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I don't want an assignment and I am in at 999 words with thermionic valves, my dudes
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Oct 25, 2018 00:17
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Object: thermionic valves Attenuation Breakdown 989 words Trav finished the joint and coughed. He counted Jake’s drumming, felt Bruce’s bass come in. Eyes closed, he tried channeling his muse. The cheap Peavey squealed and belched out fuzz, cutting out the peaks and dips. “Trash. Just trash.” He set the guitar down. Jake rolled his eyes, sick of this weekly routine. “You better go cool off dude, this poo poo’s really not chill.” Trav punted the amp across the basement. It landed speaker side up revealing a crude sigil of protection. His ex had painted it. It was time to get rid of that thing. He stomped up the stairs without saying a word. A damp chill was in the air and his shoes were soaking through, he’d been walking for a while. He should’ve taken the bus. Freezing rain sputtered down again. He ducked under an awning. It was an antique store. Consignment. Strictly mid-century junk. Except for the amplifier. Dovetailed maple, spartan in construction. He walked in and picked it up. It was the real deal, semiconductors were never this heavy. “That old thing’s $60,” the cashier said. He dropped a damp wad of twenties onto the counter and left. The boys were gone by the time he’d come back. Gingerly, he plugged it in. The thing looked brand new, like it’d never been used. A soft hum filled the room as the amp warmed up. Something from high school unglued itself in memory. Thermionic valves, or more commonly, vacuum tubes. Wavelength amplification. Semiconductors always chopped up the signal. Broke it apart and rebuilt it into little squares. Valves didn’t. Whatever went in came out except a thousand times stronger. The tubes were glowing red hot. He picked up his guitar, strummed a chord. He went through the entire progression. Then another. Melodies, rhythms and harmonies all seemed to come from elsewhere. Hours passed. The phone rang, knocking him out of the trance. The music faded into a growing static. It filled the room, enveloped him, found its way through every vein and for a brief moment even satiated that gnawing blackness tucked away at the far reaches of his soul. A voice came out of, or rather through it. Raspy and hollow, “More,” it said. He obliged and was at it again. He thought his muse was smiling, satiated. Shivers ran down his spine. It was ecstasy. Night had fallen and receded twice before he collapsed. Sleep was quick, troubled. Nightmares and cold sweat when he drifted off. She was flowing, ghostly, ever changing. Timeless and hungry, it was music she wanted, that evanescent thing that he built and let collapse as soon as the strings stopped moving. Jake and Bruce showed up for practice the next day. Trav was already playing. The pair looked at each other. He’d really tightened up, it was phenomenal. That old amp really had been holding him back. “Jesus you don’t look good. You on somethin’ or what?” Bruce said when he saw Trav’s pale, emaciated figure slouched over the guitar. The guitar's neck was stained with blood where he’d worn his callouses off. Bruce shrugged and started playing, Jake followed suit. They two started something familiar and before they knew it Trav flowed seamlessly out of whatever he’d been playing. Something was up. They switched the beat on him, stopped and started again, even played off key. Nothing could trip him up. The pair packed up after midnight. They stood on the porch sharing a cigarette. “I think the guy’s on something,” said Bruce. Jake nodded. They agreed to come back when he’d come down and they’d sort it out. When they returned Trav was still playing, paler and more emaciated than before. “Dude’s on a bender. He’s never been into heavy poo poo before, eh?” Bruce asked. Jake shook his head. “Let’s go get his family or something.” Trav heard a door slam. He stopped playing, an ache spread from the tips of his fingers and radiated across his body. His mouth was very dry. He stood up, fell over and passed out. Static filled his thoughts. She was there, angrier than ever, flickering in and out of being. Her hair flowed wildly around her head, the corners of her mouth drawn back in a tight snarl. “They’re trying to take me from you,” she hissed. He jolted awake. The voice was fainter now over the static. “You can’t leave me.” Stronger. He needed to bridge the gap. Those few millimetres of vacuum between him and wherever she was. “Yessss,” she said, trailing off into static as though she’d read his thoughts. “More.” He turned the amplifier as high as it would go, static filled the room. He was moving now, not certain if the movements were his own. There were instructions in the static. He dug out a set of jumper cables from the closet. He saw himself rip open the breaker panel and clamp one end on polished copper. He knew it was wrong, he could feel the potential of the entire grid buzzing at the end of clamp. Expertly and in a single fluid motion his hands guided the cable to a place in the amp. The static grew louder yet, the amp began to buzz and vibrate. Blue smoke erupted from the breakers. He picked up the guitar and she took over. The sound was deafening, the house shook, his body trembled. He let a wailing solo trail out and coughed, sour smoke now filled the room. “More,” she said, and he knew she was smiling. He turned the gain up on his guitar so far the knob broke and slammed the strings with a power chord. There was a flash. She was pulling him in, ghostly tendrils tearing into his soul. He was cold. She was there, in that blackness, clearer and more corporeal than she’d ever been. She turned to face him, mouth open, impossible amounts of teeth all dripping with black.
