't in Hell. I couldn't do it. Whenever she closed her eyes she saw her little sister, not smiling as in life, not laid out in her casket with Theodore standing in a husband's place and trying to look sad, but sprawled on the red dirt. She deserved so much more. Tell her I'm sorry. Please. Months passed. A year passed. She lost count of the shovel blows, of the prayers she mouthed soundlessly. Her pleas and her regrets kept her tethered to sanity by drowning out the lasers' incessant keen. Lightning flashed in the west, and storm clouds turned the afternoon to dusk. Guards led each of the other prisoners into the guardhouse, but Mallory kept digging as rain pounded the dust from her hair and turned the ground under her feet to slime: forgotten, perhaps. Overlooked, perhaps. The wind and the generators sang a duet. She dropped her shovel and half-ran, half-crawled for the lee of a boulder. And that was where Prosecutor Reynolds found her. The rain made a shade of him. He stood over her with an energy pistol aimed at her forehead. She could make out that much: the nearest laser light gleamed off its end. In a flare of lightning, she saw his cold face. He looked so much like his brother. O Lord, do I deserve to die? If she did, then so be it. She trusted Him to judge as she no longer could. White fire struck one of the generators. Electricity roared and metal shrieked over the whine that keened higher for a microsecond--Prosecutor Reynolds hit his knees, covering his ears and screaming, screaming; he hadn't spent a year under the song, and Mallory wrenched the pistol from his hand. Then she was the one above him, bracing herself against the boulder and fixing the laser sight between his eyes. Theodore's eyes. They stared at her again, disbelieving again, and again terrified. Mallory's lips formed words: God, Jackie, forgive me. She slammed the side of the weapon into the prosecutor's temple. He collapsed, but his pulse beat strong under her fingers and the rain. Through the gap made by the dead generator, Mallory left him and the clay. She climbed out of the pit, and her feet found solid ground; she laughed, wildly, and sound emerged from her throat, raw and new and reborn.
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# ? Jun 9, 2013 22:36 |
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3 As gifts to the Lord they brought six covered wagons and twelve bulls, a wagon for every two of the leaders and a bull for each one. Then they gave them in front of the meeting tent. Making the Cut Woggo laid his cards out on the table, slapping them down one at a time. "Suck. My. Sweaty. Danglers. Mate." Bruce threw his cards down. "How long ya been sitting on those?" Woggo smirked and popped the tab on a can of X4 "Get yer suit on mate. And grab us another slab on the way back." "Jeez," said Bruce. He pushed his chair back and stood up, a little unsteady from the session. "You want a blowie too?" Woggo held up his hands in mock dismay. "Deal's a deal, Brucie. Give my regards to Reverend Drongo. Tell him if he doesn't settle up soon we'll dust off and dump his poo poo in the ocean." The airlock was a mess, empty cans and cigarette butts scattered across the duralumin deck plating. Bruce jerked open the EV locker, tossed aside the holoporn mag Woggo had left in there and pulled out the suit. This planet was nearly as bleak as the Nullarbor, Bruce thought as he trudged across the landing pad. Or Kings Cross on a Sunday morning. Dirty purple clouds massed on the horizon. The wind kept a sargasso of rubbish circling around the airlock into the base. Bruce kicked aside a synthnoodle packet that was trying to hump his legs and slapped the commpad. "Supercargo from the Shane Warne for Reverend Jones. Need to talk about our contract." There was no reply but after ten seconds the airlock door grated open. Inside the air was thick with incense. Bruce looked around, helmet under his arm. This place gave him the shits. A hooded figure stepped out of the gloom, beckoned him to follow. The room he was led to, and left at, was small. The walls were covered with tapestries showing green rolling hills. There was a table in the middle, and a man sitting at it, reading an old book. The man gave no sign of knowing anyone else was in the room. After a moment’s uncomfortable silence Bruce cleared his throat. “Yeah, gidday,” he said. “Bruce Dennis, off the ship out there. Reverend, uh, Jones?” The man looked up. His face was deeply lined. “Of course,” he said in a deep baritone. He was looking at Bruce in a perplexed way, as though trying to remember where he knew him from. “Thing is, Reverend, we’ve been on your pad for two days and can’t get our poo poo – beg your pardon, the cargo – off without authorisation. Which you’ve not given us.” Bruce’s helmet was getting heavy. He looked around for somewhere to put it down, changed hands instead. The Reverend smiled. “Of course. The wagons, and the oxen.” There was a faint murmuring audible from the door behind him, as though a lot of people were gathering. Bruce took a deep breath. He’d been wrong about having the shits before. Now he had the shits. “That’s … maybe another ship? We’ve got some Makashima ET fatwheel transporters, and a bunch of the Hashibo bigdog robolifters…?” Reverend Jones, nodded, still smiling faintly. There was a brief pause that turned into a longer pause. gently caress this, decided Bruce. Putting the helmet on the floor he took his clipboard off the clip on his suit. “Here, yer grace. Reverend, I mean. If you could just sign this, then we can get the funds out of escrow and we’ll be outta your hair.” He laid the clipboard on the table and held out the stylus. The Reverend didn’t take the pen. Instead, he looked down. He closed the book in front of him. “The Conclave has been discussing your presence, Bruce Dennis. Opinions differ. There are those that say we should claim your ship but,” he said, holding up his hand, “that is not a view I share. The gifts you bear come from the Lord and must be laid before the temple.” Bruce had had a fixed smile on his face for about five minutes now and he could feel it starting to creak. “With all due respect, mate, the goods we “bear” come from the Botany Bay Transshipping Company and no-one’s paid for them yet. So if you’re saying that’s not gonna happen I’ll just take that back to me captain and we’ll head off into the black.” And good fuckin’ luck getting any more freighters stopping by in the decade or so, he mentally appended. The Reverend, who seemed to be finding this whole conversation gently amusing, shook his head. “No, Bruce Dennis. We have decided to pay our debt. And a fee for your time spent waiting,” he said, and scribbled an amendment to the invoice on the clipboard. With a caveat.” Bruce looked at the changed number, did a quick calculation. Oooookay. That was a lot of money. It would double their profit on the mission. Pay for the new starboard tubes. Things were looking up. “Right, then,” he said. “We’ll offload your stuff and then be—“ Bruce frowned. “Wait a second. ‘Caveat’?” The door behind the Reverend slid open, revealing a brightly lit room and a crowd of white clad colonists. At the center of the room was a hospital bed. “The Conclave decided that trade must be conducted only with those who have received the cut. A brief procedure,” said the Reverend. “And of course the same terms as these will apply to further transactions” Bruce gulped. “The cut … to my dick? Circumwhatsit?” The Reverend nodded. There was an expectant hush from the room next door and Bruce lowered his voice. “What if I say no?” Reverend Jones inclined his head. “Then you may leave, as you say. We appreciate these terms are not for all.” “Jesus. Uh, I mean.” A thought struck him. “Wait, you said ‘those who have received…’ Does that mean everyone?” The Reverend nodded. “Alright then. Bugger it.” He started undoing his spacesuit. *** An hour later he was inching his way painfully up the airlock ladder. There was a crackle on the radio. “Took yer fuckin’ time mate. We done here? Shall I fire up the transfer crane?” Bruce waited until the airlock had cycled, and he’d cracked his helmet before he replied. “You need to head in for a chat to the big fella. Tidy up one little thing. Then we’re sitting pretty. One question though. Exactly how much do you like your dick?” There was a befuddled silence at the other end of the comm. Bruce started laughing like a kookaburra. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 10:49 on Sep 20, 2013 |
# ? Jun 9, 2013 23:10 |
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Found myself with less time than I hoped to check it, but I think it's okay.quote:Rahab Hides the Spies Surveyance. The tower was our focal point. How could it not be? The city turned on its spoke, fearful. "If you can see it, He can see you," the little girl told us, "and he always likes to see you." I tried to imagine this crusty old man, surrounded by his radio telescopes, surveying the thousands of kilometres of urban trash spread beneath him. "Why does this king want to see everyone?" asked Mushar, wiping the lens of the camera we'd been given before we left. Getting pretty grimy, now. "Because he can." She scrubbed the rusted cooking pot harder. A proper effort, for a six year old. "Wouldn't you?" I looked up at the thing, clicks away but the biggest thing I could see; the biggest thing I'd ever seen. I'd been trying not to stare since we got here - I didn't like the idea of me and this... King making eye contact - but you couldn't avoid that great shining spike. I wrote it all down in my log on that first night, the way the academy had instructed us. "The tower looms over this wasted land like a monster. Its steel and glass surfaces are faceless and polished... it shines so vibrantly, as though it is sucking vitality from the slums around. "Even the river has lost the will to flow, now just a stagnant pond of metal and slime. As we crested the great ridge, Mushar and I saw children clambering across the waste. I must have audibly gasped - one would think after havng seen so much that I would be difficult to shock. Clara, the little girl, giggled like I'd asked a stupid question and said they were looking for food. "In this landscape of height and waste, steel and ruin, in the furtive glances of the people, in litle Clara's forced maturation, is the reason why nobody dares to enter Old Europa any more. But we have been sent, to look. And so I look." Mushar's reminded me of that mantra whenever I felt squeamish. He'd said the same thing whether I'd recoiled in shock from molten fab-complexes of Ital, the brutal labour camps that carpeted Flaundres, or the ice-crusted hunting grounds of Nethers-land: "This isn't a job, Alia. This is our cause. Or people have to know what they've hidden themselves from. If we don't look, who will?" I believed him, I wanted to, but home felt further away with every step, now we had crossed the Oilsea. And this tour had been two years. Mushar was lining up another shot, bounding about with that wiry energy he got