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Alright, we wanted to post this thread earlier together but I fell asleep, then HP made it instead and it went boom, either way here's his cool story that you should read and also let's post fiction short stories ITT so I can redeem my guilt and we all read a byob book: Veronica was aging. For years she had eschewed surgery, instead choosing to forge her body in the fire of yoga studios in India, or by doing marathon running with Kenyans, in Kenya. After 50, exercising stopped being effective. Her gaunt frame began to look more and more like a skeleton, with thick cords of muscle wrapped around arm bones, pale white skin stretched tight over. Her hands horrified her. Where once she could make a man shiver with delight with a light touch of one finger she now found her young lovers turning their faces away as the grim reapers bony fist grasped at their manhood. The boys felt their youth disappear, they aged and became bitter old men in the course of the evening, but Veronica felt no rejuvenation. Just disgust, for herself, and for the youth she despoiled. She yearned for the days when she was young and beautiful, and men of power and wealth summoned her to them to begin the process of her internal aging, despoiling her youth and beauty. Eventually the ravages of aging drove her to a few rounds of cosmetic surgeries, but she found they enhanced the resemblance she already had to a skeleton, and she turned to work on her soul. She’d grown up catholic, gone to church run schools till high school. She was taught the rites and rituals from dour nuns, and she promised herself in secret she would never be like them. Dried apples wrapped in folds of cloth, hiding that they were even women. At every opportunity her plaid skirt was up, unless she was on the monkey bars, hanging by her knees. In those rare instances her skirt was down. When she finished grade school her parents had given up on Veronica entering a nunnery, or even growing up a reserved catholic girl, and sent her to a secular high school. Lifting her skirt to display childish undergarments gave way to dropping her panties for football players. Veronica was smart, and unlike a lot of her catholic school immigrant peers didn’t end up pregnant. She graduated high school a straight A student, but the talent she developed for controlling men as a cheerleader and in parked cars served her better than her ability with chemistry, at least until much later in life. The lessons she learned as a child in Catholic school were utterly abandoned until used as a framework in her quest for immortality. Veronica was no schoolgirl now, hadn’t been able to pull off the schoolgirl outfit outside of a bedroom for decades. But she had put on the mantle of student, first returning to the church she had been baptized in, covertly. After a few visits to speak with priests, then later bishops and cardinals, she found her questions not satisfactorily answered. They spoke of the world to come, and the form her new body would take, glorious and perfected. Light woven by the trinity themselves. Veronica was disgusted. All the glorious redeemed, equally splendorous in their new shapes. This would not do, Veronica said to herself. She must always be first among the splendorous, the most beautiful in the throng of perfection. After the birth of her daughter, the seed of one of the parade of men finally having taken root, Veronica wept for months. Those close whispered that she was experiencing postpartum depression, and Veronica encouraged the conclusion. Inside she was inconsolable, because she had found something in her world more perfect then herself. For a brief moment, Veronica felt love and empathy so strongly it shook her to her core. This child awoke great fear in her, and she knew her time as queen had come to it’s august. She abandoned the church that had named her, and began to search the esoteric traditions, the writings of the east and beyond the east. Like a butterfly she flitted from flower to flower, drinking deep of wisdom, then flying away to sweeter nectar. Deeper and deeper into the jungle of esoterica she flew, dipping into every tradition open to her probings, then finding her way to secret blooms, supping on flowers that few through history had even smelled. After years, and more children, she began to despair more deeply. No one flower would revive her, allow her to regain the beauty and power of her youth. Her face grew wrinkled by the day, and despite her efforts she was slowly becoming the old French-Italian woman she was destined to be. Every glance at a mirror gave her a reflection of her mother, until she rubbed her eyes with angular knuckles and the differences grew more pronounced. At those moments she considered just ending it, there in the bathroom in front of the mirror. Put on her mama's dress, carried with her across the world, and stare into the mirror into her lost mothers eyes as she pulled the trigger. But fear of being just another heavenly body in the sea of light, or of being absorbed into the absolute infinite itself stayed her hand. Slowly, a plan was forming. Age and disconnection with the world had slowly lost Veronica's place among the tastemakers of society, and she found herself involved in desperate project after pathetic plan, clawing at relevance with bony hands. Other women, girls who had grown up on her, had risen to take her place, even before her daughter had begun puberty, and Veronica died a little inside