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Oct 28, 2018 15:55
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I'm in. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JTTwlAT_AwU
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Oct 30, 2018 23:53
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The Word 1216 words Luna closed the old book and pressed her hand to Zack’s forehead. He was burning up, the sheets were soaked with sweat. She washed her hands in a basin, scrubbing at her arms with a coarse brush. Partly as a precaution, partly in a vain effort to scrub away the circuit traces just beneath her skin. She raised her left arm into the faint rays of morning sun filtering in through a scratched lexan window. She followed the delicate circuitry that ended at her elbow. Like a roadmap, she thought. A permanent reminder of the city. Anger shot through her, her right hand clenched itself into a fist, crushing the brush. She tossed the pieces aside, there was work to do. Before leaving she double checked the solar panels were charging her bike. She followed a narrow wooded path until the trees grew younger and more sparse. Eventually the forest opened up into almost endless plains. Like scars the old roads cut through the tallgrass. If she looked close she’d see old concrete that like tombstones marked where houses once stood. She followed one of the old winding roads until it reached a stagnant pond. There, like the book had said, was the tree. Weeping willow, she mouthed, and cut through the bark with her knife. She filled a canvas sack with moist inner bark and headed home. She gave him some of the tincture. She hoped it was strong enough. He sat up a few minutes later, reached for the basin and threw up. Maybe too strong. Soon enough the fever subsided, he stood up on his own for the first time in days. The bike hummed, the smell of ozone surrounded them. It was dusk by the time they reached the outskirts of the slums. The whole place glowed with a million mismatched lights, pushing back the smog. The city, just as she’d remembered, towered above the shanties in cool grey majesty. She slowed down, tried to get her bearings. The slums had grown so much since she’d last been here. Zach was starting to nod off behind her. She found a polestar in the old radio antenna and the bike hummed through the cramped, unmarked streets. Things started to look more familiar. Rows and rows of containers, hand-painted signs and flickering lights from shoddy electrical. She found a doctor, the waiting room was almost empty, a sign on the door read CASH ONLY. She helped Zack into a chair. Someone came up to the desk. “He needs help. He’s had a fever for days,” she said. “A thousand down, the rest after the appointment. I won’t charge you more than five no matter what. It’s my guarantee,” he said pointing to a handwritten sign on the wall. Her heart sank. Prices had gone up. “Listen, all I got is a thousand. I’ll have the rest tomorrow,” she said. “Have it by the time we open or we’ll have to square up another way,” he said, looking her dead in the eye. She tried to talk, but stopped. The implication was enough. The sign outside should read “cash or organs”, she thought. “Fine,” she said. She found Rick’s container in the same place it’d been all those years ago, a sign reading Cheap Internet Access still hung above the door. Rows of terminals were flickering inside, Rick stood behind the same stained counter and took a drag off his cigarette. She walked up, slowly. The creases in his face were deeper now. He looked at her without a click of recognition. “I need a job, Rick,” she said. She saw a flinch of apprehension when he heard his name. He tried to play it off. “Can ya read? Prices are up there. I can rent ya a headset if you ain’t got your own.” “You know I left all that poo poo behind, Rick,” She rolled up the sleeves on her jacket. The cigarette fell from his mouth. “Jesus Christ! It’s been years. You know you’re the only one left that still has that poo poo?” “I need a job. I don’t have the cash to get online, no one’s gonna hire me with a break in my resume like I’ve got either.” “Tell you what. There’s a guy what’s stiffed me. We was gonna double the uplink speed out here to the slums, I fronted for the antenna but he ghosted. Thinks we can’t touch him if he doesn’t leave the city.” “You want your money back? Maybe rough him up? I can do that.” Rick shook his head, leaned over the counter and said a single word . “Kill.” He slid a deposit across the table. She sat on top of the container, watching the sun set. It wasn’t like she remembered it at all. The sun reflected off a thousand shades of tin. Night markets opened, lanterns lit up, neon sputtered to life. The smell of cheap alcohol floated up on stale air. She waited for the familiar sounds of rolling gunfights, but they never came. The wind tousled her hair, she pushed it back. It was shorter now, her new clothes were stiff. Her hand touched the tiny camera stuck to her temple. Rick needed proof. Only one thing left to do. She fished the glass pipe from her pocket, already filled with white powder. She torched the end with a lighter, inhaled the acrid smoke and smashed the pipe. A tinge of regret followed by that familiar feeling of being on a razor’s edge. The blue-white lights of the city shot past. She wove through the computer-controlled cars, watched as the AI struggled to predict where her bike would be next. Transfixed, she followed the red X on the bike’s display. She pulled up to a bar, just like what Rick had described. She brushed her hair back, making sure the camera had a good shot. No one looked up when she walked inside, she went for the bar. He was there, on a stool, talking to someone on the other end of his headset. She sidled up beside him, like she was gonna order. Instead she threw him off the stool. She was on top of him, hands clenched around his throat. She hesitated, or at least, she would have, but instead watched her hands carry out their work. She felt his trachea collapse. She threw up. Rick ran a device over the camera, it’s bio-adhesives let go and the thing fell into his waiting hand. “Just a formality, I heard you done good.” All the goodness had left her body, the dopamine burned off like a flare. She hated this feeling. Less than human, just a tool. He opened the floor safe. She was over the desk, hands at his throat before he could even reach for a gun. There was no hesitation this time. She was two minutes late at the doctor’s office. He was already wheeling out a surgical tray. She dropped triple the price on counter. “I got one more thing for you to do, Doc.” She twisted the throttle as far as it would go, the city disappeared into the horizon. Pain shot up her arms but she didn’t care. She smiled at the criss-cross scars that severed the electroneural links so they’d never grow back.