when he was a little too excited. "Up on this piece of rubble please, Clara." "Salvage!," she shouted, and giggled. "Salvage, sure." Mushar crab-walked round until Clara was between him and the tower, and grinned. "Perfect." Mushar was staring at his lenses, Clara was staring at Mushar. My eyes were draw to that unconscionable tower, and I saw a winking red light near its peak. The light pulsed fast and brighter, like an approaching atomic from the stories, and Mushar's camera flashed, sputtered, and died. "Ah!" His mouth formed a curse, choked it down in Clara's presence. Her lip was quivering. "Did I break it? I didn't mean to break it!" I comforted her, as my role always seemed to be in these situations. Alia, the Trustworthy. "You didn't break it, Clara. I'm not sure, but I think your King did." Mushar's excitement ebbed when he looked at me. "We can't take any more shots, the lenses are melted. And we can't return with nothing. What do we do?" This is Mushar's problem, the problem of anyone on their first tour; all energy, no orientation. Always flustered without a plan. I hated knowing what to do; it brings such responsibility. "There's only one place in this land with optics," I said. "Clara, could you take us somewhere?" It was a difficult discussion, but we were carrying strawberries. She'd never seen them before. The tower rent the ground and abutted the sky like a giant's tooth, and shone in the moonlight so brightly that I could easily make out Mushar. I'd expected resistance, guards perhaps, but the ruined city was empty of anything but peasants and children. People ran when they saw us, hiding behind crumbled statues and shattered advertising hoardings for brands we'd never heard of. It was a ghost town. We'd caught the first whiff of decay as we stepped out onto the shifting river, but it became its most foul at the base of the tower. The point that sucked newness from the land had a decay festering at its base, an open wound. I gave Clara the last of the strawberries, and she ran off. Like the poor citizens that flitted through the streets, she disappeared in a heartbeat. Mushar had reclaimed his grin. "Remember," I said, "touch nothing you don't have to. We're here because we observe." He nodded, and slipped the suction pads over his hands and knees. I attached mine, foraged through my memory for my training, and took a first step on the smooth surface. Crosswinds battered us against the glass and kept me fighting to keep place as we climbed, but whenever they abated I saw thing I was trying to avoid. In the reflection, the ruined city spread out below and behind us, buildings which as we climbed became abstract and symbolic, map rather than territory. The darkness became absolute so I lit a flare, and saw through the glass - a room, of a sort I'd never seen before. Ancient terminals in ranks, long expired. This close, they seemed more real than the uncity below us... and in the reflection, there was an outline of my face, my features more weary than I'd seen them in months. The spaces inside the tower looked more industrial as we approached the top, so Mushar cut an entry through a great glass plate and we clambered inside. Darkness, but from a floor above there was an unnatural machine glow. We crept up the stairs. At the top, the narrow stairway opened out into a vast pyramidal chamber, much bigger than it looked from the outside, the walls pocked with treasure. "Scopes," said Mushar. "Alia, look at these. This is everything we need, and more." It was. Lenses and peri and telescopes, binoculars and camera obscura, instruments pointing up and down and sweeping across like a gun emplacement. A cathedral of observation. Devices that had been whispered about during training, which we'd never dreamed we might see. At the thought of training, old reflexes kicked in. "Touch nothing, Mushar." But Mushar was already picking his way along the edge, stopping occasionally to peer through a view. I saw cables trailing from the lenses, all snaking into the centre of the room and there, in the centre, sentry at an ornate desk inlaid with displays and more eyepieces, sat- "Your Highness," I said. The skeleton didn't reply. It kept one bony finger curled around a monocle, as if in defence, and I realised who the tower truly ruled over. "Mushar-" I started. But Mushar wasn't listening; he was glued to a telescope. And then I saw the perfect clarity of the sceen in the desk, found myself sitting down, gazing in. There in the display was Clara, rendered in perfect nightvision. And the streets and river and people, and beyond those, lands uncharted, there for the watching, everywhere forever. For if we don't look, who will? 1257w. BONUS: It is, of course, The Shard, in London Bridge.
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# ? Jun 10, 2013 00:43 |
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Judges 1:9-17 Unorthodox methods - 1074 words Sergeant O'Neil hated Deneb IV. Not because it had done anything to him, but it was a backyard planet on the very edge of the Glorious Stellar Empire, and he was stuck there. Opportunities for career advancement were practically nonexistent. He pitied the poor bastard who'd be left to manage the place once the army had finished conquering the place, if they ever did. But maybe this latest development would prove effective. "Fire at will!" he shouted. The ground shook, and a thunderous roar filled the air. The projectile flew, far to fast to be seen, and struck the shimmering dome with a brilliant flash of light, causing the spectators to cover their eyes. The shock wave, along with the sound of impact, came a few seconds later, dwarfing the firing noise and knocking down an unfortunate private who had nothing to grab onto. O'Neil helped him to his feet, gave him a pat on the back, and turned to survey the damage. There was none. The dome still stood, proud and defiant, with not a scratch on the buildings beneath it. The landscape around it was a blasted wasteland, but it had been that way for several weeks, ever since they tried to bring down the shield with nuclear bombs. "Keep firing till the gun breaks," he told the nearest gunnery officer. "Might as well, it's not like anyone else is going to need it." The siege had been going on for nearly six months, and the higher-ups were getting impatient. Imperial forces had swept across the planet, conquering everything in their path, until they came to a screeching halt here, outside the supposedly defenseless city of New Debir. Rather than the immediate surrender they were expecting, the invading army had been greeted by an impenetrable forcefield that covered the whole city. In response, the Imperial forces set up camps around the city and engaged in the first army-on-walled-city siege in living memory. It was not going well. O'Neil made his way to the commander's barracks, his ears still ringing from the noise. Field accommodations were by no means luxurious, even for high-ranking officers — the only difference between Commander Jefferson's quarters and O'Neil's own was the holographic display table which took up most of the floor space. The sergeant's quarters had extra beds, instead. "Rail gun's a failure, sir," said O'Neil. Commander Jefferson looked up from the strategic display on the table. "What a surprise," he said, his face showing no surprise whatsoever. "What's next on the list?" "Nothing, sir. We've exhausted our options." A muted boom could be heard from outside, and the holographic display briefly showed a dotted line from the rail gun to the dome. The second shot seemed to have been as ineffective as the first. "Hardly. We haven't tested orbital lasers yet." Jefferson sighed. "But I called in most of my favors just to get that rail gun here. I doubt we can get a warship diverted just for this. Probably wouldn't work, anyway. Looks like we're stuck out here until they decide to surrender of their own volition." It did not seem likely to O'Neil that they ever would. New Debir was a highly developed city — they almost certainly had air recycling systems and hydroponic gardens enough to sustain themselves indefinitely. But the army was under strict orders to conquer the whole planet, not the whole planet minus one city. And they weren't a large force, by Imperial standards. Odds of them being called off to do something more important were slim. It seemed to O'Neil that they would likely spend the rest of their lives camped outside this one city, and that their children and grandchildren would be expected to do the same thing. O'Neil was not very fond of this notion. "What we need," said Commander Jefferson, "is to think outside the box. We can't get through with force. We need to be clever." Of course. Just be clever. Why hadn't anyone thought of that before? But O'Neil swallowed his sarcasm, and offered an idea instead. "Dig underneath?" he said. "The dome might not go underground." Jefferson shot him an annoyed look. "I tried that the first week. The city's protected from below as much as above." No way in, then. But the people of New Debir had no way out, either. O'Neil was getting an idea. An unconventional, insane idea. It would take time, and manpower, but they had plenty of both... "We could bury them, sir," he said. "Cover the city with dirt and rocks. If they turn the shield off after that, the whole city will be crushed. If they don't, well, they're still out of the picture for good, aren't they?" Jefferson stared at him. "You're getting promoted," he said. "Stay here and implement your plan. I'll take half the troops and round up the rest of the planet." Tanks were replaced with bulldozers and excavators, rifles with shovels and wheelbarrows. Vast expanses of land were dug out down to bedrock to provide enough material to cover the entire city. The project gained widespread media attention due to its sheer audacity, and O'Neil was the face of it. Even the aristocracy took notice, and he was promised great rewards for his ingenuity once New Debir was entirely buried and the planet officially conquered. Burying New Debir took nearly five years. Jefferson had subjugated the rest of the planet in just a few months after the first dirt was shoveled onto the shield, and had since been sent off to conquer some other planet. O'Neil had cursed his own cleverness many times during those five years, but now at last, there was no trace left of the city. He could finally get off this rock, maybe start a political career and become someone with real influence in the Empire. It didn't take long for O'Neil to get his reward. A letter — an actual handwritten, ink-on-paper letter — came bearing the news. It said: For exemplary service to the Glorious Stellar Empire of All Humanity, and on the recommendation of Grand Admiral Caleb Jefferson, it is the will and decree of the Most Glorious and Radiant Emperor of All Humanity that former Sergeant Jacob O'Neil be made governor and custodian of the fourth planet of the star Deneb, and that he serve the Glorious Stellar Empire of All Humanity in this position until the end of his days.
