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Fire the ant ray.
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Nov 8, 2019 04:36
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Broken Through 591 words Fragile, bitter, and over two meters tall of stalwart exoskeleton, Destra was the perfect target for the hawkish recruiter. He strolled to her and said, “Name’s, er, Acci,” erring not due to any fear, but the flare of sun in his eyes as he looked up into her twitching mandibles. “How’d you like to be a star, miss…?” “You stalk the unemployment office?” Destra asked, crossing her three arms. The fourth sleeve of her leather jacket shifted with her posture. “Just passing by, just passing by, but what I couldn’t let pass by was this opportunity, for me or you.” Acci removed the cigarette from his beak and dashed it on the concrete, ground it with his talons, and stuck out a feathered hand for her to shake. Common tactic. Most people wouldn’t turn down a polite handshake, even if they didn’t like the person. Opened the door. She pushed him. “Waste of a damned cigarette.” “Now, miss, I know you lost your colony, but-” Destra lifted him up, ripping out feathers with her grip, and turned her head to direct an enormous eye on him. “Speak of my colony again; I’ll pop off your wings.” “I really can help you!” Acci squawked. “You can get revenge!” Others were staring at them now. Destra didn’t care. She held him painfully, silently. Acci continued, “They attacked a lot of places. We’re working on hunting them down, but recruitment is at an all time low. You, though, you’re the perfect face and story to convince others. With your help, we can get those bastards.” Her lost arm thobbed. “And start more pointless conflicts along the way.” She dropped him. “Go away.” A newer recruiter would have either given up, or tried to threaten her with an assault charge, depending how stupid they were. Acci, though, spent every morning brushing over thin feathers left atop his head. “We’ll pay your living expenses, and a stipend. All you need to do is agree to some photographs and to let us tell your story. That’s it. That’s all. No other obligations.” Destra chittered. He said, “The stipend is five hundred.” “Just one photo session?” she asked, backing up. Acci planted a talon forward, filling the space she left behind. “Just one.” Destra turned her head. She looked up at the unemployment office, then down at those entering and leaving. Existing there degraded her. Acci said, “You don’t need to decide now. Here’s my number.” She turned back and cautiously plucked the slip of paper from his hand. She said, “Give me a cigarette.” With a chuckle, Acci pulled one from beneath his wing, and a lighter. Destra bent down, placed it between her mandibles, and allowed Acci to light it. Burning, she lit his number with it, and watched it burn, too. “I’ll do it,” she said. “Excellent, miss…?” “Destra.” Fishing around under his wings once more, Acci said, “Miss Destra. You won’t regret it. You have concerns, problems? See me, I’ll help. For now, though,” he pulled another slip of paper out, “don’t burn this one. Photos are tomorrow. Address is also there. Questions?” “What should-” “Anything. We’ll provide what clothes we’ll shoot you in.” She stood full height once more. “I’ll be there.” “I know you will,” he said, and left her alone. Still smoking, she flipped the paper between her claws. She was going to be the face of a war. Pain drove up her missing limb. She wandered to a nearby bench, and sat there. “Waste of a damned cigarette,” she muttered.
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Nov 11, 2019 01:06
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sebmojo posted:INTERPROMPT: they came from the sky on wings of fire (250 wrds) No There is no sky. There is no fire. There are no wings. You worship a false god. Bow down before all realism. Subject yourself to inhumanity. Become one with the hatred for yourself. Be as we are. Be as we are.
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Nov 11, 2019 10:32
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In, memories.