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Nov 4, 2018 23:36
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Ok, I'm in
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Nov 6, 2018 02:20
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Catalyst 1243 words George slammed the pedal. His tuk-tuk's brakes squealed in protest and he skidded to a stop. A low slung truck bristling with sensors shot past leaving only inches to spare. Traffic was worse than he’d ever seen it. He lit up another smoke, weaving around a concrete pillar. Even a brief moment in the shade of the gargantuan twin pipelines snaking over the city proved refreshing. It always made him anxious though, smoking under both fuel and oxidizer. “Gotta cut costs!” he yelled into the roar of traffic. Another courier in an equally beaten up tuk-tuk heard him. “WHAT?” he yelled. George pointed out over the skyline, into the once fertile fields where the pipeline ended and a gleaming rocket stood. “Gotta feed the dragon!” The other guy nodded and drove off, disappearing into a sea of traffic. The tuk-tuk’s computer beeped a new address at George. He silenced the console, pulled a u-turn and gunned it. They were gonna launch the Dragon IV soon. Everyone knew it, but there’d been nothing on the news. There hadn’t been this much commotion since the first Mars trip and this rocket was even larger than the last one, who’s launch the city had sprung up to support. Sarah stared at the ceiling. The cops picked her up last night. It wasn’t even like she’d stolen anything. Got a screaming deal on a Russian botnet and made some money appear? Sure. But nothing was stolen. She wondered what kind of prison this was, anyway. The food was great and the cot was better than her own bed. They didn’t even take her earrings. Tiny multifaceted porcelain cut to look like diamonds, they weren’t worth anything, but still. She scratched absentmindedly at a scar on her calf, wondering how thick the concrete here was. A guard slid a tray through an opening. Lunch time. She gulped down half the glass of water, not realizing how thirsty she’d been. It tasted a little sour. George picked up the package from a tiny office. The inside smelled of fresh drywall and long hours. The receptionist handed him a thick envelope. Because the city had sprung up almost overnight some things remained archaic. He checked the address. He knew the place pretty well. He stopped by his apartment on the way. Sarah hadn’t come in. She was pulling another scam, he knew it. He had a bad feeling about this one. Making up time he puttered the tuk-tuk through side streets until the buildings gave way to a maze of refineries and massive pumps. In a small clearing stood an ancient one-room chapel surrounded by discarded pipe and rubbish. He slammed the “Delivered” button on the console and killed the motor. No one knew when it had become a bar. Smoke puttered out of the copper chimney, lingering around the countless antennas. The still was running. The place served the best booze in town when it didn’t give you the shits. George pushed through the double doors and walked under the ancient sign that read “Merle’s Inn”. It was early afternoon, the bar was empty. Merle was tinkering with a computer behind the bar. “Hey Merle, got a package for you,” George said, sliding the envelope across the bartop while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The only light filtered in through stained glass windows. Merle studied the package, a crazy gleam in his eye. Crazier than usual anyway. “Taxes! I shoulda known. They’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel since that whole Mars thing went tits up!” “Huh?” George turned to leave. Merle had been hitting the sauce pretty hard, apparently. “Hadn’t ya heard! Here! It’s been all over the networks” He tapped a console and something started to print, line by screeching line. “Hey, ya wanna drink? I’m working on something totally new. A cactus whiskey!” He produced an unmarked bottle and two glasses. “On the house!” he added. Three drinks later the printer stopped. Merle handed him the paper. The top read CLASSIFIED. Most of it was illegible, but George got the gist of it. Life support on the colony failed completely. “What did you think they built that rocket for?” Merle slurred. “Why you think there’s been so much commotion round here? They’re emptying the jails, y’know.” Sarah woke up on a bus, crammed against a window. They were on the tarmac in the rocket’s shadow. Everyone else seemed out of it. They’d been drugged. Her memories were dreamlike. Long lines of people, waiting rooms, scanners. She dug the heel of her left foot into the scar on her calf. She felt something give and a heat radiate into her muscle. She’d cracked a subdermal pouch, a small exothermic reaction powered a thermocouple and hopefully sent out a hail mary S.O.S. George’s phone buzzed. He flipped it open and found only a series of numbers. The world was starting to spin. The whiskey was quite good. He showed it to Merle. “Whadya think this means?” “Those are GPS coordinates!” Merle punched the numbers into a computer and a monochrome display slowly traced out a map. Two lines formed a crosshair pinpointing the signal. The launchpad. “They’re sending her to Mars!” George yelled. He ran outside and fired up the tuk-tuk. He swerved drunkenly through traffic, following the