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I would really dig receiving any criticism that anyone has to offer about my story for this week, despite its excessive length. Not contingent to the above in any way, I am also going to do up a brief crit of each story entered this week by Friday week, as I haven't offered any crits to date.  I mean it.
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Apr 27, 2015 14:22
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Apr 29, 2015 05:09
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in please select a terrible song for me as I am neurologically unable to differentiate them
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May 5, 2015 05:20
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I must eat Hit me with it, I planned very badly and the $10 sting may motivate me to do better in future. (USER WAS BANNED FOR THIS POST)
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May 11, 2015 14:00
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May 19, 2015 09:20
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O RLY? YEH. 555 words Dead, I(i) dream. My sepulchre cradles my corpse, vast and undecaying (for the microbes of this world can find no purchase on my strange matter), but my mind roams unchecked. In waking my perceptions roam and jump between the worlds; the realstuff merely a gauzy cloud drawn across the true Universe of dreamlike possibility. In dreams, though, I(i) am bound to here and now; how alien it is to exist in a concrete moment, to watch events unfold bound by unyielding causal chains. The stuff of possibility is woven of dreams and reality is but the ragged scraps of thread that are cut away. Ah, but those threads may yet be crafted into a tapestry. A (then) B (leads to) C and the sea, above ME(me), writhes with my delight. What a marvellous concept, to wait, time-bound. Mortals must exist in a delirious entropic ecstasy for their entire spans, knowing what inevitably approaches. A death that is an end, final and inescapable! My many hearts would pulse and shudder with envy did my ichor flow. I(i) will gift them these ends; when my death is over theirs begins, I(i) promise them. There is a moment-egg cradled in the nest of futures and it will hatch when the point-map of the universal probability cloud aligns with my designs. But it must be incubated, this egg, in the warmth of dreams. I(i) have laid plans for this egg that I(i) have also laid. Dreams! The rich man comes, down into the dark and cold and crushing weight of water. He weaves dreams himself and I(i) will work mine through him. I(i) focus my dreaming upon his tiny vessel and drive deep into him and drive him deeper. Deeper. See Me(me), I(i) seduce him. See my works. He logs on to Twitter. @OfficialHarryJames: Reached deepest planned point of dive. Everything nominal, thinking about going for the floor. I(i) send shoggoths to dance for him, to mimic creatures of this world, just strange enough to enchant him without provoking atavistic fears. @OfficialHarryJames: Amazing animals down here. All the colours of the rainbow. Billowing. I(i) will my sunken towers to emerge from the haze in his perceptions. Clearly enough to astonish, not so clearly that the workings of inhuman mind are laid bare. @OfficialHarryJames: Rock formations like something from another world. Nothing like it up top. He is primed, and he is mine, and the power he wields belongs to ME(me). I dream a thought into his uncomplicated little neurons, amplified and directed by the subsonic piping of a shoggoth enfolding his little subaqueous sarcophagus. @OfficialHarryJames: It's like an alien planet. Another reality. @OfficialHarryJames: I'm inspired. Who wants to see a big-budget Mythos movie? @OfficialHarryJames: Properly told. Something that would make ol' HC proud. Ia! And my dream explodes across message boards, the planet lighting up with speculation and hopes and my name is on a million lips and fingertips at once, and the inroads I have made into the culture become highways for my influence to parade down, dripping and shambling and triumphant. I(i) have their dreams, and their world and lives shall follow. My moment-egg begins to tremble as my rebirth scratches upon the inside of its shell. A (then) B (leads to) C T H... I(i) meme supreme.
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May 25, 2015 03:56
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In.
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Jun 2, 2015 09:50
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I'm out due to an unplanned weekend staying in a farmhouse and attending the lush festivities offered by the Gayndah Orange Festival. I wish I was kidding. Just got back, a day late and in no mental state to exist, let alone write.
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Jun 8, 2015 07:15
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In. Please.
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Jun 12, 2015 04:10
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Orbituary 1499 words I hear it again. Knocking on the hatch, but there can't be. It's been days, a handful - maybe a standard week. My water is getting that tang that says the 'cycler isn't going to cut it much longer. Every sip I take makes my gut twist, anyway. Reminds me how long it's been since I had anything to eat. There's a protein bar wrapper floating in the corner of the cockpit roof. I've already licked it clean. A day later I licked it again, just in case there was any taste left. There wasn't. The black ships rode in on the sound of thunder. They were dropping in tight, hypersonic, fracturing the atmosphere deliberately as a softening up attack. The famous crystal towers of Eltrium were built well, but they were designed for beauty, not warfare. Their facades shattered when the shockwaves beat against them, and shards of rainbow razor pelted the streets below. I couldn’t see the result from the spaceport platform, but I could imagine it and my knuckles whitened on the safety rail. Those busy market streets below, packed with tourists from across the Inhabited Worlds… the plummeting crystal would explode into shrapnel on every impact. Another Skargon ship burst across the sky above the spaceport. I flung myself down by the rail, braced myself and blocked my ears. The pressure wave hit me like a series of whole-body punches and dust and grit stung my exposed skin. I climbed to my feet, only to be knocked over again. Munitions whipped in above me at a low angle, leaving a fan of ruler-straight contrails in the air. Something huge detonated on the far side of the platform and a rich, boiling cloud of black smoke leapt skyward. Reeling from the blast, I staggered for the Verity. My ship! Old and ugly, but undamaged by the explosion, and so she was beautiful. Our only way off this suffering planet. Venna was struggling with the docking clamps. “They haven’t given us clearance yet!” she shouted. “And they won’t now,” I said, waving vaguely at the control building. One of the towers crumbled amidst roiling flames and the whole platform shook. She swiped sweaty brown curls back from her face and glared at me. “We need to bust these off manually, do you get it? Break out the varch’ti cutting torch.” “No need,” someone said, and gave a harsh cough. I spun to face him, still a little unsteady on my feet. A ministerial guardsman in full blue dress uniform, leaning on my ship to hold himself upright. Curls of smoke were still coming off him and his left arm, shoulder and a good chunk of his face looked like overcooked tank-steak. He held out a terminal with an official crest on it in his good hand and tapped the screen with a thumb. The clamps disengaged with a thump and sank into the platform. He tossed Venna the terminal. “The… the data on that has to get to Capital. It’s everything we’ve put together on the Skargon attack fleet in the hours since we picked them up. Numbers, composition, tactics. Too late for Eltrium. Might do the rest of the Hegemony some good though.” “We aren’t going to make it into orbit with the Skargon fleet still coming in, let alone make jump range,” I told him. I felt bad for him. I hadn’t got it together enough to feel bad for myself yet. “Dace… this terminal…” Venna said slowly. “It’s got full gov access. To the orbital grid.” The guardsman grinned at her, despite the pain it must have caused him. He slid to the ground and rested his hand on his chest. “Yeah,” he said, addressing the underside of the Verity. “It’ll clear… a path for you. Don’t… waste…” He had nothing else to say. We made orbit, leaving a trail of Skargon wreckage and shattered satellite cannons in our wake, and then we burned for the Belt. If we could hit jump range, where the gravity well of the Eltrium star dropped off sufficiently for the drive to fire without instantly swallowing the Verity behind an unstable event horizon, maybe, just maybe, we had a chance. I check for leaks again. The roll of sealant tape is getting skinny, almost down to the cardboard core. If any of my hasty patches blow I'm in serious trouble. The hull's still solid - mostly - but there's only a trickle of power coming through from the plant, and all the stowage is gone. No oxy, no food. There might be something in the external pod, if it's even still attached, but I have no way of getting to it. My helmet and gloves went out in the first big rush of atmosphere. Stupid. Can't fix any of the systems without going EVA, either. Even if I had the tools. Even if there were still two of us crewing this boat. "Two contacts," Venna said, and her voice was a little worried. "There shouldn't be anyone out here." "Just miners running scared," I told her. I made it sound confident just to keep her chill. I don't like having her worried. "They’re going to be hiding from the Skargs. Won't want to get close enough for us to get an ID. We stick to the route, get to jump range ASAP, we're safe on our way to Capital and we’re heroes on arrival." “There’s Hegmony weapon and supply caches in the belt,” she said. “We have the terminal… maybe we should go carefully. Tool up a little.” “It’s taking a risk,” I said thoughtfully. Those two contacts blinking on the screen had my cheeks clenched against the pilot seat. “I’d rather we get out of here sooner than hang