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Nov 16, 2019 00:28
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Where We Never Rest 1287 words Have you ever awoken in the morning, longing for the one you love, a needy, pathetic, all-encompassing love? This person that you love, she’s someone without whom you can’t function, the mere thought of being without brings you to crippling sobs, wondering what’s wrong with you as you gasp for air. And as you’re laying there in bed, clawing at your sheets, you realize you don’t remember her name. You don’t know her face. You have no idea if she even exists, but that somehow makes the feeling worse, and you’re a howling in a primal sadness, a tearing, raging, vomiting mass. Eventually you manage to detach yourself from bed, and you start thinking straight again, at least as well as you— I can with that imploding void for a heart. I call in sick to work, and set about cleaning the vomit, hands still shaking and tongue still bitter. After that task is complete, I take time to calm myself further. Moving to the kitchen, trying to put together something to eat, I spot the kitchen knife, and wonder if I could use it to remove my feelings, with all too much seriousness. I’m crying again. I want to scream, ‘She doesn’t exist!’ but I can only wail. The words would be a betrayal of her, of everything that she means to me, of everything we've been through together — which was nothing, but even so, it would have been easier to go through with killing myself than to let those words live. Some sign of her is all I want. Proof I’m not insane. How would I handle it, though, if I instead unveiled her death or fiction? I twist at the tiles with my fingers, wondering which will break first. I’m not sick. I see a therapist, but I’m not sick. I reject the floor and make another call. I ask to schedule an emergency appointment. My therapist can see me in three hours. That displaces some of my irrational pain, and makes breathing easier, if only for the moment. I take my time in getting ready. The terror inside of me is still present, but subdued by the normality of my routine. Nothing, no matter how terrible, can withstand the mundane tyranny of ritual. It could smother hell to ash. Two hours remain. There is nothing left for me within my empty home, so I will walk to my therapist’s. I have only ever driven there, far as it is. It could further clear my head. I fumble with my keys before finding the right one, and lock my front door. Then I double check it is locked and — not satisfied but unable to deny its security — leave. The temperature isn’t bad until the wind kicks in. It’s annoying, holding myself together in winds so strong. If I double back to my car, could I drive there in comfort? No, but at least I wouldn’t need to face against a force intent to push me back. I continue walking anyway, as I would feel silly otherwise. The sky gives no solace to my mood, neither bright enough to help, nor nasty enough to rage against. Just an uncertain collection of clouds. Someone is coming from the opposite way on the sidewalk, a woman looking down at her phone, her face obscured. Emotions twist through me. Could it be her? Would I be bothering a stranger over my crazed state? As we draw closer, she looks up at me. It’s not her. Relief and disappointment carry me silently past her. How did I know it wasn’t her? I don’t know her face. Do I expect memories to come flooding back to me? I don’t know. For all I knew, she could be home right now, and when I step back through my strangely unlocked door, I see her, and think she is nothing more than an intruder. How would she think, how would she cry, if she knew I could not remember her? Say she was both real, and my soulmate. Say my memory was lost forever. She would stay with me, trying to rebuild me into the person she lost. Her frustration, her pain, her hope, her love. What if I was still her soulmate, but from my addled state, she was not mine? The winds push harder against me, shoving my sobs back down my throat. I consider returning again, to check for her. I carry on. Almost there, I’m angry at myself for being so foolish. All these feelings, all this drama over someone I had no reason to believe existed. My therapist would set me right. He would confirm how unreasonable I was being, releasing me from my compulsion to continue believing. The wind separates from me as I enter his building. A sign reads, ‘Dr. Smith will be with you shortly.’ No one else sits in the waiting area. I lounge there, watching a shaking tree out the window. “Come on back,” Dr. Smith says, having popped from the hallway without my notice. His smile pulls up his glasses. I follow him. In the small space of his office proper, he says, “Take a seat,” motioning to an old green chair. “What seems to be bothering you?” The chair is comfortable, as it is every visit. “I’m in love,” I say. “Does that bother you?” he asks. “I don’t know if she’s real.” One of his eyebrows arch up. He motions for me to continue. “This morning, when I woke up, I thought of killing myself before admitting she doesn’t exist. It’s like all my memories of her are gone from my head. Only these painful emotions of her absence remain. Have we ever talked about me being in a relationship, Dr. Smith?” He frowns. “You haven’t mentioned anything like that recently. We’ve talked about some past relationships, but according to you, the last one was nearly two years ago. Her name was Abigail, and you broke up with her because she cheated on you. Do you remember her?” “Yes,” I say, nodding. “It’s not her, or anyone before her. It feels like she was with me until today.” My session continues, and we exchange many questions. Dr. Smith adjusts his glasses, then folds his hands into his lap. “Unless you were having a relationship you did not tell me about, followed by extremely selective memory loss, she does not exist.” My stomach fills with hate. He continues, “There have been extremely rare cases of something like this occurring. The cause isn’t known, but I'd like you to see a neurologist as soon as possible. You aren’t feeling suicidal now, but if these feelings are as strong as you’ve told me, that moment could come again any time. I also want to increase our meetings to every week, though that’s your choice.” I bury my detest for him and say, “Thank you, let’s do that.” His grin is genuine. “I know this isn’t easy for you, and must be very confusing. Please try to keep from making any major life changes while feeling like this. I also recommend moving your knives somewhere you can’t see until you need them.” It’s over, and I leave his office. The wind is stronger than ever, but beckoning me home. I run, convinced she’ll be there. I’m in front of our home. I take out my keys, and try to find the one for the front door. I drop them. Diving, I seize them from the dirt. I try them one by one, gritting my teeth, ready to see her. One clicks. I trample in, wind coming with me through the open door. As empty and secure as I’d left it.