pipeline. He’d never pushed the motor so hard, or at least it felt like it through the whiskey fog. Soon he was out on the plains. He could think of only one way to stop the rocket. He untied his shoe. Beneath the launchpad in the control bunker alarms blared. A lone operator pushed buttons and flipped switches, frantically trying to decouple the fuel lines from the rocket. It was hard to focus and ignore the grainy display showing a madman aiming an explosive cart at the pipeline. It was all going too slow. Thinking quickly, he pulled the interlock fuses and killed the pumps. As soon as they spooled down and the fuel stopped he’d blow the explosive bolts and save the rocket. George tied the throttle wide open aiming the front wheel squarely at a pillar and jumped. He rolled to a stop and covered his head. He waited for the explosion. The operator stared at the screen, the cart was careening into the pipeline. Fuel hadn’t finished flowing. He waited, unsteady hands poised at the controls. There was a chance it would miss. Sweat dripped onto the console. The little cart slammed into the pipeline. The front fairing crumpled and the machine tipped over on its side, wheels spinning wildly. He breathed a sigh of relief. His hand slipped. The bolts blew the fuel couplers clear of the Dragon, allowing fuel and oxidizer to meet. The blast tore into the rocket’s delicate skin, exposing exotic alloys to forces they were never designed to withstand. Flames belched from the ruptured ship. The bus screamed to a stop, jostling some others out of their fugue. Sarah watched the explosion ripple down the pipepline, the ground shook as a flame arrestor slammed shut a half mile away. Across the plains, a flicker of movement caught her eye. Someone was trying to pick up a battered tuk-tuk. “No loving way.” She unclipped one of her earings and with a flick of the wrist porcelain met glass. The window exploded into a million tiny shards. She half fell out the window, landing hard and took off sprinting.
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Nov 11, 2018 21:34
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I'm in with a toxx
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Nov 12, 2018 23:40
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Road Trip 1978 words The computer flexed Luna’s muscles for her, making sure she didn’t cramp. A frayed connection in the neural link came loose again, jarring her awake. She woke up watching her hands darting deftly, impossibly between needles of a sewing machine. It happened a lot now, management refused to fix the problem. She waited. Soon the wires would snap together again and she’d drop back into machine sleep, joining the thousand other workers around her. *** Dex dumped the pile of overdue bills back into the drawer. It’d been impossible to turn a profit ever since Garmatech opened their megafactory and started paying in scrip. He pulled out a half empty bottle of whiskey and took a swig. He got up, stretched and realized he was shivering. It was cold, sure, hardly worth keeping the lights on in his store nevermind the heat, but he was sick with anxiety. He walked downstairs into the warehouse. Cold winds blew through mismatched tin but even in the darkness he could see the gleam of his newest investment. It was a pre-ban sedan. Manual transmission and all eight cylinders modified to take in the most air and fuel as physics would allow. Not a single piece of electronic equipment anywhere under its stamped steel body. He couldn’t resist. Pulling a key from his pocket he slid inside and started the motor. A low rumble filled the warehouse, climbing to a roar as he pressed the pedal. He’d make it to the valley and back before anyone knew he he’d left. He relaxed a little, counting the stacks of cash in his head. *** Hours had passed and Luna was still awake. It was driving her nuts. She could feel every fibre of cloth, every ache in her body, the constant hum in the headset’s cheap amps. The computer still had control though, and all she could do is watch. She noticed a pattern. Every fifteen minutes the bolt of cloth would run out. Her hands would stop sewing and the computer would start to massage her muscles. There was a moment, maybe a second, where between two routines she thought she could move. She waited. Yards of fabric slipped through her hands, the machine clattered away. The feeder stopped, dropped the empty roll into a tray and loaded a new one. There. She threw herself off the stool, grabbing wildly for the wires to her headset. She snagged the bundle and pulled as hard as she could. It gave out. She fell to the floor, her left side spasming before the harness broke free completely. She got up trailing sparking wires and walked to the nearest door. It was locked. She pulled the fire alarm and watched the door pop open as sirens blared and the entire factory snapped out of machine sleep at once. She ran. She’d made it past the gates, trailing a delivery truck. The cold wind cut through her jumpsuit, shoes already soaked from the snow. She stopped running when she couldn’t ignore the cramping. Part of her wanted to go back and apologize. Maybe they’d let it go? “Yeah right,” she muttered to herself, trying to fish the last smoke from her pocket. She was already on the hook for two years salary. That’s how much it had cost the company to get her wired up. Plus they’d hit her