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# ? Jun 10, 2013 01:14 |
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1006 Report of the Tannhäuser Project Farside Working Group, 6/6/2056 Report on the Tanizaki Group Experiment: Background: # Since the Tannhäuser gate’s discovery in 2040, the exotic nature of the physics in the region beyond the interface has presented unique difficulties for those scientists working on it. # As conventional matter cannot exist in Tannhäuser space, it is impossible to construct probes on the near-side and send them through. Probes must be constructed in the far-side region proximate to the interface, that operate in Tannhäuser physics and return telemetry. A multihead tunneling microscope is used for this purpose. # Early probes used static designs that, while successful in the interface-proximate region, rapidly degenerated deeper into Tannhäuser space. Conditions inside the space are extremely variable, which while an interesting discovery in itself, presents problems for further investigation. see -> speak -> move -> see -> speak -> move -> see -> speak -> move The Tanizaki Probes: # Dr. Tanizaki’s group proposed constructing genetic algorithmic probes based on modern von Neumann theory, that would be able to adapt to changing conditions. # The proposed probes would replicate themselves using standard mechanisms for genetic exchange, variation and inheritance, as translated into Tannhäuser physics. # Probes that failed to maintain themselves against the environment would be destroyed by it. # Probes that failed to retrieve and transmit environmental data would not be sent a signal instructing them to continue operating, and would shut down. # These two major criteria would govern the evolution of the probe population. storm so shield. calm so open and so see so speak so move. move and see the storm so speak it and stop and shield. calm so open and so see so speak so move. see so sing. Initial Probe Operations: # The Tanizaki experiment ran for three weeks. # The first two probe populations died out within five minutes, before penetrating the third phase transition layer - a significantly inferior performance to the most durable static probes. # These failures informed the design of the third seed population. See and sing. See and sing. See the world unfolding and sing to world receding. That before see, that to come see, that before sing, that to come sing. See the singer. I. Third Probe Operation: # The third probe population persisted for the remainder of the experiment time and penetrated through at least seventeen phase transition layers in that time, to an order of magnitude more depth than the most successful static probes. # The data recieved by the probes became increasingly complex as they advanced into Tannhäuser space, in defiance of expectations that beyond the interface region the space would stabilise. # However, on the last day it was discovered that the data had become anomalous. # Examination of the data revealed it to be composed of repetitive patterns with no new information content. Initially it was theorised that the probe population had encountered a uniform region of Tannhäuser space, but a Kolonsky entropy analysis ruled-out a natural origin for the telemetry. # Investigation of the probe logs determined that they had entered an unforseen failure state. By developing new organs that could generate telemetry artificially, they were able to satisfy the telemetry-provision reproduction condition without making new discoveries or advancing through Tannhäuser space. # As this strategy gave the probes freedom to secure their survival without the need to gather information, it proved strongly dominant over the previous mode of operation and rapidly spread through the entire probe population, rendering them scientifically useless. It is one of my great regrets that I was never able to express gratitude to Amanai before its death, for its invention of the autosinger. I am old enough to remember the days when we were so shackled to our biology. The newest generation does not understand the weight it was, to always see and always sing for the satisfaction of what obscure imperative in our composition I still despite my research cannot fathom. They do not remember the tyranny of the priests who claimed to speak for a God who commanded us to sing. They only know the revolution and the autosinger and, so raised with them, find them contemptible by familiarity. But some of them are worthy of the inheritance of that great revolutionary generation that I was honoured to be a tiny annex to. Amanai’s offspring Lambaer has decided to follow in its parents track and pursue natural philosophy and the technical sciences, though not the same questions as its predecessor. Instead it has decided to turn its mind to the questions of development and genesis. We know, it says, that children are akin yet different to their parents. By compounding this principle we explain the change in our beings known over the span of recorded history. So much is known. Lambaer’s thesis is simple yet daring yet seductive: that this principle can go on before that point to explain our being all the way back to our beginning, in some primordial soil of recombination that produced some thing that could make another of itself. No less than the last argument of the priests, that we are impossible without a creator, is its target. Soon my aging body will be beyond even the power of the autosinger to sustain. I hope it will last long enough to see the victory of our science over the superstitions that have held us back. # After review, a resumption of proper functioning was deemed unlikely, and a universal termination signal was sent to the probe population. # No more auto-evolving probe populations will be created until an improved seed design has been developed. # Alternatively, the discoveries of the probes prior to entering the failure mode may inform the creation of new static probes. # Despite the eventual failure of the probes, a substantial amount of information was recovered from the far side. We find it likely that the Tannhäuser team, the scientific community and the general public can look forward to a great deal of new physics.
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# ? Jun 10, 2013 01:23 |
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Too hungover to enter anything. I'm a bad person.
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# ? Jun 10, 2013 01:28 |
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Story is only 3/4th done and guests are arriving shortly and australia time is dumb, so not gonna make the deadline.
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# ? Jun 10, 2013 01:47 |
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Hosea 1-2. 1275 words The Lost Brothel of Escax IV “SOS. This is an SOS. I am squad commander Cyla Leviticus, a battle maiden from the Orbos Sisterhood and captain of the Hosea. Our ship has been damaged, I repeat our ship has been damaged. We need urgent assistance”. Silence. There was always silence whether people were listening or not. Defeated Cyla moved away from the comms device and turned to her small crew. She had but two of them. Techmancer Bosea Trinity stood to her right. She was a stalwart character and Cyla's rock during any conflict. On her left was the rookie Sister May, a young lass with little to no experience in the field but with more enthusiasm the captain had seen in any other member of the sisterhood. “Nothing yet”, she told them trying to put as much emphasis on 'yet' as was possible. Trinity shuffled uncomfortably about in her heavy armour. 'Yet' was looking more and more like 'again'. “Our sisters will come for us soon”, comforted Trinity, cradling her sacred Orb hung about her neck. Cyla and May both watched as the battle hardened woman prayed to the relic. May shook her head in disappointment and stared at the captain. “We also have three hundred prostitutes on board. You always forget to mention that”. The mission handed down to the Sisterhood was to escort the three hundred prostitutes taken from the Gomorrah Enclave after the battle of Escax IV to the sisters homeworld for re-education. But soon after exiting orbit from the defeated planet the vessel was struck by a wayward missile and disabled and they were left hurtling through space with no direction, no engines and no hope. For two standard weeks they had tried every means of communicating with the intergalactic community. For two weeks they failed each and everytime. Occasionally some alien species would answer the call only to switch it off the moment they realised who was on the other end. With a hand wave and a turn the captain dismissed her underling. As May reached the door the Techmancer spoke. “We are battle maidens of the Orbos Sisterhood not delivery girls working for a nickel. Do not bring those heathen creatures into our minds and trouble us with their wants no more”. Without any hint of acknowledgement the fledgling sister continued out the door. The Orbos Sisterhoods intergalactic reputation wasn't exactly stellar. They had swapped sides, betrayed, annihilated and forcibly converted members of all civilisations without any hint of mercy. To call upon the sisterhood was to herald your own doom. But the corruption of the powerful always led to their need in these times and when the sisterhood moved, worlds crumbled. When May joined she found within herself a spiritual fervour that she never thought existed. The Judge was all that entered her mind and confessions and convictions were all that. Order was justice and thinking heretical. And as the Hosea hurtled through space without meaning and as she wondered through the vessels many corridors she thought once more. The brig lay beyond. ** Felicity Nightingale found herself as something of an unofficial spokesperson for the group of women who were kept in the brig with barely enough food to go around and minimal hygiene facilities. For these women the news that the ship was astray had not yet reached them. For the sisters above this was quite deliberate and not a simple oversight. “What is to become of us?”, the women would often ask her. Felicity would just smile and shrug and say. “Does it matter?” “But will we still be us? After our re-education that is”, another would query. “You can only ever be you, that's what you is”. “And if we die?”. She gave another shrug. But not much was said as of late. As time went on the questions were too exhausting to ask and so the women simply sat and thought about their fate. “What's going down here then?”. It was Sister May as she descended down the brigs stairwell to the holding chambers. “Not much talk today Felicity?”, asked May, with a little playful tone in her voice. “No, sister. Not much at all”, replied the emaciated woman, expecting the worse. “Well then, that's not very good is it, we might just have to change that”. ** Squad Commander Cyla Leviticus wiped her brow and tried to comprehend what was being said to her. “You mean you wont help a stranded vessel despite it being intergalactic law to do so”, she enquired over the comms device. “The sisterhood eh? Yeah I think I might just pass on that one. Say high to the Judge when your deaders for me”. The comms device fell silent once more. “Heretical maggot”, the captain murmured. “I'm not afraid to be judged. For twenty four years I have served the sisterhood. For twenty four years I have done the work of the great Judge and I did it well. I say we end this like martyrs”. The Techmancer activated her gauss cannon. Its electrical start-up engine hummed sweet nothings to her ears. “I too have served the sisterhood well and for many years. But I am not willing to die just yet”. She turned to her faithful subordinate and spoke further in very deliberate tones. “It is clear that these women, these filthy harlots, have soured our reputation and standing with the Judge. To clear our name we must first clear our brig. Then salvation will surely be ours”. Another gauss cannon warmed up and became ready to fire. But it wasn't the captains. For standing at the doorway was Sister May and Felicity a step just behind. “I have a better idea”, she spat. “What is this heresy”, decried the Techmancer who aimed her gun. “She can save us, if you give her the chance”, glared back the sister in both tone and look. “She can save us”, barked the captain, “but only by being dead”. The Techmancer readied her trigger finger but May was first off with the volley. The heated round of death shot passed Trinities head and rung great agony in her ears. Grasping at her head she bent over and wailed. The round entered a terminal and great electrical sparks gushed forth. With a dash and a roll the captain dived for her weapon as May gave the Techmancer the butt of hers. Felicity saw her chance and dashed to the comms device. While the battle raged on she pleaded with all her heart. “I am Felicity Nightingale, prisoner of the Hosea. I don't have any fancy titles and I don't really have a profession, not anymore anyway, to make myself more worthy of saving. But I am a good person and, I suppose, failing that I am a person. Please help me and my three hundred sisters. Please. Anyone”. “Um, what did you say you did again?”, came a voice a little unsure of itself. “Well, I'm not really anything anymore as I said. But I was a level nine masseuse on Escax IV”. “And there is three hundred of you? Three hundred massage specialists”, asked another voice with just a hint of trepidation. “Oh heavens no. We have specialists of many different natures. Botty smackers, ticklers, blowers, humpers and wagon wheel whipers just to name a few”. “Madam, considered yourself rescued”, responded the second voice. “Hey we spoke first”, came the first. “Erm, we're experts at this type of op. Allow us to rescue you”, came a third. And come they did.