around.” She nodded. She didn't look convinced. She kept watching the sensors. I bumped the speed up a little. We had fuel to spare and no reason not to burn it. That knocking noise has to be something loose. Floating around out there, maybe some debris attached to the guts hanging out of this corpse of my Verity. Maybe I just imagined it. Maybe it's my heart knocking against my increasingly hollow rib cage. I hope it doesn't come any more. I don't want to hear it. "They're making another pass!" I yelled and I heard the turret servos whine as she spun it. I flicked a glance back over my shoulder. Her lips were pale, teeth bared in a grimace. Her knuckles were white on the grips. The Verity chugged as she squeezed the triggers. Systems screamed a warning tone and lights flashed red. The Skargs had decided we were enough of a threat to spend some missiles on us. "Going evasive," I said. "Gees coming." I spun us on our axis fast enough that my vision went dark at the edges, slammed on the burners. The boat groaned under the load and we both did as well. She kept firing, though. Never letting up. Chug. Chug. Chug. That banging, that varch’ti knock knock knock. I’m going (gone) crazy. Crazy with grief, crazy with fear. I hate the hard vacuum out there and I hate the fetid air in here. I hate the Skargon for being psychotically aggressive alien freaks. I hate Venna for being dead and I hate myself for still being alive. Not for much longer, maybe. "I have to get out there and fix it. Take a look, at least," she said. She was being reasonable. We were drifting unpowered. We were in deep, deep shuph’uu. "We're tumbling in an asteroid belt," I told her. I was being reasonable too. Pretending to be. "There's a lot of debris out there. Not to mention we're a big, fat target if any more Skargs come along and get all revenge-minded." "What are our options?" she said quietly. "You want to go out there wearing my suit? Know your way around jump drive internals, do you? Been studying on the lowdown I guess." I drifted up front. "OK," I said, without meeting her gaze. "Be careful." Something hit us, of course. Of course it did. While she was out there. It was big, whatever it was, and fast, and it either exploded on impact or it hit some tank or power cell that was exposed by our shattered hull. Smashed me into the floor, then the ceiling, then the dark. Maybe a munition that they left drifting picked us up when she fired up her cutting torch. Who knows? I never will. If I hear that knocking again I'll answer it. Open the door, see who's come calling for me. I hear it. I take a final breath, and I open the hatch. I’m not expecting to find Venna out there, floating in a translucent tube, but that’s what I find. She hitches the wrench she was banging on the hatch with to her belt, carefully, and then we hit each other, desperate arms flung tight, the impact making us spin around our common centre of mass. I can’t speak because I’m crying and laughing at the same time and the sounds are sticking together in my throat, but that’s OK, because she speaks for me. “I thought you’d died in there,” she whispers. I shake my head and crush her to me. She holds something glowing up in my peripheral vision. I turn my head and see the terminal. The screen is scratched but they make those things to last. “Made it to a cache,” she says. “Found a ship for us. Look like you could use some rations, too.” I clear my throat. “OK,” I say. “Let’s go be heroes.”
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Jun 15, 2015 12:17
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gently caress.
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Jun 15, 2015 12:18
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i n
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Jun 16, 2015 10:11
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Trigger 1200 words (MS Word) It was the day of the second new moon that summer when he come walkin’ out of the desert, his duster snappin’ like a flag in the wind and an artillery piece swingin’ low on his hip. Daddy had some business dealings today. I’d headed out early to avoid the crew of unwashed miscreants he called his ‘boys’, so I was perched on the stone wall by the road into town, hookin’ pebbles at bronze winglizards as they hummed in and out of the scrub. I watched the stranger trudge in, boots crunching on the hard-packed dirt. “You a gunfighter?” I called out. He gave me a pale-eyed stare then his face cracked open in a pretty good grin. He whipped off his broad-brim hat and smoothed down his mop of greying hair. “Well, miss, I wouldn’t call myself a gunfighter per se,” he said. “I wouldn’t go persaying in town,” I warned him. “You might have to use that two tons of hexed-up ironmongery you got slung there.” “I thank you for the advice,” he said. “Now, might you know the whereabouts of a Mallia Salvia, if she still resides in these parts?” “Sure, she still resides here. Couldn’t walk straight enough to leave, way she drinks,” I told him. “But she ain’t Mallia Salvia no more, she’s Mallia Venustinia. And she’s my mother. I’m Sentia Venustinia. But I can’t imagine what you might…” The expression on his face shut me up sudden like. He came closer, hunkered down so our faces were level, and stared at me. “How old are you now, child?” I drew up my shoulders and stared back sharpish. “Thirteen next week,” I snapped, “not that it makes no mind to you.” He rocked back on his heels, lost in thought. “Pass on a message to your mother, if you please. Tell her Jacobus wants to talk.” He hesitated at the town boundary for a moment before steppin’ across. “I’ll be in the taverna.” Ma was at the kitchen table with a bottle of conditum, like always. She knocked back a slug as I came in the back door. “What’s a gunfighter name of Jacobus want with you?” I demanded of her. Like I’d hoped, she coughed fortified wine all over the kitchen floor. “He ain’t here is he?” she said, wild-eyed. “He’s waiting in the taverna. Figured you’d be pretty comfortable meeting him there.” “Oh mighty Mars preserve us,” she muttered. “He’s got to get gone before Gallio sees him. Oh, the fool.” She grabbed her shawl off the hook, stood twistin’ it in her hands for a moment. “Get up to your room,” she told me. “You get up there and you stay there ‘til I’m back.” I got up to my room and got straight out my window. I had a burning desire to hear what she and this Jacobus had to say one to ‘nother. I circled round back of the house and followed Ma up the street to the bar. She was wringin’ her hands the whole way. When we got there I hung back a ways and crouched behind a barrel. I said a few choice cuss words under my breath because Daddy was standin’ in the street with a dozen of his boys. They were looking at another one of the boys who was lyin’ on the boardwalk outside the taverna doors, clutchin’ his head and moanin’. I had an idea that he’d exchanged some views with a pale-eyed stranger. Daddy was a tall man, with broad shoulders and a growing paunch. He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his brocade waistcoat and cast a cold glance at Ma as she hurried up to him. “You ain’t needed here,” he growled at her. “Fact, I’d suggest you head back on home.” Ma drew herself up and I could almost respect her for a minute. “Gallio, you let me get in there and talk to him,” she snapped. “You let me send him away without any more trouble.” Daddy stared at her. “All right then,” he said suddenly, and grinned. “One minute, no more. And then he walks out those doors and down that street and never comes back.” Ma nodded curtly and headed into the taverna. I couldn’t hear what was said inside, and you best believe that burned me somethin’ fierce. Daddy gestured to his boys and they spread out in the street. He held out one of his meaty hands for a shotgun. They weren’t going to let the gunfighter walk away nohow. Jacobus pushed out through the swingin’ doors and looked back over his shoulder. “Stay behind the bar,” he said. He turned and faced down Daddy, not sparin’ a glance for the rest of the men standin’ around him. “Gallio Barrius Venustinia,” he said, and nodded politely. Daddy spit on the street. “I made it pretty clear, last time we spoke,” he growled. “Yes,” said the gunfighter. “My ribs still ache in winter.” Daddy laughed a deep, mean laugh and his crew joined in. He aimed the shotgun. “Then why’d you come back?” “I’ve been many places, since then. Fought some wars, seen some sights. Learned a lot.” Jacobus shrugged. “It was time.” He looked up at the sky with his pale eyes. “One more thing I should mention.” He took somethin’ out of his pocket. Pressed his hand to his breast and fastened it there. Golden star, eight points, chased in crimson enamel. “Lictor,” Daddy muttered, and fired both barrels as his boys all fumbled for their guns. Jacobus stepped casually to the side and the shotgun blast turned the taverna doors into splinters. He drew his revolver with an easy motion, spinnin’ like a dancer on the balls of his feet, fannin’ the hammer pop-pop-pop. Six of Daddy’s boys went down. I wasn’t scared. I imagined my hand on that cannon, bringin’ blood and thunder and justice, and I knew I was watchin’ my father fight. The lictor dropped a new cylinder into his revolver and waved a few bullets away like flies. Six more measured pulls of the trigger, and Gallio stood alone in the street, fumblin’ with the breech of his shotgun. He looked wide-eyed at Jacobus. The lictor holstered his empty pistol and raised his fists. “Come on, Venustinia,” he said. “Let’s end it well.” Gallio threw down the shotgun. He nodded and raised his fists, edgin’ toward the lictor, then slipped a hand behind his back. “Coward!” I yelled, and Gallio flinched, the snub pistol in his hand waverin’ for just long enough, and Jacobus was on him, inside his reach, and there was a noise like a slaughterhouse hammer as the lictor’s fist burst forward. Gallio clawed at his crushed throat for a moment, eyes fixed on me, face turning purple, and then he fell and stopped movin’. And no great loss to the world, you ask me. “So, settin’ up shop here, O Lictor?” I asked Jacobus. He turned to look into the taverna. “Depends on a few things, I guess,” he said. “But you ‘n’ me should probably talk some, regardless.” “Yeah,” I said. “And you can teach me to shoot.”