with the cost of the headset and lost productivity from the stunt she’d pulled. If they didn’t put her in jail they’d make her work five years for free. She couldn’t decide which was worse. She needed out of this place. Right now she needed out of the snow. The city was quiet, everything was closed save for a few seedy bars. She didn’t have any cash on her, so that was a bust. She remembered an old favor she could call in. She winced at the thought. It was going to be awkward. *** Dex killed the motor when he realized his phone was ringing. He answered. “Hey man, we’re not gonna make it. We’ve had issues,” a scrambled voice said. Dex went pale. “What do you mean? Tomorrow okay then?” “The whole thing’s off.” They hung up. His payment on the car was due in three days, and the seller didn’t gently caress around. He’d bet everything he had on this case of smack. He took a long drag off the bottle. He needed a miracle. Someone pounded at the door. It wasn’t the cops, they wouldn’t be so frantic. He closed the warehouse, walked through the darkened store and cracked the door open. Snow blew in and Luna pushed her way inside before he could stop her. “Listen, I need your help. I hosed up,” He could see that. A corporate jumpsuit and fresh electrode marks on her temples. None of this sounded cheap. “Another one of your genius plans? Last time I listened to you I left behind a thriving business and moved here to get an edge.” He used air quotes to emphasize the last word. “Not my fault you were too slow. Besides, you still owe me,” she answered, pushing her index finger into his chest. He remembered this was exactly the reason they’d broken up. The way she managed to turn everything around on him. Maybe it was time to do turn the tables on her for once. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you’re flat broke. I’ll front you the money for this gig I’ve got,” he said, leading her into the warehouse. “Nuh-uh. You owe me,” she answered. “Yeah. So cough up the dough for gas and I’ll let you use my car,” he said, flicking on the lights. It really was a more than generous offer. All she’d done for him was pull a few strings and get him this run down shack, hardly worth mentioning really. Luna was quiet. This was next level even for her. “As it stands, I’ll take the payment out of your cut. All you gotta do it drive this thing down to the valley and pick something up for me,” he said. “Why don’t you do it yourself?” She asked. “Listen, I need an alibi. I can’t just disappear for a few hours. This thing’s fast enough no one will even know. Besides, with how cold it is you’ve got an edge on anything electric.” He couldn’t wait to pin the whole thing on her. No I.D, no cash, burning gasoline. Between the bounty he’d get for turning in an unregistered motor and the money Garmatech would pay for the whereabouts of some stolen company property he could pay off his debts and leave this poo poo hole. He wrote an address on a scrap of paper, handed her a sawed-off, some shells and the keys. “It can get a little strange out there,” he said. A weapons bounty wouldn’t hurt. He opened the warehouse doors and watched the car edge slowly into the blowing snow. He gave her a thumbs up as the doors slammed shut and he called the cops. The old highway was dark and straight and crumbling. She held the steering wheel with her knees in between snowdrifts, loading shells into the gun. Something up ahead reflected the weak glow of the headlights. Both hands on the wheel, she slowed down in time to see a low flying drone dart out of the way. Tiny rotors whining, it pulled up to the driver’s window. A gimbal bristling with sensors tried to get a read. She smiled. There was nothing to lock on to. The drone kept pace as she gunned it. The gimbal stopped, a compartment clicked open. She shot the drone out of the air before the camera’s lens had even opened, blowing out the driver’s window and her eardrum in the process. She watched the drone shatter as it hit pavement, flaming chunks sending up clouds of steam when they touched snow. A few miles later her rearview lit up with lights. She punched the dash. Dex sold her out. There’s no way the cops could have known. Even if the drone had called home they couldn’t be this close already. Red & blue strobes flickered brighter, they were gaining on her. She pushed the pedal to the floor, fighting the car every time it burst through a snowbank. Eight cylinders screamed and she watched the gas gauge tick downwards. She relaxed after putting some space between her and the cops. She could lose them when she reached the valley tenements, even if it meant ditching the car. She didn’t want to know what Dex had paid for it. Something slammed into the passenger’s side sending the car sideways. She caught the spin, a flick of the wheel and a touch of gas sent the rear end swinging back on the road, the wheels kicking up dirt and snow. In the mirror she saw a motorbike, only it was lower and there wasn’t a rider. A golden police emblem stood out against the thing’s jet black fairings. Dead quiet, it must have been electric. The car was topped out and the robot-bike was gaining on her. It was trying to drop a spike strip, she knew it. Four wheels worked in her favor, tearing through loose snow and buying her time as the robot modulated braking and thrust, struggling to stay upright. It tried to pass. She cut it off and slammed