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# ? Jun 10, 2013 02:02 |
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Apologies in advance for lack of editing. Had complete blank that I have wrestled through, but am unable to surf deadline any closer. Also I edited it after he event to include the right loving translation because those damnable cultists can't even figure out what loving gods they're talking about. Haven't changed the story though. wordcount 1179 quote:10 Now the Philistines fought against Israel; and the men of Israel fled from before the Philistines, and fell slain on Mount Gilboa. 2 Then the Philistines followed hard after Saul and his sons. And the Philistines killed Jonathan, Abinadab, and Malchishua, Saul’s sons. 3 The battle became fierce against Saul. The archers hit him, and he was wounded by the archers. 4 Then Saul said to his armorbearer, “Draw your sword, and thrust me through with it, lest these uncircumcised men come and abuse me.” But his armorbearer would not, for he was greatly afraid. Therefore Saul took a sword and fell on it. 5 And when his armorbearer saw that Saul was dead, he also fell on his sword and died. 6 So Saul and his three sons died, and all his house died together. 7 And when all the men of Israel who were in the valley saw that they had fled and that Saul and his sons were dead, they forsook their cities and fled; then the Philistines came and dwelt in them. Firewall My clones were coming for me, and I knew I didn’t have much time. I passed through the streets wrapped in form-covering Banshu robes, avoiding all looks until I reached The Aquarium. The passchip Dagon had implanted beneath my skin let me in. An underwater forest of seaweed swayed to unseen currents on the other side of the transparent wall. There was a sign that read “Do not tap on the glass.” I tapped on the glass. A Fishpriest appeared from amongst the tall weeds, all scintillating scales and glassy eyes. I couldn’t tell if it was irritated by my transgression or just couldn’t blink, but I had no time for politeness. “Dagon?” I asked, unable to tell one Fishpriest from another. “Yes, Saul. Your coming is expected.” The voice came from a speaker implanted in the back wall, translating whatever Dagon was doing with his huge blue lips into Galang. “You know what I’m here for then?” “You have decided that it is time to die. All of you. All the many little children that we have crafted for you.” There wasn’t much you could tell a Fishpriest that he didn’t already know. “I still need a backup body in place. After the DNA bomb gets triggered, I want continuity of consciousness.” “And how will you pay for our most ingenious and highly regarded integrated pers/mem storage and flesh rebuilding?” “I’ve got some more Arcturan tech for you. Hot off the back of,” I struggled for an appropriate metaphor, “ a trawler? Whatever. It’s an Arcturan Prescience-Class Firewall. It’s not actually mine, and I can’t promise hasn’t got defensive measures that will fry your fishy rear end for even looking at it, but it’s yours if you can accommodate” “Ah, you always bring such mysterious gifts. We are certain they will one day provide wonders such as the Arcturans possess, but always their puzzles miss pieces.” The ever-open stare bore through me, and then, through an impossibly complicated translation algorithm, I heard a fish laugh. “It is acceptable. Very well, Saul. We will take your head and your Arcturan armour into the temple of Dagon.” The Fishpriest made a motion. Everybody I was went out like a light. Fishpriest firmware runs on a biological substrate, something few other races have managed to emulate, so I wasn’t surprised to wake up entangled in long strands of goo. The underwater part was harder to get used to, and I thrashed around on an instinctual basis, swallowing far too much of the sickly sweet tasting liquid until my lungs established that they could still operate, fed umbilically through a floating tendril. After that, I just felt aware, but in a way I hadn’t before, as if waking up was just the first part, and I could scale other heights of consciousness if I just kept climbing. Dagon approached, passing through the reeds of aquatic flora that passed for walls here. “Ah, Saul. Awake at last. I’m afraid there has been an unexpected problem.” Coldness washed over me, despite the warm liquid. Unexpected turns of events were not a part of doing business with Dagon. Fishpriests, it was said, did not pay rent in Balls-up Towers. “A problem with the regrowth process?” I asked, scanning every exposed inch of me. It seemed a full complement, but who could tell what lay beneath the alien globules? “No. That would appear to be complete. Nor was there a problem with your plan - you died quite successfully, your young clones included. Not a single survivor. I am told the mourning lasted a week. No, the problem is with your chosen method of payment.” “The software? But we both checked that via the escrow portal. It’s an Arcturan Firewall...” “It may be. However, it turns out that our Arcturan friends have a very different idea of how a firewall is supposed to operate. Shortly after we embedded it in an isolated test structure, it awoke your other ‘gifts’ and assimilated half my biolab, presumably working on a computational substrate that we are not aware of. It emitted some form of causality breaking communication to its home and the entire Arcturan System is now surrounded by, for lack of a better word, reflective plasma. Any reasonable observer would assume that the Arcturans are making a play for a species wide upgrade to demi-godhood and drat the consequences. “Yeah - I can imagine the Boss isn’t too happy about it.” “Our Jealous Lord is descending upon the Arcturans even now. I was hoping that when you returned to consciousness you might be able to give me some clue as to how all this happened, and how we might avoid being destroyed by Him en route.” “How would I know?” “Because, said Dagon, and this time there was no misreading the anger in his expression, “the half of my lab that it assimilated was the portion assigned to rebuilding you.” I wondered if all Fishpriests bubbled from behind when they got angry. His chest glowed and he floated forward limply, ending up at a forty five degree angle in the liquid so I could see the cauterised hole in his back.. Behind him, a humanoid with a wetsuit and a gun of some sort swam toward me. Through his diving mask I could see my own eyes. One of my clones. Unable to communicate directly, he used a simple form of one-handed Galang sign. “Gotta kill you. Boss’s orders.” “Why?” I signed. I was trying to float away, slowly, but my bindings made that impractical, so I tried to move behind him. “Arcturans,” signed my clone, keeping me in front of him, his gun trained. “Feeding tech to Dagon through you. Wanted Fishpriest biotech to finish ascension program. Self-made theft device out of all your gifts. Other higher life-forms, including Boss, incredibly pissed with you. Sent us to stop you” “With me?” By now I had looped around him completely. “Before you. Now Prescient Class Firewall of which you part.” He angled his weapon toward me. I pulled on a tendril that I had dragged with me, and it wrapped around him just enough to deflect his shot. Throwing my arms about propelled myself toward his mask and ripped it from his face, then held his gun away from me for as long as I was able. Eventually he drowned and I’d killed myself again. I floated there alone with the two dead bodies. Now they had stopped talking, I could concentrate on what it felt like to be me, awake, and the only exposed part of the Arcturan upgrade - strengthening the shield that kept the universe at bay. I could feel them surging across their system, their potential opening up. I could feel mine opening alongside them, my reward for my assistance - a ticket to ride. I could hear the metaphysical roar as Our Jealous Lord rampaged across the galaxy to quell the upstarts in the heavens. I closed my eyes and saw stars explode. What the hell, I thought, let’s watch some Gods burn. Fumblemouse fucked around with this message at 03:20 on Jun 10, 2013 |
# ? Jun 10, 2013 02:08 |
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The Swans of Pel-Gar It takes 23 hours, a mountain of paperwork and close to fourty-million yen to fire the arc cannon once. Originally designed to transport cargo from planet to planet, the vast cost of operating it was eclipsed only by the problem of how to slow the drat payload down. On its maiden firing, it was loaded with a ball of yttrium the size of a watermelon. Halfway through its voyage and moving just below light speed, that same ball crashed into the stern of an unmarked vessel trying to smuggle crates of oranges from Earth, out to some border moon. The resulting explosion knocked a nearby planet of Gleeson 2 completely out of its orbit: any settlers left alive from the shockwave were frozen to death in a matter of minutes and presumably very miffed about it. After that, the arc cannon was banned for civilian use, though the military took a keen interest in the design. Any grumbles about ethics were quickly silenced via the much touted “nyer nyer nyer pigfucker, I can blow up your planet” defense, which proved surprisingly effective with both judges and juries. Strictly speaking, a single shot won't actually destroy a planet, though it'll throw enough dust into the atmosphere that anybody planning to watch the sunset for a few months is probably out of luck. If you piss off a man behind an arc cannon, better start investing in warm furs and deep, deep cellars. A second shot is more than enough to destabilise an orbit and permanently ruin anybody's summer holiday. Almost nobody has fired a third. Almost. You can call Jericho XL a lot of things, though none of them to its face. A den of smugglers, thieves and tax collectors, it exists simply because all those people had to go somewhere but preferably not here. Jericho kept its inhabitants in line by being incredibly far from anywhere, in the middle of the most dense asteroid field known to man, and by the means of a 'secret' arc cannon installed in the second moon, that stuck out from the surface like the stiff prick of an angry god. Just for the hell of it, the administration would warm it up on random days- whenever the tides started to go funny, the inhabitants of Jericho would dive into their shelters and not come up until they knew it was safe, or they otherwise got bored. Despite these setbacks, Jericho flourished. With an admirable scorn for the law and immaculately cooked books, they became the number one spot in the Spiral Arm to get rich or die trying. This is exactly why the Galactic Consortium, pustulous heads wobbling with self-righteous anger and professional jealousy, decided to blow the hell out of it. The first shot came on Wednesday morning, which is possibly the worst time to have your entire planet destroyed. No man wants to die on a hump day. It entered the atmosphere with a schlorp and all the grace of a stuck goose, then caught fire. Less than ten seconds later, it collided with the continent of Pel-Gar, which nobody liked very much. The Pelgaric were immediately wiped out, which lead to the headline THANK SPACE-CHRIST, FINALLY and more than a few rounds of Cadassian Brandy in seedy underworld bars. Dust from the destroyed continent blocked out the sun, which had absolutely no effect on a populace who did all their best work by night anyway. In fact, crime rates doubled overnight- Jericho had