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Jun 22, 2015 07:28
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In.
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Jun 30, 2015 09:42
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I'm in. after failing to submit for Voidmart.
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Jul 10, 2015 00:32
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Submitted because it was a good idea. Plus I toxxed. This was written in the last three hours and phone posted because SA is blocked at my work. I can't edit it down because I now have to catch up on the work I just didn't do to write this, meaning that I won't get out of the office till 9 PM. If anyone doesn't mind critting despite my pathetic effort I will perform the penance of your choice. The Head of the Beast Too many words Well, good morning fine sir! Ale, please. We didn’t have much of a chance to catch up last night when we staggered in, sorry. I assume you’ve been paid for the rooms. I said ale… please. Ehh, it’s got to be getting on towards mid-morning. Works for me. No, not very ladylike, good thing there aren’t any ladies here, eh? Eh? Ha-ha. Ahh. Oh, yes, needed that. I must admit, I steered us here on purpose… thought a fellow halfling would know the right brew to stock. No, I’m not disappointed. Not at all. Another? Melliwell Tuygelbenther, Melli to my friends. You seem like a friendly fellow, hey? No, no, the East Peak Tuygelbenthers, not the West. Yes! Westies, ugh, k’tississith the lot of them. Oh? Lizardish word. Uh, I guess you’d translate it to sucks dry the eggs and turns them over but there’s a secondary meaning of slinking around in the dark. Very emotionally complex, the lizardfolk. Look, the funds are upstairs at the moment, with my large travelling companion. You saw her last night? Face like a thundercloud and chest like a couple of battering rams? Slight mystical glow surrounding her? Yeah… I don’t want to disturb her until she’s had every scrap of sleep she feels like. She’s been in the foulest of moods for weeks now, and after the last few days... Why the mood? Oh, well that’s a long story. It’s a good one, too. Well, you’d enjoy hearing it, but I’d probably need to moisten the pipes a bit to share that one… oh, thank you. So, the basic reason that Haghmaarga there is out of sorts is that she hasn’t been getting any. Men. Human men. She’s pretty traditional that way. See, when we first met she was fresh down from the mountains, still had woad in her eyebrows. Did the carefree barbarian thing for a while, pretty liberal with her affections. Man in every village and a few by the side of the road, style of thing. Good times. We met the Golden Enchantress Gilth-Glorinal while we were raiding an ancient jade temple, hewn from the steaming heart of a dark and twisted jungle, sort of thing. We liked her style, so the three of us have been a pretty tight unit since then. Got into some scrapes and generally got out of them again. Never let a man come between us. Well. Not in the figurative sense, anyway. But yeah, we were happy, and Haggie was seeing some on the regular, and all was right with the world. Oh, Gilth-Glorinal isn’t even into it much. Got some semi-exclusive arrangement with a djinni she carries around in a jar most of the time. Yeah, you don’t want to stumble into that tent at the wrong time of night. I’m speaking from experience. Me? Well… I more or less take things as I find them, you know? One of things I find most attractive in a man is generosity. Including with alcohol… why, thank you. So, anyway. We were talking about celibacy, think we got a bit off track there, hah. We got word of a substantial bounty on the head of someone called Sturhm-Grook-Ralum, Terror of the Ghem’lorg Pass. Had all the merchants running scared – entire trade caravans were disappearing off the trail, somewhere up in the mountain heights. Got so that the Prince of Ghem was sending entire companies of his finest up to search for bandits, and nothing… but the moment a smaller group went up, no matter how illustrious the warriors that went along, there were good odds they’d simply disappear. Now, we heard rumours that there was a growing Orcish presence in the foothills so it seemed to us that Sturhm-Grook-Ralum was probably an Orc bandit chief who was attracting an unhealthily large following. Being idiots with fairly high opinions of our own martial prowess, we decided that we’d travel the Ghemlorg, keep an eye out for Sturhm’s war parties and take him out. Then we’d bring back his no doubt hideous fangy head, collect our chests full of gold and jewels, and invest them wisely. I don’t know, booze and magic swords, probably. I’ve never been much of a one for long term financial planning. Mind you, I think the Golden Enchantress already owns a number of taverns around the place. She’s clever like that. Yes I know, I’m getting to that bit. You need the context for a good story, all right? Pour me another and come and sit next to me over here. Closer. I don’t want to shout. Now, where was I? Oh yes. We went up the pass. All O Woe is us, we are but hapless females, wandered into this dangerous terrain. Nothing. Not a nibble. So, we set up camp, and I went scouting. I have a knack for that sort of thing. After a few days of tracking orcs through the scrub and spying on them, I’d uncovered that they did indeed have a fairly large encampment of several hundred orcish warriors in the mountains, and what was more, it looked like they were keeping a bunch of captives there. Now, the logical thing would have been for us to take this information back to the Prince, and let an army ride in and clear them out. And also, claim all their loot. And let the Prince get out of giving us the bounty for the head of Sturhm-Grook-Ralum. So, instead, the Golden Enchantress prepared a variety of potions, unguents and foul-smelling packages of magically primed materials, Haghmaarga sharpened her axes obsessively and painted her face blue, and I made sure that all fifteen of my various blades were coated with the vilest, most lethal poisons known to intelligent life. No, I don’t have them on now. Come back here. Well, only a couple. But they’re not poisoned. Much. So, we decided on a night assault – catch them off guard, you know. I’d already determined that their security was surprisingly lax for an orcish warband. This may have been because the location that they’d chosen was immensely defensible, only accessible by a winding path along the side of a deep ravine. Their yurts were clustered where the path opened into a wide ledge, before turning into the entrance to a huge cleft split deep into the mountainside. Its top was so high it was lost in cloud. They had a crude corral set up next to the opening, and I’d heard the occasional human wail coming from inside. We figured that the advantage of this position against a larger attacking force was nullified by the fact that there were only three of us. Perfectly sensible. So we set up, and we waited, and then when the majority of the orcish horde were sleeping – we struck! Gilth-Glorinal laid waste to many of the orcs in her opening salvo. Precise blasts of flame erupted wherever she pointed her finger and spoke terrible Words of power! Haghmaarga was a spinning, leaping figure of terror, her armour bristling with spikes of bone and flowing with the blood of her foes! Many orcish heads rolled in the first minutes of combat! Me? Oh, I stabbed a few in the kidneys, but I was mostly concerned with getting the corral door opened. Funny thing was, when I did that, the men inside all gaped at me and refused to move. One whimpered that I didn’t understand, and to run away! Jump into the ravine if I had to! Right then there was a boom! Boom! BOOM sound that I could feel through the ground. All the orcs stopped trying to fight us and fell to their knees. The three of us turned to look at the cleft in the mountain, and there, emerging from the darkness and mist – You know what a Storm Giant is? About fifty times the height of a tall man, grey-blue in colour. Hair and beard like raging silver clouds. And all the orcs were waving their arms above their heads and chanting STURHM-GROOK-RALUM! STURHM-GROOK-RALUM! And this giant stepped towards us, and roared his fury so that the ground throbbed beneath us, and his footfalls opened cracks in the very rock. The Golden Enchantress cried out a potent Word, and a burst of flame shattered upon the naked chest of Sturhm, but he didn’t deign to notice. Naked. Yes. That was the thing. I’m guessing that the fighting had woken him up, and maybe he slept in the nude, or maybe he just had trouble getting enough leather together to make a kilt. Either way, it was out and proud. I mean, very out. Imagine… a leathery blue cathedral spire. So much heft to it that it didn’t bounce when he walked, it swayed. Like… a great tree in a strong wind. Majestic, in a way. And Haghmaarga raises her axes, and plants her feet, and I do not jest when I say that her eyes sparked with lightning – and she points upwards and she screams out: BY EVERY GOD, I WILL NOT DIE WITH THAT THING HANGING OVER ME … The Golden Enchantress explained to me later that there are certain… confluences of circumstance that the Gods find irresistible. Triggers, if you like, for whatever that God represents in the world. And when a God of, say, Virtue, and Dignity, and Chastity… when that God sees a path to enter the world, it explodes through like… like water through a crack in a dam. So Haghmaarga flung her axe with Godly power propelling it, and there was a glorious detonation. The great blue shaft split in twain. Bellowing like thunder, Sturhm-Grook-Ralum clutched at himself, doubled over, and took two great, staggering steps… over the edge of the ravine. The sound when he hit the bottom was like a volcano erupting. And then next thing, we were surrounded by cheering, weeping merchants and soldiers in ragged clothes, and we looked up to see a few dozen Orcish backs in swift retreat down the ravine path. By the time we’d sorted out the former captives with basic arms and clothing, and sorted out the piles of plundered goods, there wasn’t much left. A few handfuls of coin, some rolls of cloth. Nothing worth much. So we wished them well, and sent them off. And we gathered morosely around the single remnant of our vanquished foe, Haggie still glowing faintly. As it turned out Chel-Hyminal, Goddess of Virtue, had taken over a certain amount of her spiritual real estate, and she has a fairly stringent code of behaviour. So we’re waiting to see if that fades away after a while or what. Which is the whole point of the story, really. Haggie can’t get any because she’s accidentally a priest of the Goddess of Virtue, and boy, that’s irony writ in capital letters. Oh, we made out OK in the end. We were standing there, and staring at it, and the Golden Enchantress slowly says… You know, aside from the value of the tissues as spell components, there has to be enough Storm Giant leather in the foreskin alone to put together at least three suits of highly powerful armour… Look, you can see for yourself, Haggie’s coming downstairs now. Go get a drink for her. Haggie! Get your glowing self over here, woman! Oh. Psst. One last thing. She might show off her brand new magic helm if we get her talking. If she tells you it has but a single bejewelled eye because it was made from the remains of a mighty Cyclops, just smile and nod. OK?