the brakes, hoping it would crash into the trunk. It reacted too fast. She couldn’t play this game forever. A sign all shot through with bullets read Exit: 300m. She slammed the brakes and heaved the car left, making the bot overcorrect and buying her a few seconds. She took the turn wide, knowing the bot would cut in. She saw the bike hug in the curve, the inside lane was the logical choice after all. She grabbed the gun. The bot sped up. She pulled the trigger as it passed, hitting it right in the cells. Blue flames shot out as the bot careened off the highway and exploded in the ditch. She drifted through two more turns, following exits until she was back where she started. She stopped the car and shot out the lights. Dex wasn’t going to get off clean. The cops were a blur as she shot past them. Guns flashed but she was long gone. It would take them forever to turn around. She let off the gas, watching the cruisers do clumsy three point turns. She was practically coasting by the time they were up to speed. She slammed the pedal. The car fishtailed away leaving streaks of melted rubber. She kept the cops in the rearview all the way back. The city was crawling with cops so there was no slowing down. She tore through the streets, almost losing control through the sharp, narrow turns. Flashing lights descended on her from all sides. She almost missed the alley to Dex’s place, sliding wide and knocking down a street lamp. She slammed the car through the warehouse doors and hopped out. Dex almost fell running down from his office. She chucked the gun at him, passing him on the stairs. She snagged his coat from the chair and wrapped it around her hands. She smashed a window and jumped and onto the fire escape before pulling herself onto the roof. Sirens echoed off surrounding buildings, but no lights yet. She shook off the glass and put the coat on, finding his I.D and a stack of cash in the pockets. She sprinted across the roof, vaulting the gap between warehouses just as a cruiser pulled down the alley. Two more jumps and she ducked, pops of gunfire filling the night sky. It was best to lay low for a while.
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Nov 18, 2018 16:06
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In, toxxed, hit me with a e: i'm dumb autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at 01:05 on Nov 20, 2018 |
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Nov 20, 2018 00:40
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This story is dedicated to avid bitcoin enthusiast and master HODLer, Kaishai Detour 500 words Flash rule: Oh, with love comes strange currencies, and here is my appeal Jeremy pedalled furiously. Three more blocks. His guts were churning. He hoped whoever ordered the veggie wrap wasn’t in a hurry. It'd been simpler for a courier before the Internet of Things. “The internet of poo poo!” he swore. It wasn’t wrong, though, not since Poopr came in and let anyone with a smart lock and a bitcoin wallet charge for using their bathroom. Couldn’t go for free anymore. One block left. At this rate he’d never scrounge the money for Jen’s ring. He’d been promising an engagement for years, she’d finally given him an ultimatum. He closed in on the address. The house looked like a dump, no pun intended. He was lucky anyone at all had accepted his request. He waved his phone at the reader by the door. The light blinked but the door was jammed. He scanned again and put his shoulder into it. He could see the review already. “Jdog420 F--. Client swiped in excessively, damaged door. Did not tip.” Someone framed him for a water leak yesterday. Any more complaints and he’d be banned from Poopr. For a bicycle courier with finicky bowels it would be a career ender. He bolted up the stairs and into bathroom, having memorized the instructions. He was letting loose before checking to make sure his bitcoins went through. Poor form, sure, but these were desperate times. The crisis averted, he pulled some single-ply T.P. off the roll and noticed a sensor on the holder. They were counting the squares. He fed the T.P. off without turning the roll and flushed. The handle came off in his hand. He yanked the cover off the tank and tried to reattach the flapper chain, but everything disintegrated into bits of rust and rubber. “God, I’ve never asked you for much,” he pleaded half-heartedly over the torrent of water pouring into the bowl. If he fessed up they’d ban him for sure. If he left there was no guarantee someone else would come in after him to take the fall. Even if he tried to fix it, he’d trip the door sensor. A bird hit the bathroom window. The bathroom window! He opened the frosted glass and was met with the shingled roof of the mudroom. He climbed out and hopped down. He tore through his toolkit, hoping to find anything to plug the hole. No dice. In a moment of perfect clarity, weighing all actions and their consequences, he grabbed the wrap from his insulated bag. He stood on his bike and clambered back on the roof. Rolling the warm tortilla tightly, he jammed it into hole where the flapper would have sat. The water stopped. He posted a rave review on Poopr and spent a few coins to drop a glowing green tag on the map. Everyone for miles would know this was a primo spot, someone was bound to drop a deuce before the tortilla gave out. He swiped the reader and heard the door click shut.