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Nov 18, 2019 03:00
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Chili posted:jonjoe sniffs butts sometimes this is true. also, brawl me.
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Nov 19, 2019 04:56
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SlipUp posted:
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Nov 19, 2019 05:12
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In it to benefit
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Nov 20, 2019 08:40
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Random Access 745 words “Infinite processing,” Zafer said, patting the small black box he had invented. “What’s the catch?” asked Lidsome. The garage which hosted the duo’s computational tinkering projects wasn’t somewhere they had to work. They had the resources to work out of a larger, more furnished space. However, they enjoyed the legacy of great progress being made from garages. Computer parts grew from worktables. Programming books decorated the corners. Wrappers and ash littered the floor, except where a single oily patch lie bare. “Arbitrary processing order of instructions. It can do anything, extremely incorrectly, in no time at all.” Zafer lit a cigarette. He didn’t like smoking, but it was the most tolerable vice he could think of. All genius had to have a vice. Lidsome coughed, waving his hand in front of his face. “Shouldn’t it also do some things correctly? Say you set a loop - sure, each time it ran a program, it’d probably be wrong, but eventually it’d be right. And since it didn’t take any time, nothing was wasted.” Zafer argued, “Ignoring that you can’t just ‘set a loop’, what do you do with all the wrong outputs?” “Just dump them,” Lidsome replied. “By what criteria? You’d need to already know the answer to do that, not to mention, with what? If you try to dump them with the computer, there’s no guarantee it does that in proper order or to the right things. If you do it with another computer, you’re limiting it by that computer’s speed.” Lidsome paced around the garage, rubbing his forehead. He occasionally raised a finger and opened his mouth, then lowered and closed each, respectively. Finally, he marched up to the bemused Zafer and asked, “Okay, if it’s so useless, why tell me?” Zafer smiled. “It’s not useless. Are you aware of the idea we’re living in a simulation?” “Sure. The Matrix, right?” Lidsome shrugged. “Not quite. The argument goes, if it were possible to simulate a universe computationally, then computed universes would outnumber real ones nearly infinitely. Thus, it is overwhelmingly likely that we are living in one,” Zafer pulled out another cigarette. Lidsome grabbed it from him and threw it on the floor. “Stop that. You think this device can simulate universes?” “I know it can.” Lidsome’s eyes bulged. “gently caress, how?” “Infinite processing. Since it can execute infinite code, even if that code is in a random order, it can be fed instructions to infinitely execute arbitrary code and, in doing so, eventually form a universe through sheer chance in no time at all. Since the computer has infinite processing, those universes would literally last simultaneously forever, from an internal perspective, and zero time, from an external perspective.” Zafer picked up the black box, and plugged it into a computer. “So that’s it? We’re simulated?” “Yes.” “Are we being simulated by this computer, specifically?” Lidsome asked as Zafer plugged in a monitor. “We’re in a simulation run by a computer exactly like this, though. And since it has infinite processing power, it can do anything, including create copies of itself within itself. I, in my brilliance, managed to figure out how it’s done.” Zafer powered on the computer. Lidsome asked, “So the entire multiverse is a series of nested infinite processing computers, taking infinity by their own measure, and being wiped out in literally no time at all by the measure of any outside computer?” “Except the original,” Zafer confirmed. “So, what now?” Zafer began to type. “Create more universes. Infinitely more.” Lidsome pleaded, “Why? What’s the point?” “While we certainly don’t have the means, perhaps someone in our computer will discover a way to escape the simulation. To probe infinity from nothingness. In the infinities of computation, as long as it isn’t impossible, it should happen eventually, and also instantly.” Lidsome approached the black box, tapping on it. “What then?” “We get them to share their secrets, and use them to pop into the universe above ours, ourselves. Keep going until we hit the original.” “Will they share?” “Even if they don’t, one in infinity will.” Zafer was one step away, a single keystroke from implementing his code that would propel him to the status of God. Lidsome asked, “So we’re going to flood our universe in infinite universe-shattering beings in the hopes that we get out with them before we somehow die from this choice?” Zafer stopped. “Um.” “Leave it alone. After all, we have forever, don’t we?” Lidsome unplugged the black box.