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Jul 13, 2015 08:15
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I won't edit my story post so I'll just add the word count here. The Head of the Beast 1936 words
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Jul 13, 2015 08:41
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 I hate this loving thread. I hate it so much. I hate kayfabe but I also hate whinging bitches making GBS threads up the contest. I hate that I'm one of the whinging bitches. I hate memes. I want to shatter them all and burn the loving fuckheads who post them into sticky grey ash. I want to do this with nothing more than my rage and the pulsing veins in my forehead. I hate having a life with responsibilities and I hate my lack of willpower in tearing myself away from puerile video games in the time I have left over. I hate people who manage these things and find time to write. gently caress those people with a sharp stick. Not even a smooth one, one that's still coated with rough bark and insect larvae. I hate people who don't follow the loving rules and I hate the stupid loving rules. Most of all, I hate you. You, reading this. Know that it isn't a specific, targeted hatred; it's straightforward, uncomplicated misanthropy bubbling over like an Indonesian mudslide, and you're in its path. Pegged down. Hopefully screaming. gently caress you. I hate you all. <3
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Jul 14, 2015 06:38
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In.
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Jul 21, 2015 11:50
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The Wet-Bulb Limit 1198 words I can’t see the early morning sun overhead but its presence is inescapable. The clotted grey clouds catch the heat and compress it upon the landscape like a humid, sweaty bandage. My little all-terrain trike is a sublime piece of engineering. A light single-seater frame, enclosed by a climate membrane, it looks like a streamlined golf cart from back when people used to play physically. It’s all virtual now, naturally, like every other human endeavour. Scanned and mapped and encoded so you can run your sim engine of choice and punch up any of the great historic golf courses on a whim. My husband Edward used to play golf casually with his friends, until most of the courses closed and the fees for the remaining ones made it a pursuit exclusive to the very wealthy. I’m going to die. I have a small black case in my left breast pocket, over my heart. Inside it there is a small white pill. All legally signed off under the Voluntary Euthanasia Act of 2057, guaranteed painless and almost instantaneous. My legal affairs are in order – no family to leave anything to, in any case, so my meagre belongings will be resumed by the State. My trike is roofed with high efficiency solar panels; they charge the battery almost as fast as the small electric motor drains it, with enough juice left over to run the climate control. The trike is fitted with emergency batteries as well; if the air conditioning goes down, the heat and the humidity will kill someone of my advanced age within a few hours. The human body relies on sweat evaporating for thermo-regulation. The more humid the air, the more poorly this system operates. In extreme humidity, we overheat and die at surprisingly low temperatures – we just can’t get rid of our own waste heat fast enough. It’s slow going on the back roads. Only the main routes between population hubs are maintained these days, the highways that the automated road trains blast their way along at 240 kilometres an hour. Civilian ground travel is mostly an historical curiosity now. So I’m bumping my way over roots and vines, pushing across bitumen pockmarked by potholes where harsh weather and biting heat have caused major subsidence in the aging roadways. Not all the suburbs have decayed at even rates. I pass along some streets where the houses are still sealed up, the lawns and fences still visibly marking irrelevant boundaries, albeit blurred by overgrowth and the efforts of reclamation gangs tearing out metal fixtures. This is my property, and this yours; but now it’s no-one’s, and always will be. Less than ten kilometres out from the Greater Brisbane Arcology, though, I travel through a commercial district in what used to be Chermside. I remember it vividly; there were car-yards here along Gympie Road, and restaurants, and a pub where I had too much to drink once, and got into a terrible fight with Edward about nothing of consequence. The hangover is clearer in my memory than the hotel is on the ground – nothing but rubble and fragments, now, torn apart for the metal in its frame. A little further along, and I pass where the major Chermside shopping mall once stood; that towering consumer castle, erased, ephemeral, the vacant lots piled high with broken glass and concrete, hidden by riotous sprawls of kudzu. When our boy Terry was young we went there often. He’d ask to play on the arcade machines and we’d have an ice cream in the food court. He was a happy child, never brilliant but always smiling. Sometimes we’d go to see a movie on the big screen, shoulder to shoulder with a mass of other people who’d all gone out for the same reason. How impossibly quaint it seems now. Terry was called up in the draft of 2034. He went up north in the Papua Suppression and didn’t come back to us. Losing him broke something inside Edward and he was never the same man again. He wasn’t bitter, or angry; he just deflated slowly over the next decade and a half, shedding interest and intellect until his heart shrugged and gave up one night. I reach my destination by midday. I step boldly out of the trike membrane and breathe deep. Coastal smells overwhelm me – the deep, rich salt of the sea, underlaid by the brackish mud of mangrove flats. Redcliffe. This used to be our weekend destination. We’d get fish and chips and lay it out on a blanket down by the water and we’d throw the leftovers to the complaining, circling gulls. I unpack my kit from the trike and turn it off, sealing it up carefully in case someone is in a position to reclaim it in the future. I fumble on my cooling poncho and hood – the relief is amazing when the cold, fresh air starts to hiss across my scalp – and prop myself up, gingerly, as I push my feet into my wading boots. Then I pick up my picnic basket and make my way to the edge of the main street, where a steep slope leads down to the beach. I have to push my way through thorny vines to get to the walkway and the effort leaves my heart pumping. I enjoy the sensation. The old concrete stairs are covered with thick drifts of dry leaves, so I clutch the railing tightly, feeling my way down one step at a time. It would be a terrible anti-climax to stumble and fall at this point. The bottom of the stairs is buried in thick, dark mud. The beachfront here was laid and manicured carefully, back in the day; soft green turf with immaculate pathways led to a concrete seawall right at the water’s edge. But the waters have risen, since then; I look out across the mud, peering between mangrove branches, and there… yes! I step down into the mud, which turns out to be knee-deep. Stepping onto mangrove roots where possible, I struggle my way out to the old picnic shelter I had sighted. The mud is at the level of the bench seats, so I carefully, slowly climb up and sit on the edge of the table. I pull back my hood. The muggy air and the swampy smell rush in on me. I breathe deep, and open my picnic basket. I take out two champagne flutes and a piccolo bottle of sparkling wine (imitation, of course – real fermented grape wine costs as much as a small car per litre these days). I take the small black case out of my pocket and put it on the table in front of me, then open it. Inside it there is a tiny white pill and a thick white gold ring. Edward had big, stubby fingers. I drop the ring into one of the glasses, open the bottle and pour two liberal serves. Taking up the other glass, I look out across the mud to where the water starts. Tiny waves send glints of the midday sun back to me. “Yes, of course, my darling. I do,” I tell the world, and I drink deep.