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Nov 23, 2018 02:01
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Antivehicular posted:
Thanks for the crit!
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Nov 26, 2018 12:59
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Jeff checked his Casio. 8:30am April 15th, 1987. His memory was a little foggy. He signed his name under the Stage Crew column and passed the clipboard back to the terminally bored guard. It was for the best, if the guard looked too close he might see Jeff's pupil's were the size of pin heads. He followed the handwritten signs posted all over the recycling facility until he found the rest of the film crew, already setting up near the gargantuan shredder. Danza wasn't ready yet by the looks of it and this whole stupid after school special was his idea. Jeff locked himself in a port-a-potty and slid an ivory box from his pocket. He cupped a tiny bump of the fine white flakes on a fingernail and inhaled. He didn't remember getting his gear or even how he'd managed to climb the ladder to the top of the shredder, but right now his entire being was focused on keeping the boom mic directly over Tony Danza as he fumbled his way through a third take. "Welcome to a very special episo-" "Cut!" the director yelled, "more light!" A spotlight burst to life right where Jeff was looking. He sneezed. The boom mic caught Danza in the sternum, sending him flailing into the shredder. Jeff slid down the ladder and slammed the shutoff switch, but macerated viscera were already pooling at the machine's base. Humour. Humour could fix this. He tapped his mic and heard it echo through the silent stage. "I..I guess we'll never know ooze the boss, eh? Eh? Is this thing on?"
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Nov 27, 2018 02:04
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I'm in
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Nov 27, 2018 13:12
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I fuckin obviously need Backdraft, the firefighter merman and also in with a  
autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at 01:52 on Dec 19, 2018 |
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Dec 19, 2018 01:50
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Flare Up 852 words Backdraft was finishing up his calisthenics. The winter sun was just beginning to filter down through the waters and illuminate Mermonia. He was running behind, he’d tried his best to be out before sunrise but the bed had proven too enticing against the chilly winter morning. He rushed through his final stretches, knowing Fulgencio would be up soon. He couldn’t bear to face him. He heard the delicate driftwood door of their bedroom click shut. Fulgencio fluttered down the stairs, his powerful tail shimmering in the morning light. He always seemed more sparkly before they argued. “If you leave this time, don’t bother coming back,” Fulgencio said, arms crossed across his thin, muscled chest. “You know it’s my duty!” Backdraft shot back, packing his bag. “Your duty? We live underwater there hasn’t been a fire here since...well, ever! We’ve never had a fire. You could stay home and no one would know! It’s what the volunteers do!” “They’re good mermen!” Backdraft shouted although he’d never meant to raise his voice, it was a sore spot. The volunteer firemerman force looked great on paper but in his entire career he’d never seen any one of them attend a call. “Besides,” Backdraft said, “Getting paid to stay home would be stealing.” Fulgencio rolled his eyes. “Then quit! I can’t bear to have you gone over another holiday!” Backdraft sighed, flexed, and put on his helmet. Fulgencio was right, his shifts always lined up with some major holiday. It was part & parcel with the job, though. “I’m going to work,” Backdraft said coldly. “Fine.” Fulgencio opened the door for him. Backdraft swam through and heard it click shut. He took the long way around to get some cardio in, he hated using the treadpool at that station. Mermonia was lit up for the holidays, lengths of bioluminescent plankton draped from light post to light post, the tightly-packed townhouses of the city center were done up with festive bits of coral and topped with white algae to resemble snow. He swam past the Mayor’s house and stared. It was more marvelous than ever. The entire thing had been redone for Christmas. The mayor must have ordered new coral to be grown around the rust proof magnesium frame because Backdraft had never seen it like this. The entire thing was shimmering with festive colour. Plankton glowed from every crevice in shades of green and red and gold. Festive scenes seemed to emerge from the building itself, its very shape tickling the subconscious into remembering sleigh rides and evergreens. Backdraft unlocked the firehall doors and swam inside. He changed the calendar behind the always empty reception desk to read December 23rd. He couldn’t shake the sound of the door clicking shut behind him when he left Fulgencio. He seemed serious this time. Backdraft pushed that out of his mind by busying himself around the station, starting with an upper body workout in the gym. After dusting off every flat surface and reorganising all the uniforms, he busied himself polishing the trucks. Special order with negative buoyancy and hydrophobic fire-foam in the tanks. They were supposedly the leading model in underwater fire-fighting. After making sure every surface of the trucks gleamed, he ran a few drills. He was suited up and in the