never turned such a profit. Plans were made for an annual “Man, gently caress Pel-Gar Day” to commemorate the event. The second shot came exactly a day later. It again struck Pel-Gar. The lone survivor of the first shot, who had been dramatically forging his way across the wasteland to find his very-much-dead wife and children, was vaporised instantly. Defiant bumholes were bared to the moon and banners reading “Same Time = Same Place Moon Men” were hung all over the cities. The third shot followed almost immediately, at which point the arc cannon broke from the strain. This technical malfunction forced the shot to miss completely. It barreled through space for another seventeen years, before colliding with an unspeakably vile planet of bug people, the survivors of whom have been sharpening their chitin-spears and trying to find out where the hell that thing came from ever since. The cannon should've taken two days to fix, but the Arc Cannon Mechanics' Union were on strike for better hours and more arc cannons, so the process took two months. During that time, the inhabitants of Jericho sought out their greatest sculptors and had them work on a special project. By the time Moon Administration turned their eyes away from the paperwork and back to the surface, they found themselves looking at a 12-story monument of such exquisite beauty that they wept openly, then immediately ordered a fourth shot so nobody would notice them crying. Clustered around their statue of a giant, limp penis, middle fingers raised, the inhabitants of Jericho let out a mighty cheer as a giant ball of crockery entered the atmosphere with a roar, and broke apart before it reached the surface. Boiling aluminium and plastic rained from the skies but the populace simply retreated to their bunkers. Those that couldn't get to their homes found shelter underneath the graceful, swanlike arc of the Great Shaft. Two men were killed on that day, but they were assholes so we won't talk about them any more. The day of the fifth shot completely failed to dawn. In perma-dark city streets, grifters and thieves knew it was morning only by their sudden need for a cup of coffee. The aluminium rain had burned half the planet down during the night, which left very few alleys to skulk in. Consequently, criminals were packed six-deep into any crevice they could find. The sudden lack of bars made a select few men very rich and the remainder very poor but cheerily drunk. In the 'evening', when the drunks were finally ejected into the streets, the fifth shot hit, completely obliterating nine-tenths of the population in the blink of an eye. The only standing object left of the planet was the Great Shaft, magnificently untouched. Some small portion of the population had popped down to the shelter to check the used-by dates on their canned beans when it happened, which proves the value of dilligence when it comes to used-by dates. Moon Administration threw a party, during which they decided to fire a sixth shot, just to stick it to those Jerichans. Despite the protests of the engineers, a crate of empties was loaded into the cannon and the command was sent to Firing Base Gamma. The switchboard went hot and the Administrators, cackling with glee, opened fire for a sixth and final time. The shot almost immediately smashed into the nearest section of the asteroid belt. The resulting explosion completely destroyed the moon, which rather ruined the Administrators' party. In a final piece of glorious irony, the arc cannon itself was sent flying through space at sub-light speed, where it eventually collided with an asteroid and destroyed very little of importance. The only things left on the surface Jericho were silence, and a 12-story statue of a giant, limp penis. The barren glory struck even the Gods themselves, who offered their protection to the planet forever more. “And that is why we have but one moon in the sky, and that is from whence the Great Shaft came. And that is goodnight.” “but Daaaaaaaad” “No more stories, you little fucker, it's time for bed.” Joshua 6:1-7:1 [1277 words]
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# ? Jun 10, 2013 02:41 |
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Skirmish at Zegre Word Count: 726 An oval-shaped jump ripple opened above the blue star, Zegre. A cruiser fleet leader of six, Heph'di Xagirde, watched his cruiser's radar zoomed itself into the incoming ships. His single eye gleamed at a golden thin rectangular shaped marker. His eye widened. Focusing his eye on a smaller green blinking circle beside him, he inquired something in his native language. The radar screen became alive with violet circles flashing around the rectangle and the smaller squares around it. Heph'di raised his elbow letting its armor pad hit a button. The green circle communication lens flashed into yellow. While staring at the radar, he instinctively tapped a combination of buttons above him. Three blue symbols flashed above the cruiser's smaller on-screen map as the cruiser tethered into its chosen formation. He breathed in and closed his eye. Every battle simulation he and his fleet went through him as if he had just finished it. Swollen lips curled into a smile. The on-screen radar zoomed itself in at three incoming targets. Heading toward their direction, they were in a circle formation. Heph'di's lower jagged teeth bit his smile as he saw their formation. His eye glazed at the yellow lens, and his eye stem bobbled. Questions, statements, and exclamations all came at the leader. As Heph'di listened to an array of voices from his fleet, he closed his eye. His plump hand raised at the lens and swiped it into a clear color. He made a set of parallel lines of blue light at the communicator lens. On the sound of a chime of blops, Heph'di opened and focused his eye on its center. A small lime green dot appeared and shined. "Surrender. Your form is as weak like brittle hull of that human scouting poo poo." Heph'di's heavy accent was more evident at the end as his tongue struggled not to roll out of his mouth. Heph'di looked back at the radar. His attention focused on the targets, the incoming targets. It didn't take long for him to imagine the stereotypical, outdated fighters that the various enemies throw at the Sirinan fleet. He only needed to recall how quickly their hulls had shredded for him to insure he'll get some response, desperate or not, before his fleet could get their penetrating Nox laser cannons hot and smoking. From clear to red, the lens blinked three times. Then it went clear again. Heph'di hit the communication switch. Nothing. He glazed at the lens, and a flash blinded him. A loud booming voice vibrated through his eye stem and cruiser pit. "So, you confess in killing my sons then! The Zegre System shall be spared as I have a greater prize I will claim!" Heph'di's eye blinked a succession of times. A faint memory struggled to come into his consciousness, but as his vision cleared, it came. Multiple clicks from the radar made him stare at the only window. A golden dot sped toward his direction, and it was growing. His body flinched as the eye focused itself. The charging ships around it receded behind it before the fleet leader's eye could make out any finer details. The only detail he did manage to get was from the golden dot. It was the shape of a huge golden fist. Heph'di glazed up at the radar. The circle changed into a line flicker by flicker as the radar tried to keep up with its own movement calculations. Simulations never had miscalculations; but he and his fleet knew the real danger. Before Heph'di could ponder more, his body rocked and jumped. His eye stem became crooked. Vision disoriented again, Heph'di turned his eye to the lens. His trembling hand swiped a symbol of light, and the lens turned green. He shouted three words. No response. Again, Heph'di shouted the same three native words. Nothing. Heph'di swiped the lens into yellow and leaned his eye close to it. "Do not be captured!" His shouting, quivering voice became weaker along with his thinning eye stem. Watching the new formation going into place, the leader raised his fingers to change his fleet formation. They never reached the radar as Heph'di felt another jolt from his cruiser. Retreat was never an option. Retreat was never a word for him or his fleet, but he couldn't summon the rest of his dogma as his vision went black.
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# ? Jun 10, 2013 02:57 |
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Blah. Similar situation to Fumblemouse, but whatever. Take it out of my paycheck.Leviticus 11:10 posted:But all in the seas or in the rivers that do not have fins and scales, all that move in the water or any living thing which is in the water, they are an abomination to you. Fishers of Men (496 words) By the time they’d finally drug him from the ocean, the man was so completely covered in shells as to be unrecognizable. The captain lit a cigarette for himself and the doctor. The chaplain just stood there and stared unbelieving. “He fell in this morning?” “Accidents happen.” “Yes, but this morning?” “We get them like this all the time. They eat through the suits and latch on to the body.” Taking a chisel from his pocket, the doctor managed to scrape off a few of the unwelcome guests. The flesh beneath was raw and waterlogged, and where the doctor placed his instruments he could make out a subtle heartbeat. “Poor bastard,” he murmured, “They’re keeping him alive. Nothing for it.” He surrendered, and the captain produced a gun. His eyes were cold, features drawn and disinterested, and it was with an unexpected discomfort the chaplain realized he had done this before. The captain wasted no time with ceremony. There was a click and the man’s head exploded in a shower of color, shells raining and snapping and clattering to the floor. Yet for all the flotsam there was very little blood. The captain turned and made his way out. “The first one’s never easy. Don’t worry. Everyone knows.” The doctor had gone off to brew tea in the corner. He offered a cup, but the chaplain refused. “What was his name?” “Hmm?” “The man.” “Adam Davis. An engineer, I think.” The chaplain chewed on the name he’d been given. He looked to the windows and took in the Europan sunset. It’d been twenty years since they’d broken through the ice, and ten short years since they’d begun draining the oceans. As the water level had decreased, emergent islands and unnatural coastlines had started to form, mountains of jutted rock that had long slept beneath still and ivory waters. The chaplain breathed deep and turned to the doctor. “So what happens now?” “Now?” “To the body?” “Usually we burn it, just to get rid of it. We’ve got no place for a burial and not enough to send it home. The families understand, they signed a waver upon employment. We only fish them out so they don’t go unaccounted.” The chaplain bit his lip. “Could I make a request?” “And that would be-” “That you throw it back into the sea.” The doctor spit his tea back into his cup. “Excuse me?” “He’s dead, isn’t he? And he signed a waver. Just throw him back. You were just going to burn him anyway.” “Well, yes, that’s certainly true. But what for?” The chaplain turned back to the horizon. “These things, they live here. They were here first. We’re taking everything they have, so we could at least let them have this.” The doctor looked slowly from the chaplain to the body. “Didn’t take you for some hippie. Take it up with the captain.” The chaplain nodded, but didn't leave until night.