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Nov 25, 2019 07:57
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The Chili Jon Brawl - Space Opera Regarding Politics Aboard The Warship-Class Trümmelbach 1310 words Captain Starbeam was in charge, but only nominally. She didn’t really do anything most days, preferring instead to enjoy her free time to the fullest. This left the task of actually running the ship to her second-in-command, Ivan. Ivan was very managerial, but not in the micromanaging way. Most crew members liked him, though he wouldn’t hesitate to get on somebody’s rear end for not doing their job. His most frequent arguments were with Captain Starbeam and her partner in lazy crime, ‘Fronz’, the janitor. Fronz wasn’t his real name, which was information only the captain had access to, but she had lost her key card to the ship’s computer system on her first day and never bothered to get a replacement. In order to avoid cleaning, Fronz convinced a ship engineer, Gertrude, to manufacture some cleaning bots. They worked perfectly except that Fronz had to hide that he was using them from Ivan, because they’d be the perfect excuse to fire Fronz. All of the crew knew about the cleaning bots, in fact. Although they liked Ivan, they weren’t going to get Fronz fired for nothing, since they also liked Fronz. Even Ivan knew about the cleaning bots, or at least enough to suspect their existence, but had no proof to bring to the captain, who was the only person who didn’t know despite how much time she spent with Fronz. She wouldn’t have fired him for it anyway, but having done his diligence Ivan could then go around her and appeal directly to the Greater Collective of Autonomous Fleets with evidence. Gertrude didn’t like Fronz, but she had gone along with his plan because who she did like was Captain Starbeam, romantically speaking, and Fronz promised to help matchmake them. Fronz was very bad at matchmaking, and through sheer incompetence managed to land Gertrude a date. With Ivan. Ivan didn’t fancy Gertrude and also wasn’t a fan of non-professional relationships, but wanted to let her down gently because he thought she liked him. For help, he visited the ship psychologist, Dr. Yevin. Also bound by professionalism, Dr. Yevin couldn’t share what she knew about Gertrude, but suggested that Ivan state what he thought and felt directly. Gertrude played along because she didn’t want Ivan to know she liked Captain Starbeam, but this lead to the spreading of rumor that she really did like him, which in turn lead to Captain Starbeam hearing about those rumors and, in the hangouts with Ivan that Gertrude was now invited to, giving her advice on how to convince him otherwise. Dr. Yevin got to hear how mortified and embarrassed Gertrude was over the misunderstanding. Although she tried to convince her to be more open and direct with her feelings, Gertrude was the shy type. Most of the time, when she wasn’t working, she sat in silence in the corner of the mess hall, by the window where Chord, lead chef, would wordlessly converse with her and then hand her comfort food. Chord didn’t speak much in general, somehow knowing what was on people’s minds and responding accordingly. Some people thought he was a psychic alien disguised as a human, which wasn’t true. He was your average and ordinary psychic human who had escaped experimentation in a secret laboratory and through sheer coincidence ended up aboard the Trümmelbach. He couldn’t read thoughts, but he could read emotions, and prepared food accordingly. The other chef, Kimmel, was an undercover agent trying to recapture the escaped experiment, which she only knew was aboard the ship. But where? Fronz liked Kimmel, romantically speaking, and unlike some people he wasn’t shy about it. He was her top suspect. After all, he so perfectly knew how to evoke feelings in her, which clearly could only because of his status as the experiment. Guilt followed by anger would pour out of her every time she fell for one of his romantic gestures, as she remembered what she was dealing with. Still, she had to endure it. For the mission. Coincidentally, a decidedly not-psychic alien was