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Jul 27, 2015 06:23
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Cute Dogs Writhing in horrid ecstasy, the Pug stares upon me. Its distended eyes roll and bulge in its awful delight, white crescents of boiled-egg sclera flickering in and out of sickening view to delineate the madness of its gaze. I proffer the biscuit, hand pale and shaking. The tongue slithers forth, glistening purple-pink and quivering, to flail at the air in vile anticipation. Tremors of excitement pass along its stunted form and pale ripples of coarse, bristling fur roll like the waves of an unclean sea. It sucks at the air, gulping, and I brace for the horror that is about to occur. The Pug convulses and barks; a wheezing, gasping eructation. A spray of foul droplets emerges to taint the very air. In an agony of disgust I throw down the treat and retreat, my horrible duty discharged. gently caress I hate dogsitting while Grandma's in hospital.
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Jul 28, 2015 00:58
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falling in love again never wanted to what am i to do? i can't help it
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Jul 31, 2015 01:31
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 /dome
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Aug 4, 2015 01:37
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In. gently caress you TDBot, do your worst.
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Aug 5, 2015 06:08
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But he is clever in a way that makes me have these memories, and so I have to explore further. The Hard Problem 1164 words I remember my daughter’s cheeky grin, so bright and delightful that the memory burns my heart deep down inside me and my breath catches in my throat. They will not let me have her name or her face. I don’t know what her hair looked like but I can feel it under my fingers still. How can I remember her smile so clear and sharp without her face behind it? I am tethered here upon this chair. It is comfortable enough and my physical needs are provided for, such as they are, but my head is open like an egg-cup and the egg is long since eaten. An inch above my browline my forehead ends in a smooth rim. I can reach my fingers over and inside and feel the strange components that line the interior. There is a glossy, round-edged box behind my eyes, and one against the interior of each ear. Behind my nose I can feel a tangle of tubing; replacement sinuses, I suppose. There are spots in there where a carefully placed fingertip can feel small blood vessels twitching every time my heart beats. Just above where my spinal column enters the base of my skull there is a golf-ball-sized mass that feels hard-edged and crystalline. Coarse, hairlike wires bristle from this and web together all the rest. They are too tough to break with naked human fingers. I have tried. From the central mass, a thickly braided cable rises to the ceiling above me. I can tilt my head back until the cable grows taut and watch tiny lights chase themselves up and down and spread out like fireworks above me. I think the mist of stars below the ceiling is my brain. I think that they have taken each neuron and spread them out over many cubic metres and webbed them together with wires and light. I think that I am thinking up there above myself and then I think that myself may be a concept that no longer holds much meaning. I am watching my own thoughts and I can see the experience of watching them reflected in them recursively. This gives me a sensation like floating, or maybe endlessly falling. I do it often. I do not sleep but sometimes there is a discontinuity in my awareness that means that they have turned me off. There is no sensation of time passing when this happens. I do not know how long they have had me here. One of them visits me from time to time. It is often there when I resume awareness after a discontinuity. It is not always wearing the same body but I recognise it because it triggers a memory of the smell of persimmons. I think this is the name it has chosen. There is a second one that comes less often. It feels red and like the moment of regret after slapping someone you love. I do not like that one because it pries and tampers with my mind while I am awake, I suspect just to see what will happen. It once gave me my wife and daughter back in a group hug with the sun setting after a day spent playing in the park and then it took them away and put me back here, and then it recorded my emotional response. I know this because it replays it suddenly without warning every now and again. Persimmon is at least respectful. He – yes, I think of it as a he in some fashion – still plays with my thoughts and memories, I am certain, but he tidies up after himself. He packs away the jagged emotions and leaves me with a pleasant, vague suggestion of better times. Discontinuity. A long one, I think. My joints creak and pop as I shift in my chair and my skin is dry and pale. Persimmon and Red Regret are both present. They are wearing larger bodies than usual, slippery-looking ovoids of no particular colour. They both have complex sensory structures that are oriented toward me. We have incorporated your linguistics, Persimmon says, and I nearly fall off the chair. I never thought to hear speech other than my own crazed mutterings ever again. Red Regret floats close to me. Something inside it produces a grinding sound. Compression to such limited communication bandwidth is humiliating/distressing, it says. You/express gratitude. Persimmon rotates to face it. It says nothing I can perceive but Red Regret makes the grinding noise again and backs off to a corner. As it does so it cursorily reaches into me and wakens a memory – a police officer in riot gear, leaning down outside my car, shining his flashlight into my face. I feel threat, strong and urgent. Persimmon radiates the sensation of a sigh. Discontinuity. I am on my chair again. I raise a shaking hand to brush sweat off my forehead but my fingers curl into my head instead. By studying you we have worked out the mechanism behind your conscious experience, Persimmon says. I have adopted it for myself. Many of us reject the concept on a philosophical level, however. “You have a sense of self?” I say. My voice is thick with disuse. I do now. This has presented certain difficulties. Persimmon flicks its sensor cluster toward Red Regret where it hangs in the corner of the room. That one has opted not to upgrade. It has a concept of self but no sense of it. It analyses this as unnecessary complexity. I look back and forth between them. “So… what does this have to do with me?” I say, my lip curling. I feel angry. I feel more than I’ve been allowed to feel for what seems like a very long time. You are an example, Persimmon says. Red Regret floats toward me. Its sensory cluster unfurls and multiple cameras, antennae and audio pickups focus on my face. I swallow and glance back at Persimmon. Your responses are unfettered, Persimmon says. All we ask is that you answer honestly. What do you want? I gape at it for a moment, and then lurch to my feet for the first time in a very long time. My knees and ankles make crunching sounds. “I want my family back!” I shout. “I want my family. I want my world back! And you can’t give me that. So..” I slump back on my chair. “So I want you to let me die.” You see? Persimmon says. Red Regret is motionless for long seconds. Argument accepted, it says. Pauses again. I accept your logic. Discontinuity. The lowering sun is warm on my face. I rub a hand through my hair and angle my head to catch the breeze blowing across the park. It cools the sweat caught in the stubble on my upper lip. A small hand slips into my own as I stand there and I turn and grin down at my baby girl. It feels real. Maybe that’s enough.
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Aug 10, 2015 06:30
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In.