ladder truck in under thirty seconds, out again with the hoses unrolled in another fifteen. The day was dragging on, he was tired. It wasn’t even eight yet but he decided to call it a night. He left the T.V on as he drifted off, desperate to find anything to keep his thoughts from drifting back home. At half past two the phone rang. He answered, half expecting it to be Fulgencio. The dispatcher sounded frantic. Someone topside had driven a car off the pier, or rather it had driven itself. Some new electric thing full of computers, the dispatcher kept calling it a Telsa or something. Backdraft asked him to slow down, the guy was practically hyperventilating. “Battery fire. Car. Mayor’s house.” Adrenaline shot through his veins as he swam out to the truck. He was ready in record time and the truck raced through Mermonia’s tightly packed streets. As he passed the houses lit up, residents roused by the commotion. The car’s batteries had caught fire underwater, the currents had caught the thing and sent it right into the mayor’s house where the magnesium frame had caught, too. He was all action as he set up the hoses. He’d beat the fire back, the flames retreated back into the gutted upper floors when the hoses sputtered and cut out. The truck was out of foam. He watched the headway he’d made vanish, blue-green fire licking back up into magnesium rafters. He dropped the hose, dejected. All those holidays missed. All that work. For nothing. He couldn’t bear to face the crowd that had gathered. He wiped soot from his helmet and tossed it to the ground. Red and blue lights reflected off the dirty badge. He looked up to see the pump truck tearing down the streets. Behind the wheel Fulgencio sparkled.
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Dec 23, 2018 19:06
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Gonna shitpost a bit about TD, sorry if I'm late. I think we've run out of new blood in Something Awful. There aren't enough people on this site to warrant advertising internally. Anyone who's wanted to run through it has already done so. Thunderdome is less unpredictable now and, sorry to say, less fun. Stratification is a part of it, sure, but also the current pool of writers has improved. Everyone who wasn't actually into writing has left, the remainder has improved to the point where there's less of a challenge. I don't know about anyone else, but I feel I can reliably poo poo out a 1000 word piece that probably won't lose (or even if it does lose, it's only by comparison). A lot of people here are really, really good now which makes it almost impossible for casuals/new entrants and it's a little discouraging but mostly because of quote:In the other point of frustration, it felt like the expectations of the judges were unclear from the beginning, and crits focused on a very narrow criterion, to the exclusion of anything else. It worked really, really well in the beginning. Judges picked a story they liked the most. It was the kind of unpredictable thing that made the game fun. You'd have weeks where really finely crafted works went up against stuff that was mediocre but told a better story and the winners would be unpredictable. Plus, I'm not even going to lie, the lack of really, really poor fiction makes TD boring to read for me. My favorite weeks were the ones where entrants veered off into some unexplored literary territory and wrote something either so awful or so strangely entertaining that it's stuck with me for years. BUT enough complaints. What could we DO? We cant' rely on SA for new blood. We can't invade an already existing literary forum and browbeat this style of contest into them. We can't advertise offsite and expect entrants to pony up $10 for the novelty. I PROPOSE A digital flash fiction zine, on a monthly basis. Advertise it offsite/real life anywhere budding writers would congregate. Structure the zine like TD, with a monthly winner. The winner would receive an SA membership gratis and a link to a critique + this thread. Other entrants would be encouraged to pay the forums sign up fee to access their crit/crits and join in on a weekly contest. If there's interest we could each pony up some cash quarterly and hand out accounts to the zine HM/DM entrants. We'd probably have to let go of IRC to get anyone born after 1990 interested and do the dirty discord thing. Thoughts?
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Dec 26, 2018 18:30
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I really, really don't like the idea of discord BUT it's so much easier to throw in a discord link with regards to the zine than it is trying to explain IRC and servers. I used to write/edit for a college newspaper and one time a friend and I distributed a zine in a .bat format about indie video games that ran inside command prompt, so I've got a vague idea of how it could work. I can't see it being too big at first, I'm willing to put in the time with formatting and all that junk. Definitely will need someone to help on the graphics design side. Anyone interested in helping should probably PM SH or drop into IRC (I don't have PMs) and we can hash out some kind of structure. I'm thinking a digital .pdf/ebook thing that's formatted to fit standard printer paper. I think if we incentivized submissions by saying after [X] submissions of [Y] quality you can be eligible to judge we'd encourage repeat submissions and grow the community.
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Dec 26, 2018 21:18
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