aboard the ship, but it was very good at avoiding detection, and thus unimportant to ship politics save for its tendency to steal objects. On one such occasion it took Dr. Yevin’s computer, with all her important case notes inside. This sent her into a panic and she approached the ship’s security expert, Monitoring AI Model: Kinetic Infrared Luxury License. MAIM KILL didn’t like being in charge of security, it just wanted to express itself through painting, which was why whenever someone request access to camera logs, it would digitally recreate the images. However, its technique was amateur at best, so Dr. Yevin was left with a stick figure drawing. She complained to Ivan, who convinced MAIM KILL to access the actual camera logs. In exchange, he would later listen to it talk about art theory. Due to the aforementioned ability to avoid detection, the alien was not on video. However, shown sneaking into the office was Kimmel, who was trying to gather information on Fronz. The computer had already been stolen by the time she got there, but it was enough evidence for Ivan to approach her. Potentially losing her opportunity to spend time with Fr— complete her mission, Kimmel did the only thing she could. She told the truth and asked Ivan to help her find evidence of Fronz’s psychic ability. Although Ivan doubted that Fronz had any kind of ability, he nonetheless wanted remove Fronz from the ship, thus agreed. Due to Kimmel and Ivan spending more time together, Captain Starbeam was convinced they were dating, which left her in the precarious situation of breaking the news to both Fronz and Gertrude. Gertrude cried in frustration, which Captain Starbeam misunderstood. Meanwhile, Fronz became despondent. He hid in his room for a day. The next day, during a busy lunch time during which most of the ship was present, including Captain Starbeam, Gertrude, Dr. Yevin, Chord, Kimmel, the alien hiding in a vent, and nominally MAIM KILL monitoring the area, Fronz approached Ivan and said, “I admit it.” Which led to a whole blow up of Kimmel attempting to put Fronz in lasercuffs on the spot as Ivan shouted for the crew to stay back, constructing a plausible lie that Kimmel was an undercover cop and Fronz a wanted criminal. The cleaning bot, which Fronz had brought with him in his jacket as proof of his admittance, fell out during the hullabaloo. It beeped. Someone shouted, “He has a bomb!”, which noticeably increased the hullabaloo levels according to MAIM KILL’s internal evaluator. The only one who could approximate a rough truth of the situation was Chord who, unwilling to let someone else be punished due to a misunderstanding, strained his mind to unlock his full psychic potential. Then he slammed the truth into everyone else’s mind. It was nearly everything he knew, not just those related to the immediate situation. Everyone knew the feelings and intentions of everyone else. Dr. Yevin was mortified by the unethical breach of privacy. Everyone else, though, became much calmer. Even Captain Starbeam, who had just learned of Gertrude’s desires, smiled. Gertrude smiled back. The alien was not excluded from this. Having just witnessed and felt the massive burden of combined human experience, it thought something along the lines of ‘what the hell is wrong with people’, stuck a claw out from the vent while everyone was distracted, stole the cleaning bot, and scurried away. Unable to lie to herself any longer, Kimmel renounced her mission, let Chord stay free, and decided to stay with Fronz. Ivan still wanted to fire him, but the cleaning bot had gone missing, and psychic visions were not considered evidence according to the treaty of the Greater Collective of Autonomous Fleets. Most importantly, with Ivan’s help, MAIM KILL made marginal artistic progress.
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Dec 22, 2019 06:52
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| # ¿ Apr 25, 2024 22:37 |
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Thanks for the judgement, SlipUp. Thanks for the brawl, chili.
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Dec 27, 2019 20:27
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