each time some new pretender came to court. Eventually one smarter and prettier than the rest rose, cream topping the vat. She wasn’t just aping Veronica, she was deconstructing her, paying homage while parodying her at the same time. Angelina was a younger, smarter Veronica, was dominating the fashion world, and had slavering fans that turned Veronica's treasured memories of moments of power sour, so pale in comparison was the worship. Veronica buried herself in her studies, spending more and more time abroad studying with the most clandestine churches and lodges. In Israel, reading the Zohar and praying, the solution came to her. Her immortality would not come in the spirit, and it would not come through the rejuvenation of her body. It would come through the greatest pretender, who had taken her mantle and more. Her salvation would come through the jester, Angelina. From the nectar of a thousand advanced master Veronica spun workings man had never seen, sigils only a woman could forge covered the walls of her secret basement. She ignored her children and newest toy as she poured sacred ash in complex patterns on the floor, melted beeswax with oils and herbs, making dozens of candles and arranging them in secret patterns. She crafted an altar, not to the infinite, or any of its manifestations, but to herself. She lay gold and diamonds atop it, a pair of ten thousand dollar shoes and some black silk gloves. Mementos of her past, pictures of her at the peak of her power. She burns incense and sweet grass, filling the room with heavy fragrant smoke. It takes half a year, but eventually the chamber is prepared. Veronica hasn’t performed this ceremony before, no one ever has. Regardless she’s confidant, and for the first time in years she is happy. No one could do what she is about to do, could have combined the disparate threads of sacred traditions and woven them together thus. This is the working of a true ascended master. Veronica laughs to herself, the sound muted by the smoke. Every sphere dominated, she thinks to herself. Maybe, after a few thousand years my soul will be beautiful enough to outshine the infinite light itself. Maybe then I’ll let my control of this existence fade, and begin my domination of ultimate reality. She’s still laughing as she dials Angelina. She has her private number, has had it for years. She’s played the role of humble teacher to all the pretenders, keeping her venom secret. When Angelina answers the phone she laughs in response to Veronica's harsh caw, playing the supplicant, confidant of her superiority. Veronica invites her over, explains she’s just finished her new masterwork and can’t wait to show her. Angelina acquiesces, explains she’ll have to cancel a show, but that she’ll be over within the hour. When Angelina arrives Veronica is in a silk nightgown, cinched tight across her waist. She takes the younger woman by the hand, leads her down the stairs cooing at her shoes, her outfit, her hair. When she open the door Angelina gasps, then begins clapping. She is filled with compliments, not questions. She admires the patterns drawn on the walls, the reverberating tones shaking her to the core. The perfect blend of frankincense, myrrh and marijuana burning, filling her nostrils and making her eyelids heavy. Veronica nods, says nothing, and leads her to the center of the room, sits the girl down in the middle of the ashen sigil. Without a world, she opens her robe, folds it and places it on the altar that has gone uncomplemented. She lays herself upon it, begins to scream in enochian. Angelina is silent, mouth open, hands grasped together. She believes she is witnessing a performance art piece, and is completely enraptured, even as the blade dives into Veronica's breast, instantly dividing her heart, ending the wailing with a gurgle. Immediately, Angelina removes her phone from her dog shaped purse. she struggles as the hair catches in the zipper and curses until the bag is open. She clears her throat, dials 911, and waits. “Emergency services, how can I help you?” “Okay, I know this is going to sound insane, but this is Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta. There’s a pretty good chance you know me as Lady Gaga.” She pauses, holds the phone away from her face prepared for the shriek that follows. When the operator pauses for breath, she seizes the opportunity and continues. “Madonna just invited me over to see some new performance piece she’s been working on, and, well, she kind of killed herself? I’m in her basement and she’s bleeding out onto some sort of memory bench? It’s really hosed up, can you send someone?” she hung up, then repeated her new name to herself, preparing the story she’d be telling to the ambulance workers, then the police, then the whole world. How a crazed old woman had led her into her basement and killed herself in front of her, how she must have been driven mad by age and irrelevance, was trying to regain her lost notoriety with a suicide. Veronica laughs to herself, pulls out a mirror, and starts applying a fresh powder coat. |
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Aug 17, 2019 14:27
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| # ? Apr 19, 2024 06:51 |
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here is the thing about life, fellas. i try and make a funny post, sometimes it works. i try and make a serious thread about serious writing and i get autobanned and that is somehow funnier than any post i've ever made. welcome to life.