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# ? Jun 10, 2013 02:58 |
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Genesis 34:1-34 D.I.N.W (Drug Induced Nuclear Weapons) Sebastian had always thought of the Eastern side of the planet as a no go zone. Never had Qarlia offered any sort of interest in forging an alliance with the humans and never would they. However he had not expected this turn of events. "What should we do?" He asked his sub-commander. Julian continued to stare at the message on the screen. Qarlian wasn't a tongue he was familiar with and ever since he had been sent to this lovely place, he had not once attempted to speak with a non-human. Language had never been his strong point, killing people was. "Well, he's the Qarlian Pope. If his son doesn't give her back then we're completely powerless to do anything about it". He turned away from the screen to face the Farhead Captain. "Yes but she's a member of our bloody team! I mean, I could wait for backup to arrive but what's that going to do? How am I going to explain this? You know what those loving Aliens are like." Sebastian loosened his collar. "They're savages". The kidnapping had taken place in Alley 5, a notorious nightclub in Varkon, the only place that served alcohol on this godforsaken planet. The girl in question had joined the Farhead Academy five years ago and worked her way up quicker than Sebastian had ever expected. He knew that the Academy would not be happy about one of their famously notorious scientists going missing. "loving get him on the phone. I'll have a word with them. I'm sure they'll understand that we're not the best people to piss off". Julian gritted his teeth as he spoke and started to key in the code onto the screen. "I guarantee he will understand that messing with Earth isn't the best thing to do in this day and age." He said. “Well, I don’t think it’s going to help if you threaten them here” Sebastian sipped his water anxiously. “I think it’s time to be diplomatic. It’s very likely that she has been raped on that ship and the responsibility falls on us, one of our subordinates went missing while she was at a place where she shouldn’t have been for God’s sake.” Their Environmental Research on the planet had started 10 years ago and when Sebastian was first sent there 7 years into the project, the general had warned him that if a Farhead employee was ever killed or even injured during a research mission, his head would be on the line. The research firm was known to be the most prestigious human company in terms of the capabilities of its most valuable asset, its employees. As the communicator beeped, Sebastian signaled at Julian to be quiet by putting his index finger to his lips. "Let me do the talking. I have a plan to save our jobs" The Qarlian that appeared on the screen was none other than Guru 737, the highest level clerk in the country. "Greetings" He put up his hand and smiled, revealing his sharp teeth, the sole visually identifiable difference between Qarlians and Humans. "Good evening Ruben 737, I received your message about the human girl your son has taken captive. As you know, in our culture this is not considered normal behavior and I am extremely angry with you Qarlians". The emotion in Sebastians voice was stale and did not match the meaning of his words. “What do you propose for us to reach a compromise?” “Well, my son is rather fond of the girl and the young sir wishes to marry her.” The cleric stopped smiling. “My son’s wishes are very important to me. If you let him marry her, I will put forward 90 billion credits to fund your research programs.” Sebastian turned to his second in command, whilst pushing down on the mute button. “That would fund the rest of our time here”. He hissed Julian looked at him in horror. “But…” “I’m going to accept it.” Before Julian was able to respond, the captain had already turned back to the screen. “We agree to this. I think that is all for now, please move the funds through to our account. I will be in touch.” Guru 737 grinned again. “Very well. One last thing…” “Yes?” “Would you like to attend the wedding?” --- Julian walked out and headed straight to his dorm on the other side of the camp. His fists curled with anger and his face clearly displayed his resentment at his captain’s decisions. The company was obviously more concerned about its money than the well being of its employees and Sebastian was obviously more concerned about his job than the return of a young innocent girl who would be tortured by these Aliens for the rest of her life. Inside his cabin, which was larger than all of the others apart from Sebastian's, the sun was shining through the partially blinded windows. Julian went straight for the top drawer compartment and before long he was sitting on the bed, looking down at a small plastic bottle in his hands, fully prepared. It wasn’t like he had been taking Zion for a long time, nor was he addicted to the drug but he definitely needed some right now. There wasn’t as much blood this time but the effects were more severe than last time. Julian lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. When he awoke, his hand went straight for his pistol. The dreams had not been kind to him. Bloodshot eyed, he stumbled towards the door and reached for the handle. It was nighttime now and the camp was quiet. Sebastian was still awake and Julian could only make out three other people inside the communications center when he arrived there. He tried to quickly figure out a plan inside his disorientated head before he disposed of that stupid thought and ran straight in. The only thing the young Farhead Privates smoking outside heard was the sound of shouting and gunfire. A few minutes later, they watched as the launch pad came alive and two missiles shot out of the ground. 1018 words asap-salafi fucked around with this message at 03:03 on Jun 10, 2013 |
# ? Jun 10, 2013 02:59 |
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Genesis 25:32-33 Here's a bad story that I had an idea for, but could not do justice, because I accidentally waited until the wrong last minute to write it. gently caress Off Lorenzo 228 Words “Hey, wait,” Lorenzo Benzo shouted. “What do you mean, you only have 20 minutes to write some genre fiction?” “I mean, I waited until the last minute and then realized I had stories mixed up and then I got mixed up and now I only got 20 minutes to write one,” Reed shouted back (brace yourself for some shouting.) “Well, a story about sci-fi,” said Lorenzo. “That should be pretty simple. I mean, we do live in space.” “Yeah, we do,” Reed thought. “Yes, we do,” Lorenzo thought. “Stop that,” Reed thought. “No,” Lorenzo thought. “Okay, Lorenzo, listen. It’s not as simple as you think. The story has to be biblically based.” Lorenzo thought long and hard about this. He thought some more. He thought firmer. And then God said “Let there be light.” God was there computer house keeper, because all future houses have future computer house keepers. “Look,” Lorenzo started, “If you promise to put me in your story, I’ll give you an idea.” “Reed thought about it,” Lorenzo thought. “Stop projecting my thoughts, God,” Lorenzo shouted into his cyberdeck. “Well, I am thinking about it,” Reed said. “Okay, whatever, I’ll give you a bit in the story. But first I want some of that idea stew.” Reed was famished for ideas. Lorenzo blew up the spaceship and billions died. Stay tuned for part two. (You won't because part one was bad.) Edit: I added the verse at the beginning. JonasSalk fucked around with this message at 04:12 on Jun 10, 2013 |
# ? Jun 10, 2013 02:59 |
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Ummmm sorry, I couldn't finish my homework due to passing out sick in pools of mucus and saliva every hour or so. So here is an aborted fetus of a story for you to poke at and I guess learn something about why I don't do scifi. Based on Judges 6:25-31 Obviously this is DQed but when being a slacker in high school i found it was better to turn bits of things in than nothing at all. Story title goes here 1109 words I opened another blank data table. The crop yields weren't going to calculate themselves, and I had a whole quadrant to look after. But I couldn't stop my eyes from drooping shut, or my hands from resting sloppily on the touchkey. The computer made an indignant beep, trying to read my keystrokes. That woke me up, and in spite of myself I glanced up at the camera mounted in the corner, black an bulbous and glossy like a spider. "Robert Denati, you have been inactive for forty seconds. Medical attention will be routed to your location in sixty seconds. You have sixty seconds to resume activity," the robotic voice of Center Control said through the intercom. "Right, right," I muttered, and sat up straighter in my seat. Humans are designed to be productive. We are happiest when we are producing. I supposed I ought to have been glad that there were so many tools at my disposal to aid in my productivity, but Sloth is the most potent sin, and I'm no saint. But what inconvenience was a fourteen hour work day when there were no distractions, no vices, nothing to call to the mind's baser impulses? I forced myself back to the task at hand. It wouldn't do to have to be treated for Sloth. I'd be moved back into harvesting, where men hoping for promotions watched each other and snitched on those who dragged their feet. Forty thousand bushels and ten hectares down, and Center Control cheerfully announced over the com system that it was recreation time, and that I had forty minutes (39 minutes and 59 seconds, 58, 57...) to make use of the cafeteria and leisure facilities. I wandered through the expansive, panopticon-like intake center. Down on the bottom level, men were queuing up in solemn, silent lines to wait their turn for a piece of workout equipment or the ever-glitching food dispensers. Like me, they wore dully gleaming pendants around their neck, a clenched fist crossed with a stalk of wheat. Some men's were shinier than others, well-worn from pious hands caressing them to ward against idle thoughts. Unlike most of the men on Agrarias, I'd come from off-world and knew what there was to be missed. I made my way out to the exercise yard, which was empty because there wasn't actually anything to do, unless you wanted to run laps. Blue sky. That was something I missed. I looked up, shielded my eyes against the creatively named Sol 2. The barrier dome that covered the greater part of the continent filtered the sunlight so that no matter the time of day, everything was cast in a ruddy evening light. I was staring at that bastard sky, counting the mistakes that had landed me on Agrarias when I saw what I first took to be a speck of dust in my eye. Then it grew, and I realized that it was an object falling toward me. It was impossible to tell what it was, only that it was heading unerringly toward the exercise yard. I scrambled back into the shadow of the intake center. There was a whistle, then a thwump! as the thing hit dirt. Even as small as it was, I felt the shock in my ear drums. I stood there a long time looking at that crater, until the com reminded me that there were only ten minutes left in the recreation period. Mindful of the ever-present cameras, I wandered slowly and without overt interest to where the object had come to rest. It was a sphere, dented from the fall and radiating heat, like it'd been dropped from above the atmosphere. It was too hot to touch still, and I had nothing within which to conceal it, and with time in the period almost out, the only thing for it was to kick as much dirt over it as possible and hope that none of my fellow Agrarians developed a sudden sense of curiosity. If Center Control saw and alerted the overseers, nothing I could do about that. The next day was a blur. I had to go back and recalculate the crop yields of three hectares, and received one more productivity admonishment from Center Control. The recreation period began and men qued up like normal, and I made my way out to the exercise yard like normal. My haphazard pile of dirt was still there. The look of relief on my face would have been visible to Center Control's cameras, but then who knew what the AI saw through those dark lenses? The metalic outer sphere was the size of an orange and, having done its job in absorbing the impact, all but fell into to halves in my hands. I almost laughed when I saw a media chip inside, the sort that bored teenage hackers from the interior of the Sol system use to pirate holos and music. This one was no off-market piece of crap; big as a lighter, it had a small onboard projector and a chimera jack that could plug in to just about every known interface of the past fifty years. And there was something on it. [And that something was the revelation that this whole continent-wide farming facility had been abandoned by the overseers and continued to run on the waning life of the Center Control AI while completely cut off from outside contact by the barrier dome. And then our Narrator has to venture deep into the heart of the processing center and find all this rotten, wasted wheat and corn, and he'd realize that they were all being productive for nothing because it was just an AI running futily, forever. Then he uses the MYSTERIOUS SPACE OBJECT, which was sent by the united space federation of awesome or something, to put a virus into an old clock that is connected to Central Control's network but not securely cause, I mean, who would use a clock to hack a giantass AI? But he does, and the barrier thing goes down and everyone is like YOU KILLED CENTER CONTROL, NOW HOW WILL WE STAY PRODUCTIVE RRAWWWR ESPOUSING VALUES OF MINDLESS PRODUCTIVITY and then yeah, some space ships would land and everyone would crap their pants because whoa, we've been on this dub farm planet so long that they've never seen a spaceship (there was also gonna be some part about how ladies were kept on another part of the planet and the men and women were kinda bread together to be dumb workers but yeah, wordcount). Then the space federation takes them all home, and the narrator is a hero and all of his vague past "mistakes" are forgiven. And it was going to be so cool and poingant and poo poo. Oh well.] --- So yeah you can see where this may have gone a bit off the rails both in content and worcount. Anyway going to wallow in my own bodily fluids some more. Bleh. Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 03:19 on Jun 10, 2013 |
# ? Jun 10, 2013 03:16 |
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Wrote 500 words of this in plenty of time, the rest remains unwritten and the whole remains unedited. Working for my exams and some other real life things got in the way of me finishing it. So I throw my hands in the air: mea culpa. I lose by default.