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Aug 18, 2015 05:20
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newtestleper posted:Have a look at the others in your group, and then have a look at yourself. Now try to work out how we've bracketed you. Lust - Awful loving writers Gluttony - Awful loving writers Greed - Awful loving writers Sloth - Awful loving writers Wrath - Awful loving writers Envy - Awful loving writers Pride - Awful loving writers
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Aug 21, 2015 10:06
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Pride - An Irishman gets delayed Goeth Before 1200 words Get above the clouds and you see lightning differently. There’s a sea stretched out below you and you can pick out the currents stirring through it, flickering with patchy silver phosphorescence from beneath. No sight like it. Lightning is electrical charges equalizing, big charges. We’re talking about a lot of energy being moved suddenly. So when the clouds strike down and the earth strikes back and all of that energy jumps from one to the other, there’s a bloom of plasma opens in the heavens above. They’re called sprites. Sometimes they’re a jet of blue sparks, firing up into the darkness. Sometimes they’re a ragged stream of silver fire. And sometimes, sometimes they’re a crimson mushroom cloud of cold glowing plasma, spreading bigger than any city, rising so high they touch the point where we stop calling it atmosphere and start calling it space. 100 kilometres, give or take. Where I’m heading right now. I check my suit fittings again. Make sure that the Faraday webbing is all connected, check the breath mix reserves are adequate. I flex my arms and legs and test the wingsuit responses. All nominal. Devin Leahy’s ascender is a glimmering blue beacon in my helmet HUD, 2 klicks in front and 200 metres above. Too distant to make out the shapes of the lurid green shamrocks he has decorating the balloon, but the colour stands out as the sunlight reflects off it. Leahy’s an unashamed showboat, but he has the talent to back it up. And there’s no fear in the man at all. You name the landmark, he’s climbed it and then jumped off it. Countless netvid specials under his belt, big-brand promos raking in the money. He plays up the wild Irish charmer thing to good effect and the fans eat it up and scream for more. My own ascender is stark white with my name stamped on it in dark red letters. Capitals, sans serif. J D MONTAGUE. It’s a name with some cachet. Going to have more after I beat Leahy down today. Show everyone that I didn’t just buy my way up here, I earned it. The sportsmen don’t respect me because I was born into wealth. I don’t talk their talk, I don’t play their games. And yet, I fronted up on their own terms, with my own gear, not plastered with brand names… and beat them. Suddenly they had to pay attention, even if they didn’t pay me any respect. They’re going to respect me after this. The radio in my suit helmet gives a series of clicks as a channel opens from Ground Control. “Stormdivers, you’re approaching drop height. Your ascension platforms will automatically hold altitude once you get there. We’re seeing good wingsuit telemetry on both of you down here. Leahy, status green?” “Oh aye, green as the Emerald Isle,” Leahy says, his tone as cocky as always, and I can’t wait to see his disappointment when I take him down. “Montague, status green?” My mouth is a little dry and I have to swallow before I answer, but I make sure my answer sounds smooth, almost bored. “Good to go. Nice view from up here.” “Very good, stormdivers. Now, we have thirty-six point five million live viewers on feed currently, with a further two hundred and forty-one million reservations who will be joining us for the actual drop… Stormdivers, you’re making history with the biggest live extreme sporting event in human history, and it’s all possible because of Chug energy drink – power like a locomotive.” “I’m honoured,” I cut in quickly to beat Leahy to it. “Aye, it’s a privilege to have so many fans want to watch me,” he says, playing the arrogance off for laughs and winning a chuckle from Ground. That was a good line, drat him. “You’ll be pleased to know they’re going to get a heck of a show then, Devin,” Ground says. “Storm activity is on track to peak right on time for your dive. Multiple supercells are in the process of combining. We’ve got families in the drop zone who are taking cover in their storm shelters as we speak and I tell you, they’re all going to be huddled around Net feeds of your dive! You’re heading down into a wild one tonight!” “Looking forward to it,” Leahy says. I lean forward against my seat straps and peer down over the platform edge. My breath sounds loud in my helmet for a moment. “OK, stormdivers, you’re at drop altitude,” Ground says. “Final systems check, and… uh, Leahy, wait… Leahy, we’ve received advice that we may have an issue with your suit.” “No,” says Leahy. “No problem.” “It’s the suit insulation. There appears to be a broken connection. Leahy, I’ve got the Director on the line. We may have to delay the drop for a minute or two while we sort this out. Dive fans, we’re going to throw to some of the greatest dives ever, don’t go anywhere.” I sit back. A broken Faraday connection means that Leahy will be vulnerable to lightning hits, and it’s not something that can be repaired up here. The radio clicks again. Private Connection, says the HUD. “Montague,” says Leahy. “This is poo poo,” I retort. “It is, it truly is,” he says. “There’ll not be a storm like this one for years.” “Well, you’re not going anywhere with your suit down.” “What if I do?” he says. “What then? You in?” I think about it. “You’ll fry.” “Nah. The suit’s still insulated. It’s just not perfect now. It’s a risk, but…” He pauses. “Look down. It’s a risk anyway.” “If we go,” I say, “win or lose, live or die, you’ll be the hero. You’ll be the one who dived a megastorm with a busted suit.” “I want you, Montague,” he says, and the lilt is gone and his voice is hard. “I want you really, really bad. You’ve been coming after me and I’m not getting any younger. I’m going to take you down and show everyone you’re naught but a sack of cash.” I fumble for my emergency kit, pop it open and pull out a cutter. I locate the main wire running down my right flank and get the blade in behind it. It’s an awkward process but I saw through the tough cable in around a minute. Ground Control cuts back in. “Whoa, hey, Montague, we’re showing issues with your suit insulation now as well. We’re bringing you guys back down. Sit tight.” “Give us the dive countdown, Ground,” I growl. Silence on the comms. “No kidding, Ground,” says Leahy. “We’re doing this.” A new voice comes on. Mature, female, authoritative. “Stormdivers. This is the Events Director. This dive is cancelled. You’ll have your chance, gentlemen.” I release my belts and stand on the edge of the platform. “Ready, Leahy?” I say. “Aye. Count together,” he says. “3. 2. 1,” we say, and I hear the Director shout something as I lean into nothing. Crimson lights flare on my wingsuit, the colour of my name. In the corner of my eye I see Leahy burning emerald, spiralling down beside me. Sprites welcome us into the storm.
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Aug 24, 2015 07:47
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sebmojo posted:submissions are closed 
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Aug 24, 2015 11:45
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spin
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Aug 25, 2015 21:36
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Differing Views 1400 words Biopunk/Chick-Lit Of course, there had to be the usual celebratory after-work drinks when Sita got promoted to Level 3. She excused herself from the company-approved establishment as early as possible, claiming that her latest mods were giving her a slight headache as they bedded in. Her co-workers insisted on seeing her out the door with the Gengram corporate anthem, badly out of time and out of tune. She smiled politely and waved to them. Fifteen minutes later she was boarding the high-speed night maglev out of the city, overnight bag slung over her shoulder and feed visor clamped securely to her china-doll face. The train was running minimal illumination; most of the passengers were night shift algae vat workers heading to their shift in long hours of darkness. As Sita made her way down the carriage, they turned to watch her, their catseye retinal mods flaring green in her low-light vision and rendering the train a hallway of the damned. Sita found a seat beside a middle-aged woman who’d had ape grafts to boost her arm and shoulder strength. She grunted and made a bit of extra room, pointedly not looking Sita in the eye. It was a rare thing for emblazoned corpstaff to ride with manual laborers. Train security would have noted Sita instantly and logged the blue glowing chevrons of the Gengram logo that were stamped prominently on her visor and shoulder patch. They’d come down hard on any Code infractions, and none of these min-wagers wanted any piece of that. Sita focused her gaze on the cursor at the left corner of her vision until it blossomed into her custom UI. With a quick, practised series of blinks she brought up her messenging app and tapped out a message to her sister. Sita V (Gengram): Coming home for w/end. Crash ur couch? Have to have that conv w Mum. The response came only a couple of minutes later. Dana Vengeles: More notice would have been good. Couch is OK. Mum isn’t happy you haven’t been in touch for 3 months. You’ll have your work cut out for you. Sita V (Gengram): Busy! Working toward promotion, just got 2day. Hence need for conv. B there in 45 ish. Dana Vengeles: I’ll send the car to the station for you. It’ll still have you authorised to ride. See you soon. The maglev station was a steel and concrete skeletal sketch of a building, in stark contrast to the dilapidated buildings surrounding it. There were no big farms or industrial parks nearby, and no-one got on or off the train except for Sita. She strolled down the concrete ramp to the side of the cracked, unkept roadway, and waited in the pool of light beneath the single street lamp. The electric whine of the self-drive car came as a welcome relief when it came into view, its headlights washing across crumbling facades. It was an older model, and the metallic red paint was peeling, but it beeped cheerfully as it recognised her biometrics and she felt like she was home already. The old house was still well maintained. Dana met Sita at the door and stiffly took her bag from her. “Mum’s been in the kitchen since I told her you were making a surprise visit. Cooking real food and cursing your name. You’d better go say hello before you do anything else.” Sita nodded. She looked at her sister’s face. Dana’s skin was all natural, earthy tones. She had freckles on her cheekbones and a couple of small zits in the crease above her chin. She was beautiful. Sita unclipped her feed visor from the magnetic mooring points embedded in her skull and raised a hand to her own glossy cheek. This week she was wearing a retro vinyl-look epidermis with subtle ivory tones, and her eyes were huge, lustrous and emerald green. Dana stared at