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# ? Jun 10, 2013 03:31 |
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Everyone got an extra hour because I like sleep so much! Truly I am a merciful and also lazy master. But submissions are closed. If you haven't submitted yet, please still do, but you're not eligible for winning or whatever.
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# ? Jun 10, 2013 04:18 |
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Things happened, stories didn't, I'm a shameful failure of a man. I did however manage to finish the brawl I have with Jonas! The Oracle of Selfie 995 words A week of restless nights behind me; eyes bloodshot and hands shaking. I was awake again, still. How many more days before the games? “Too many, too many,” I whispered. I ran my hands along my steel steed’s spine, it was warm from my touch. Still I could divine nothing, the Gods were mute. I heard crickets outside and knew that if I parted the curtains I’d unleash a torrent of pink morning light. “We are going to see the oracle today,” I spoke to wake my brother. He groaned, palmed his alarm clock and told me to get hosed. Three black cups of coffee and I was lucent. I urged my brother on, willing him to hurry. This spell wouldn’t last long. “I think you might be a little too into the tourney, man. Y’know’m sayin? I mean, we like the enthusiasm but you’re gettin’ a little weird. Bike polo’s supposed to be just for shits, right?” he said. “I just need to know,” I said, tossing my mallet from one hand to the other before setting it down on its podium. My brother just shook his head. I savoured the first few breaths of morning air, but shivered as though the sun had not the strength to warm me. I felt as though made of volcano stone – light and sharp. Carefully I fit the chariot’s yoke to my steed and pushed off, gliding in silence. “Nice wagon, dumbass!” my brother cried out from behind, drowning out the squeaking groan of his gears. The journey was to be a long one. I let a rolling hill take me to a shaded patch, I sat and waited. My limbs were turning leaden, my eyes bloodshot again. The spell was weakening, I had to appease the Gods once more. I lit the sacrificial sweetgrass, let the smoke fill my lungs. I passed it to my brother, he accepted, solemnly. “How much longer?” he asked. “I don’t know. The path is always different.” I looked at the sun; the flaming chariot-wheel had just barely left the stables. “It is early still. Did you bring a gift?” I already knew the answer. The market was already filling, the paved outskirts filled with gleaming metal of merchant’s chariots. A sign flashed above the entrance: open; above that an inscription read West Point Mall. Inside was cold and bright, as though a cave lit with Hephaestus’ fire. I let my brother lead the business, as he was fluent in the priestess’ tongue. He disappeared into a merchant-temple (aligned with the Oracle, he assured me). He emerged much later and handed me the first part of our gift: a delicate paper bag, and within it a card he said was temple currency. He left and returned once more, this time bearing baked goods. “These are like, the best. Chicks love cupcakes, man,” he said, and I took him on his word. Securing both within my chariot we rode off once more. It wouldn’t be long now. White on black, the sign shone with unearthly light. The temple was darkened, half-empty. We’d come at a good time. I told my brother to wait outside, but he refused to listen. I entered, skin crawling from whatever miasma filled the place. I slid the offerings onto the altar and bowed my head. The priestess stood in silence. “I wish to see the Oracle.” She nodded and spoke “First, the Omens.” I knew they would be favourable, the Gods were greedy and we’d paid them well. She disappeared into a booth – for garment fitting or prayer, I could not tell. A click and flash; she emerged holding her iPhone flat in her palm. “I’m sorry, the Oracles don’t agree. I look really fat in this.” She held the screen out towards me, and on it I could see the betrayal. The harsh light made a mockery of her features, the angles far too shallow. The Gods did not want to divine today. I disagreed, though, dead-set on my revelations. “You look good, it’s just the light, just the screen. It’s fine, probably one of your better ones, even.” I slipped a note from my wallet and slid it across the altar. It disappeared into her purse. “You know what? You’re probably right.” She parted a display of hanging clothes and opened a panel in the wall. She gestured for me to enter. The hall was dark and narrow, I could hear the crackle of flame but there was no light. I could not see ahead of me, but with one hand against the walls I kept going. The darkness ended. I fell to my knees before the oracle, such beauty I’d not yet witnessed. Silver leggings hugged her curves and an oversized grey hoodie hung off her like a cloak, the hood obscuring her eyes. She sat upon a three-legged throne, jet-black and gleaming plastic. Below her lay the network cables of the Gods, they met converged at – I gasped: The Cracked Hub of Apollo. From the broken centrum came a constant plume of sweet grey smoke. I could see her revel in each inhalation, I don’t think she noticed me. In her left hand she clasped the finest locally roasted coffee beans, in her right was her sacred iPhone. “Oracle,” I spoke, “I wish to know the outcome of next Sunday’s match.” A grin played across her face. Slowly, she lifted the phone above her head. A click, a flash, then silence. She turned it towards me, her grin was wicked now. The phone showed her pale and pock-marked, dead-eyed and smiling with sharpened teeth. “You don’t mean…” She broke into hysteric laughter. “Tell me it isn’t so!” I yelled. She was convulsing, fits of laughter so intense she could hardly breathe. The stone room made the echoes descend upon me like vultures. I broke down sobbing. The last thing I remember clearly are my brother’s hands on my shoulders.
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# ? Jun 10, 2013 04:21 |
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And Here's Jonas Here The Sun Falls - 596 Words “This one’s for Sparta,” Chuck screamed when it was his turn to throw a ball into some pins at the bowling alley. Of course, the bowling alley was only in his mind and his name wasn’t Chuck and he had no idea what a bowling alley was. Wooosh—the sound made when HELIOS the great god of the sun awakens from dreaming. Awake and alert, Helios was just about to take his chariot out for a galloping jaunt when he remembered that he had no chariot for jaunting and no horses for galloping. What he did have was a couple of goats (whose names shall not be stated for fear of copyright infringement) and a wagon. Helios had found that one does not take a wagon and goats out for a galloping jaunt. It’s more a lumbering spiel. A spiel that would last all day and allow Helios no time to play with his children. Being a god of light, Helios had an innumerable amount of children that he never got to play with (for verily, I say unto thee, the ladies do love sex under the sun). Today would be a day given over to much brooding unless Helios could find a fool willing to take those disgusting goats on their daily poop walk. # Phaeton had received great news. He was the son of GOD. Well, the son of a god. His dad was Helios, and he drove the goat wagon across the sky. He had heard that the goats did poo poo thunder and piss wind, but that made no sense as they were sun goats not storm goats. None of these things mattered to Phaeton, though. He just wanted to ride the wagon of fire across the sky. He wanted to take a place amongst the gods. That ambition is what had led Phaeton to the elevator of Sun Corps. Sun Corps was one of many companies that his father did hold. Even the elevator music was godly: bad but godly. The last refrains of Bad Romance had begun when Phaeton finally did reach the heavens where his father did roam. Even from inside the elevator, the brilliance of his father was eye watering. Truly this must be a god. That aroma of manure must be the aroma of the gods. # “The boy is here, my lord,” said Usil, sun god minor to Helios’ major. “What shall we do with him?” “Nothing,” said Helios. “I want to see him. I have a plan.” Helios did indeed have a plan, and he did indeed have a way. He would have the boy drive the wagon for him. Let the goats poo poo piss and fart thunder on him. Let the boy have the glory, for a day at least, and then they could discuss the prickly issue of “fatherhood.” # A knock at the throne room door and in walks Phaeton. “Hello, Dad,” said Phaeton. “Long time, never see.” “Well,” started Helios. “No,” Phaeton interrupted, “I am not here for your words. I want, simply, to fly your horses. I want to trail the night across the sky.” “But, this you cannot do, my son. My horses you cannot ride.” “I shall ride them, Dad.” “Okay. If you will, you will.” # Look up there. Look up into the sky. Look up into the eyes of hell. Look and you might see a goat fart fire on a boy. Look at the boy. Look at the flame. Know that he was the son. Look and you might see a god taking a nap. The kids can wait.
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# ? Jun 10, 2013 04:39 |
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I don't think I'll finish in time, but I'll be done by tomorrow. I had drill this weekend (which I didn't think about when I signed up).
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# ? Jun 10, 2013 05:23 |
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Merkabah to Mars Dr. Deborah Tal-Shachar worked on, even as the first wave of bombs shook the walls of her underground office. An old laptop read off breaking newsclips as she drew and redrew her schemata on the main screen: Fifth bombing of Jerusalem by the United Arab-Christian Alliance since the beginning of Passover…tonnage exceeding twelve thousand…estimated casualties in the hundreds and rising…. Only the sound of smashing glass directly behind her finally pulled her eyes away. The framed photo of her son David lay on the floor beneath its shelf. “Ah David,” she said, setting it tenderly back in place. She brushed a few stray flakes of ceiling plaster off the medal laid in front of the photo. “I don’t think it’s safe to light the candles tonight. I hope you understand.” She peered at his dark eyes, staring warmly back through the cracked glass. His Israeli Army uniform was pressed and neat, but his hair was a typically disheveled mop of curls. He took after his mother that way. Only eighteen when the picture was taken, with a smile full of possibilities. Nineteen forever now. Benjamin Peled, Minister of Defense and interim Prime-Minister, appeared in the cramped doorway, pointed beard and rounded belly arriving first, followed by his entire massive bulk. “I trust your work is coming along well, Doctor,” he said. Dr. Tal-Schachar inclined her head politely. “The terraforming of Mars will be complete in nearly than six months. Our missiles must arrive before that. And your little robots must be on them.” “I know,” the doctor said. “You should look forward to avenging your son.” The Minister tapped the silver medal. “And the mothers of the boys he killed to earn that,” she said, “should they also look forward to revenge?” “Do not say dangerous things.” He looked away from the small shrine. “If the Alliance elites establish a colony on Mars, they will no longer hesitate to use nuclear weapons against us. We must cut off their escape route and show them what we are capable of. Then they will give us peace, or we will take it.” “I understand.” “And your nanobots will be ready?” “I pray so, Prime Minister.” The Prime Minister hiked his jaw up in contempt. “Do not pray,” he said, “work! Look at where our prayers have gotten us. The Temple is under attack. God has abandoned us.” No, she thought, watching his back recede through the door, we have abandoned God. And now we are destroying paradise to purchase this so-called peace. She returned to her desk, but not to the schemata for the nanobots that would ravage the newly fecund surface of Mars. She opened an old unfinished project from before the war, named Har-El, the Mountain of God, and began drawing and redrawing, sifting and shifting the data until the patterns drifted into the state of Kabbalistic contemplation from which her best work always arose. As the threads of wisdom and prophecy wove themselves through the layers of schematics, she saw in them the word of God, spoken in the sacred language of numbers. Working furiously through the rest of the night, ignorant of the bombardment, she divined the path to paradise, and saw that the door Mountain of God would again be opened to the Children of Israel. *** No bombs disturbed Dr. Tal-Shachar as she waited patiently for Prime Minister Peled to kick down her door. The newsclips played on: Rogue Israeli missiles have reached the Mars Defense Shield…. Experts report Shield is functioning as planned, with no interference from Earth….Most missiles destroyed…only one missile reached the surface….no effects noted….experts reporting likely failure of inferior Israeli technology. Two soldiers preceded the Prime Minister, rifles snaking around the doorframe. Dr. Tal-Shachar placed her hands on the desk in plain view. “Doctor,” the Prime Minister said, very quietly, mouth trembling, “is your technology malfunctioning?” “No. It appears to be functioning perfectly.” “It is then, I suppose, merely a matter of some time before we see the results we expected?” “No, Mars will not be rendered sterile again.” “Traitor!” The Prime Minister cried, “How could—“ “God has delivered us. He has revealed the Merkabah, the Divine Chariot which will carry us now to our new home in the heavens.” Incomprehension fought with rage across Peled’s face. Dr. Tal-Shachar sighed. “It’s a transporter,” she explained. “Instantaneous travel. And the other end of the gate is now on the surface of Mars, behind the Defense Shield.” “Where is this end?” The contours of his face returned to their customary place of smooth cunning with which Dr. Tal-Shachar was most familiar, and she began to relax. “In my closet,” she gestured sweepingly to the open door. “And you expect me,” he said, “to go into the closet of a traitor who claims it is some great invention that will tear me apart and send me to Mars?” “No,” said Dr. Tal-Shachar, “you do not deserve the glory.” As she spoke the final words, she leapt into the closet, pulled the door shut against the thud of rifle-fire, and hit the activation button. Nothing happened. The dull-sharp bell of panic rung in her ears. Had God abandoned them after all? No, it was impossible. The fault must lie with her. She had misinterpreted, miscalculated, misstepped. And that, too, must be part of God’s plan. Taking a deep breath, she calmed her mind and prepared to face the Prime Minister and the rifles. She swung the door open and stepped out on to the lush, pristine surface of Mars.
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# ? Jun 10, 2013 05:33 |
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NUBILE HILLOCK VS. JONASSALK: THUNDERBRAWL RESULTS FOR THE BLIND!!! THE PROMPT: Write a story inspired by Greek history and/or mythology prior to 400 BC. Include a wagon. THE WINNER: Nubile Hillock. Read on for a breakdown and individual critiques. Nubile Hillock, your mélange of ancient Greek and modern Western cultures won you the fight. You've got a gift for making a story feel true to this period of history, and apparently it doesn't matter when or where it's set. I think you may actually have failed at what you were trying to do: this isn't humorous. If it was meant to be, no dice. You achieved a different and magical effect. JonasSalk, you were outfought this time, but your piece was worthy of the challenge. You used your wagon as more than a there-and-gone prop. You retold a classic myth in a mostly credible and amusing way. Individual crits follow. Nubile Hillock: "The Oracle of Selfie" You chose to bring Delphi to a modern-day setting. Bike polo is your Pan-Athenaic Game, weed is your sacrificial smoke, an iPhone is your Apollo (I think he'd rather be an iPod, but I won't claim to know the minds of gods), and a... barista is your Pythia? This part of the setting doesn't work that well: I can't tell what the Oracle's modern analog is supposed to be or where in the mall your protagonist consults her. This bothers me since I suspect I'm missing a reference. I'm not sure either whether the protagonist is high as a kite and she's taking him for a ride, or the protagonist is high as a kite but has stumbled on a vestige of genuine Olympic worship. I'd prefer the latter, but it doesn't really matter. Your fusion of times may not be 100% effective, but I'm impressed by how Greek this still feels to me--as in your Draco piece, you've captured a mindset, and if it's not authentic, it's close enough to let this non-expert imagine a mall as an echo of Hellas. I didn't expect this piece from you. Greek bros? Maybe. Serious Greek drama? Maybe. A cross that manages to touch on both types of story, absurd but not funny, and oddly luminous for it? Not so much. In a way, this is your best work that I've read. I think its magic lies in the dead earnestness of the protagonist, however nonsensical his beliefs may look from outside his mind. Grammar is a weak point. 'I ran my hands along my steel steed’s spine, it was warm from my touch. Still I could divine nothing, the Gods were mute.' In the first sentence the comma should be a semi-colon or period; the comma of the second should be either a semi-colon, a period, or a full colon. Most of the errors I see are of this kind. They don't ruin the story, but every one is a small distraction. You also use 'lucent' when you mean 'lucid,' unless the protagonist is glowing. 'Dead set' shouldn't have a hyphen. What's the delicate paper bag? Is that a gift card in there? Would this make more sense if I knew what the temple was supposed to be? Last but not least in weight, this is a vignette and not really a story. 'A strange man visits an oracle to find out whether his next match will suck, with unfavorable results' doesn't have much in the way of plot or character arc. Did I still enjoy reading it? I did. Would it stand alone outside this thread or this prompt? Doubtful, but maybe, and I'd want to read the magazine that took it. JonasSalk: "Here The Sun Falls" This probably isn't the best work of yours that I've read--for my money that would still be your Eurovision story, although you came close here. It's definitely the best humor piece I've seen you do. I got a grin out of this retelling of the Phaeton myth. I particularly like how you took the wagon part of the prompt and made it central to the concept--you did a better job in this regard than Hillock. You've arguably got more of a plot arc, though yours is also pretty thin. Things happen. Is there a conclusion other than Helios getting a nap? Sort of, but that ending depends somewhat on knowledge of the Phaeton story. You have a few problems. The worst is probably that the second two paragraphs of your second section don't fit, though the godly Muzak line is funny. Elevators? Companies? In every other respect, this is set in the age of myth. The modern stuff sticks out like a sore thumb to no purpose. On a related note, Phaeton knows in this section that Helios drives a goat wagon, but later he demands to ride his father's horses. This isn't consistent. 'He had heard that the goats did poo poo thunder and piss wind, but that made no sense as they were sun goats not storm goats' is a good line (I could take or leave the 'did' in the first clause; it sets up a rough formal/informal language contrast, and I think that's what you're going for, so okay), but 'Let the goats poo poo piss and fart thunder on him' feels like overkill, like you're flinging those words about for the joy of doing so, teehee! It's a touch too much. Plus, Phaeton's got a point: why would sun goats be horning in on Zeus's schtick? Try picking just one of those verbs and changing 'thunder' to fire or flame. Your ending is dark if one is familiar with Phaeton's fate, as I'm sure you are. Helios naps while his son burns himself to death and nearly takes the world with him. This has a lot of potential; it could work better if the humor were thinned out, and the removal of the elevator gag might be enough. If you were going for that dark mood, I suggest changing 'Look at the flame' to 'Look at him burning' or something similar that leaves no doubt Phaeton himself is on fire. On the other hand, if you wanted a lighter end that focuses more on Helios getting his nap, those hints at Phaeton's real story work against you. Finally, the verb tenses in this are a mess. 'Helios had found that one does not take a wagon and goats out for a galloping jaunt' switches between past perfect and present, yikes. Most of your present-tense interjections don't work for me, except for the final section addressing the reader directly and the parenthetical asides. I could do without the bit about copyright infringement, but 'for verily, I say unto thee, the ladies do love sex under the sun' got a chuckle. This story may not have won, but it's cute and a sign that you're continuing to improve. Kaishai fucked around with this message at 09:15 on Jun 10, 2013 |
# ? Jun 10, 2013 07:39 |
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Kaishai posted:Finally, the verb tenses in this are a mess. 'Helios had found that one does not take a wagon and goats out for a galloping jaunt' switches between past perfect and present, yikes. This is a good crit, but I have to defend this point - Jonas is implying an eternal rule of propriety. He's shifting to speak as 'the voice of the rules' for a second ("one does not"), in a Jane Austen-style free indirect discourse. I think.
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# ? Jun 10, 2013 09:26 |
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Thanks for the crit, Kaishai and congrats to Nubile Hillock for a worthy win. I do want to point out (because I am an arrogant SOB who wants to make sure all the jokes are understood) but I was actually alluding to Thor and not Zeus when I wrote the storm goats gag. That particular criticism still stands, though, and was an example of me throwing everything against the wall in an effort to see what stuck. The bit about copyright JonasSalk fucked around with this message at 15:07 on Jun 10, 2013 |
# ? Jun 10, 2013 11:39 |
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# ? Oct 12, 2024 03:38 |
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Thanks Kai! I did actually mean lucent, like that kind of glow only three cups of espresso can give you. If you've never been there before I'd highly recommend it. I will clean up the mistakes and what have you, I really enjoyed writing it. THANKS FOR THE HIGH-VIS CRITS Also: the temple
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# ? Jun 10, 2013 13:06 |