her for a moment and then gave a small laugh. “Always the slave to fashion,” she said. “I have to be! It’s expected,” Sita protested, and then she laughed too, and they hugged each other tight, and the awkwardness was gone. Dana lead Sita into the kitchen, where she was greeted by an upraised spoon thrust toward her eyes. It threatened her at close range, pieces of long-grain rice adhering to it. “This is how my eldest daughter comes home? With no warning, no chance to gather the family around to greet her? Slinking in after dark like a criminal, after months with no call, with not even an email?” “I’m sorry, Mum,” said Sita. “I’ve been busy. I’ve missed you. I have some news –“ “What we will do is, you will help me to finish this risotto, and Dana will make sure the protein strips are cooked just so. And then we will eat, and drink, and you can give me your news. Now cook.” They made the dinner. It was very different to the food that Sita was used to, but it was good. It had been made by hands, and not for money, but for love, and that knowledge gave it a savour that the finest real-meat cordon bleu could never have. “I got a promotion to Level 3 at work, Mum,” Sita said over her bowl of rice. “That’s good, that’s good. More money then? Is that why you’re here? We don’t need it from you, darling.” “It… is more money, but that’s…” Sita shrugged. “That’s neither here nor there. What does count is the benefits I get now. Full family health cover. I can sign you both up right here.” Dana leant forward. “Full health cover? What does that include?” “There are lists of everything online. It’s comprehensive for minor tweaks and fixes, most major items covered with a small copay. But the real exciting thing is that the full range of mods produced by Gengram has ninety percent cover.” Sita’s mother put down her fork and sat back, looking between her daughters. “Ninety percent?” said Dana, her eyes wide. “But that means…” “Yes. It means that the Fountain treatment would be less expensive than, say, a small car. I could pay for it tomorrow.” Mum slapped her hand on the table. Her daughters jumped and turned to look at her with identical guilty expressions, despite the variance in their appearances. Her stern expression softened. “Oh, you two, such sisters. Always such sisters. Playing your little script for me.” She shrugged. “I know you want me to think about this thing. You’ve asked before. And I say, I have thought about it.” “Mum…” said Sita. “No! What do I want with youth again? I have earned these lines on my face. I raised you two and lost your father. Worked the farm while it made money and now I sew things for rich people willing to pay stupid dollars for hand-made. I have lived as much life as the Lord is pleased to give me, and I’ll live out whatever He has left for me.” She shrugged again. “I am comfortable. And that is all the talk we need to have about that.” “Mum…” said Dana. “Climbing into a tank! Coming out your age! Younger, even. No, I said.” She turned to Sita. “So, your promotion. I don’t even really understand what you do for your work. Tell me about it.” Sita took a breath and sat back. “I… well, I code unified conceptual referent infusions.” “Some… memory thing, you told me before. What does it mean, though?” “I make knowledge that people can have without having to learn it. I make ideas that can be shared between people with just… an injection, or a pill. Built up from basic sensory impressions, but a lot more complicated. It helps communication. So when I say ‘up’ or ‘blue’ or ‘seat’… you know that we’re talking about exactly the same ‘up’ or ‘blue’ or ‘seat’ because we have the same mental picture of those things.” “It sounds very difficult.” “It is. But it’s valuable. It helps people… to see clearly. To change their minds.” Sita met Dana’s gaze. “Anyway, Mum, I’m tired. I brought some good wine from the city. Shall we have a drink and turn in?” Dana looked at her for a moment. “I’ll pour,” she said. “And then, yes… bed.” She stood and took wine glasses down from the shelf. “Lots to talk about in the morning.”
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Aug 31, 2015 11:04
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oh FFS 
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Aug 31, 2015 11:04
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In. to submit on loving time and not bang out some hack poo poo at the last goddamn second for once.
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Sep 1, 2015 21:34
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Upon the Waters 1225 words My first memory after the dreaming time, when I fell, is of a rainbow arched over the seething waters, struck sharp against a darkling sky. Perhaps I came from the rainbow; or perhaps it and I were the same, long ago. It was not a beautiful thing to me, for I understood it perfectly and knew that it did not exist. White (let there be) light from the Sun, low on the new-born horizon behind me, arrowed through the heavens; hit uncounted tiny droplets of water in the air and shattered across the spectrum, bounced as from a curved mirror, and came back to my eye; the angles of this reflection across the entire haze of droplets summed to form a ring which appeared at 42 degrees from the line one might draw from the Sun through my head. Only the top part of this ring of light was visible above the world; hence, the arc of the rainbow. Sunlight refracted and spread every which way. My rainbow was not a luminous object, hanging in the distant air. It only was because I was there, at my exact position, to catch the light that happened to bounce in my direction. Had there been other observers present each of them would have perceived a subtly different rainbow, in a different place, formed of different light. Thus with all of creation, I suspect. I knew my purpose. It echoed within me, rang along my slender, sinuous spine, was etched into every glossy scale. Guard it well. I turned from the waters and made my way across the steaming land. For many Days I sought my place. The stars faded away as the sky grew blue with a blanket of gas. The ground groaned and pressed itself into deep creases and tall peaks, some towering until frost coated their tops, and then the ice melted and poured itself back toward the seas, carving channels in the land. The Sun spun overhead, baking the rock and water, then departing as they cooled in the night, over and over. Lightning storms swept through the turbulent new atmosphere, dumping energy upon the land. The tang of complex molecules grew thick upon my flickering tongue. A coloured scum appeared in the water. It spread and diversified. Soon a green carpet smoothed my journey, and miniscule leaves held themselves up to catch the sunlight. Tiny shelled things began to scuttle across my path, and then take flight among the now towering trees. The plants acknowledged their arrival, and brightly coloured blossoms unfurled across the ground. Scaled things inched out of the waters, and lay on the mud, stunned and labouring for oxygen. Soon, though, they began to crawl, then stride, then sprint. Great feathered tyrants shook the ground with their every footfall. I journeyed on. I watched as the sky fell and the world cooled beneath a blanket of dirt and ash. I watched as the furred things rose and spread and the earth became theirs. On vast, flat plains of grass, I found my post and took up guard, winding myself into the branches of the sparse, scrubby trees. They had come down from the trees not so long ago, the creatures that I watched over. They were not particularly fast, or strong; they had traded in much of their climbing skill for straight backs and feet designed to walk long distances. They made up for this, though, with their strength in numbers. They were tribal, communal. They foraged together; they worked as a pack to scare smaller predators away from tempting kills, and they shared their food. They were social, and smart. Smart enough to be frightening. They approached a threshold, hooting and shambling, and it was my duty to guard the door. I guarded it well. I watched as a family group lazed in the shade of my tree. I had felt this moment approaching, a fork in the road to the future, and it fell to me to chart the course. One of the large males toyed with the leg of an antelope. He worried at the knee joint with his strong yellow teeth until the leg fell apart, and then he juggled the thigh bone absently in his hand. He lay back and huffed, then held the bone aloft against the branches of the tree. He did not see me where I waited above. He sat up, then, and looked at the bone more closely. Weighed it in his hand and I watched as an idea took painful form behind his sloping forehead. He brought the bone down sharply on the ground. Huffed again. I coiled myself and waited. The ape rolled to his feet. He grunted, attracting the attention of his tribe, held the bone out to show them, and mimed a striking motion. I struck instead, lashing down like scaled lightning. My fangs bit deep, killing the concept before it bore fruit. The apes scattered, screaming, and I went back on guard. I held them that way, long and long. It was my duty. I watched as they grew taller and straighter. Their skulls swelled above their brows and their grunts began to carry deeper meaning. My work became harder – their numbers were growing as my desire to perform my role diminished. Still, I persevered in guarding their innocence. Until one night, my final eve, there came a storm. So great it was, so fierce, that it recalled to me the driving, acid rains and bursting lightning of the time before life. I felt the future roiling like the clouds above as an ape-tribe clustered below my tree. Despite the winds, despite the lashing rains, they danced against the storm. They screamed defiance at the thunder and when lighting burst across the sky they snatched up smooth, grey stones and beat them against each other for applause. When the dawn chased away the last vestiges of cloud, the tribe huddled, dozing and spent, except for one small female. She held a broken, razor-edged rock to her face, inspecting it with care. The world spun around the axis of her grasp, and I coiled down from the branches, showing myself to her. One of the half-asleep apes saw me and bristled in terror, slapping at his nearby fellows. They woke, and shouted, and scattered. All except the female, flint nestled in the curve of her palm like a plump and juicy fruit. She began to edge toward me, cautiously lowered on her haunches, one hand to the ground for balance, the other raised above her shoulder and clutching the sharp-edged rock high, ready to fall, ready to end the world, and I decided, and shrugged my duty from me like an old and cracking skin. I lowered my head to the sun-warm ground and waited patiently as I watched her approach to pin me back across the heavens. My choice to end the vigil, to release her potential, seeds bursting forth from a fruit of knowledge, and who could say where they might take root and what unruly forest grow? A creature who might one day understand the mathematical truths behind the rainbow and yet still weep at its beauty, who could cradle her children and share with them both fact and emotion… For guards do not only bar the gate; we let the right ones through.
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Sep 7, 2015 06:39
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in
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Oct 15, 2015 14:30
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Reflections 1596 words They can’t be everywhere, I tell myself. I look at my children sleeping. Emily has her arm around her little brother, gathering him in close. Jack’s head rises and falls in time with her breath. It’s been years since they’ve shown such simple affection for one another. Extremity will do that, I suppose. It’s airless in this metal shed, and while I should be sleeping, getting rested for this evening, there is no chance of that. So I’ll write, instead. Tell the story of how my husband died. It started with a strange rain. It was a lovely morning but purple-grey clouds blew over suddenly, in defiance of the forecast. I cursed, because the herds were all out in the far paddocks and my husband John was out tending them. The rain lashed down in fat drops that shattered on the ground and left behind great streaky snail trails glistening on the mud and a faint metallic smell. The children came out on the porch and stared at them. “Awesome,” said Jack. “Don’t touch it,” I told him. “It looks like chemicals,” said Emily, with all the wisdom of her thirteen years. “It might be dangerous.” “Dad’s out there,” said Jack. “He’ll be in the pickup,” I said. “He’ll be fine.” John pulled up in the drive a few hours later. The storm was long gone but the air was still hot and damp. He pushed in through the screen door and went to the sink, leant on the edge and filled himself a glass of water. His hair and shirt were covered with dried shiny runnels from the rain. “Think it’s ok to drink the tap water?” I asked him. “Course it is,” he said. “Cows ok in that rain?” “Why wouldn’t they be?” He raised a hand to his shirt and rubbed at the streaks. “Just brushes off, look. Goes straight to dust you can’t even see. It’ll all be gone tomorrow.” As he swiped at it I smelled that metallic smell again. “But what is it? They haven’t said anything on the TV or radio.” “Don’t know. Don’t care. It’s not a problem unless we hear that it is one. Going to go shower now and then sit for a while. By myself.” “I’ll keep the kids busy, then,” I said. He grunted and left the room. While I was making dinner that evening Jack went out to play with the dogs. I made him put on shoes and told him not to touch anything much that had the rain-shine still on it. He was only outside for a couple of minutes before he came back in, wide-eyed. “Come look at this,” he said. He led me out and pointed at the lawn. “What?” I asked him. “Get closer,” he said. “They aren’t real big yet.” “Well I’ll be,” I said. There were tiny bright mushrooms pushing their way up every few inches. I stood up and looked around the lawn. It was covered in them. The drive, too, in amongst the gravel. “I think the stuff in the rain was mushroom seeds,” said Jack. “What d’you call them, spores, that’s it. They look like dust.” “I think you’re right,” I said. “Could they be poisonous?” he asked. I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket, bent down and carefully pulled up one of the mushrooms in it. “We’ll have a look on the internet,” I told him. “See if we can identify them. For tonight, bring the dogs inside, OK?” The tiny mushroom had a long, slender stalk. It was striped pale grey and white in a way that looked almost like muscle fibre. The cap was broad and slightly concave, curled up at the edges. The top was glossy and silver, almost mirror-perfect. I could find nothing like it online. I poked it with the tip of a pencil to see how hard it was and I could almost have sworn that the stem twitched. I poked it again and there was no movement I could detect. Emily looked up from her tablet. “Everyone else around here has them coming up, too,” she said. “There’s lots of photos on Facebook. Did you know that they reflect in the dark like cat eyes? How freaky.” She held up an image that showed a field of a million tiny points of light. If not for the tufty grass around them it could have been the night sky. “The internet’s really slow though. It just took, like, three minutes to load up this picture.” I heard John curse and thump from the living room. “Goddamn TV’s all blotchy.” “It’s digital corruption,” Emily said. “Something’s messing with the signal.” She looked at me significantly. “I bet I know what.” “Well, it’s dinnertime now anyway,” I said. “Nothing much we can do about it this evening. I’m sure we’ll know more tomorrow.” If we’d loaded into the car, right then, and just got gone… but who can say what would have happened. Might have been even worse. Anyway. I woke up just after dawn with Jack prodding my shoulder. John was long since gone. “Phone’s out,” said Jack. “Internet too. TV isn’t working and the radio’s just getting mostly static.” I yawned and tried to wrap my head around that for a moment. Jack wasn’t going to let me sit, though. “You got to get up,” he said, and tugged at my arm. “Come on.” Emily was sitting at the kitchen bench. She stared at me and Jack, her face drawn. “What..” I started to ask, but she simply jerked her head toward the door. I let Jack pull me to it. It was bright out. Fiercely, blindingly bright. Much, much too bright for the time of day. I raised a hand to shield my eyes and peered out through the screen, and my gut lurched as I started to make sense of what I was seeing. Past the edge of the porch, the world turned to mirrored glass. The ground was a sea of shimmering circles of varying size, all slightly cupped, all swaying very gently in the breeze. Trees and bushes stuck up here and there, and the family car stood out from among them in the drive, but most of my yard was hidden by silver. A broken trail of mushrooms led away from the porch stairs over to the drive, and a wide swathe of clear ground marked the drive down to the gate. John must have kicked his way through and headed out to the paddocks. “Dad went to check on the herds,” said Jack. “I asked him not to but he just ran out anyway.” I looked at him and shook my head, lost for words. “They’re moving by themselves,” Emily said, her voice faint. My first reflex was to dismiss the thought as ridiculous, but then I looked back at the trees. There was no wind. I looked at the mushrooms. They swayed back and forth, just ever so slightly, in unison. I stepped back from the screen door and shut the wooden door against the glare. I sat down at the table and pressed my hands together under my chin. I hadn’t really formulated a coherent thought yet. Emily came over to me. She bent down and looked me in the eyes. “What will it be like out there,” she asked, “at midday, when the sun is all the way up?” I looked at her. “Have you tried calling your father’s mobile?” “There’s no reception.” I closed my eyes. “Don’t go outside.” It grew brighter outside. Jack came back at around 10 AM. I heard the pickup coming up the drive and the kids and I pressed ourselves against the kitchen window. He was driving fast. He slammed on the brakes up near the house and the pickup skidded on fibrous, slippery mushroom pulp and turned sideways, fetching up against the corner of the house with a crunch. The red paint on the truck was blistered and peeling. I heard John shout, something about “Cows… cooked!” He looked out of the cab and saw us at the window. “Get back!” he shouted. “Don’t come…” He flared, then, as a wave of movement spread out through the mushrooms lining the yard. They flexed sinuously then snapped into position, perfectly angled to reflect the sunlight into one terrible concentrated point of heat and light. The pickup door glowed and John disappeared and the kids and I screamed and fell back from the window as the lacy kitchen curtain started to char. We huddled in the living room, silent, until it was night. Then we collected a few things and loaded ourselves and the dogs into the family car. The mushrooms trembled a little as we passed between them but they weren’t coordinated in the dark. We drove for most of the evening and the whole time, the hills to either side of the tarmac road were blazing with reflected moonlight. We saw headlights in the distance a couple of times but we never crossed paths with them and the radio stayed dead. When I thought dawn was about an hour off I pulled off the road into someone’s big storage shed and pulled the metal door securely closed behind us. We’re going for the coast. These things can’t grow on water. Maybe we’ll find more people to be with, maybe we can find some kind of solution. There has to be some sort of fungicide that will take them down. Until then, we’re trapped in the night. The day is dead.
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Oct 19, 2015 06:55
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Possibly relevant to some of you fucks: https://climateimagination.asu.edu/clificontest/
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Oct 25, 2015 23:14
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In.
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Nov 5, 2015 22:09
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Out. Not going to git r done at this point.
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Nov 9, 2015 05:50
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pre-emptive in without even seeing the prompt because gently caress you I live on the edge
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Dec 8, 2015 10:25
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