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Aug 17, 2019 14:51
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for sale: baby shoes [business attire] |
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Aug 17, 2019 15:12
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1892 New York City The New World, the land of the free Baba Roga was at the window. Since Nikola had moved to America her visits had become infrequent, but with the recent influx of slavic immigrants she seemed to be finding it easier and easier to cross the vast ocean. She tapped at the window with her mortar then dragged the stone up and down the pane, hovering in her pestle. Eventually the thin, well dressed man relented and opened the window, the smell of cabbage and peat filling his nostrils. For a moment Baba was small, small enough to fit through the frame, birch white skin flapping in the wind, but as soon as she was in the workshop her size doubled, then doubled again. She grows and corners fill with sharp elbows, skin stretches tight, her pestle comes to rest between work tables. Her voice is hoarse, hundreds of years of homemade vodka wreaking havoc on still strong vocal chords. “Niko, my favoured grandson. Baba brings news, bright and dark.” She climbed out of the pestle and reaches back in, removing a dented copper kettle, firewood and a canvas bag, spilling tea on the floor. Soon the smell of ozone and lubricant is replaced by wood smoke. The well dressed man paces, protests. “Baba, no, there are many volatile substances in my lab. A stray spark could burn this whole building, the whole city, down.” She breathes into the cinders removed from a small box, and flames immediately roar to life. Sets the kettle on the fire and laughs. “Where Baba is, there is danger. This you know, sweet prince.” Her back was turned, impossibly gnarled and wrinkled, shadows dancing on the walls. Surrounded on all sides by prototype coils and motors her presence and the tea brewing had transformed Nikolas workshop into a cave, his transformer coils into stalactites. Every time the fire crackled and sparks leap from the flame her arms reached out, bones elongating, ending in fingers like birch branches. Snapping closed. Snuffing out the errant flames. Nikola been working on his fiftieth American patent, an electrical condenser. Plates immersed in oils would store energy, allowing direct and alternating current to flow through the same device. Nikola was used to the scene playing out in front of him, ignored it for a time, frustration driving his work. His brow was furrowed, mind replaying failures. Edison was winning the war of currents, using cheap parlour tricks to convince the world that AC was wild and dangerous. Electrocuting stray dogs and cats, then encouraging a man to graduate to building the electric chair for execution. “He is not a scientist, but a barbarian.” Recently he had been attempting to encourage the use of the term “Westinghoused” instead of electrocuted, “not even a barbarian, a petulant child.” Worming his way into the ears and hearts of investors and politicians, Edison charmed them with promises of untold profit, Nikolas earnest pleas for the advancement of mankind meeting deaf ears. He hoped he could still emerge victorious, or at least not utterly defeated, by finding a simple way to use AC and DC together. Electricity was his thrall, had been his whole life, but despite his best efforts to keep on task, work was finished for tonight. Quickly Nikola lidded the oils he had been testing, Sure that Baba wouldn’t allow any sparks to slip through her grasp, but unable to banish from his mind the vision of an inferno. Of Baba Roga flying away in her pestle, shaking her arms and cackling maniacally off into the night. When the oil was sealed and tools stored, he sat across from Baba. She had dumped handfuls of black leaves into the pot, and the scent of tea overwhelmed the smell of smoke. When the leaves had steeped to her satisfaction, she poured it into two mugs brought out from within the folds of her voluminous bosom, passed him a cup. She drank deeply, smiled and sighed, steam trickling out of her mouth and nose. “Niko, my prince. First we speak of dark. Your mother lies ill, will be dead before Juraj is reborn and the moon changes shape. Your father has rallied all his powers to keep her alive, but even his strength cannot hold back the grave for long.” Eight years, twenty eight days, six hours, thirteen minutes and two, then three, then four seconds. A lifetime since Nikola crossed the Atlantic. His mother had wept, papa long buried. Đuka watched the last of her men abandon her through a veil of tears. “If I go, will she live long enough for me to see her, to kiss her head?” Baba finished her tea, coughing as she swallowed the dregs. She pours another cup, gestures at Nikola with the pot. He tilts his cup to her, showing that it was still mostly full. She nodded, put the kettle back on the fire, crushing imps and ghosts dancing within the inner flames. “She may, my prince. It depends on when you leave, and how. Fly with me?” Nikola shook his head, sipped tea. Baba had not expected a yes, was not hurt by the refusal. “Then you must hurry. Your boats travel slow, your trains are sluggish. And horses! Good only for eating.” She spat into the fire and the flames became an emerald green for a moment. She again emptied her cup, this time remembering the dregs. Splashing them on the ground, Baba crouched before the mass of plant matter. “You will see her before she dies, Niko. If you hurry.” She returned to the fire, inhaled in front of it. What little flame remained extinguishes and Baba Roga takes the smouldering wood and handfuls of cinders, throws them back into her pestle. She winks with her one clear eye, mumbles “seat warmers.” Climbs in. She is shrinking down to fit out the window when Nikola asks her of the bright news, and without turning she whispers “your father loves you, Nikola Tesla. He has prepared for you a kingdom, if you will accept it.” Storm clouds cross Nikolas face. “My papa is in heaven, praising God.” Baba was at the window, teetering back and forth on the sill. “Believe that if you will, my prince. I have been to outer shadow. There is little praise found there. Zmaj Perunzet awaits, will speak with you when finished with mama.” Then she was gone. Tesla slammed the window behind her, attempted to lose himself in work. Distract himself from what had just occurred, but it was impossible, and in minutes he was down the stairs and heading to the pier, seeking a boat to take him home. He found a ship bound for Paris, not far from the shores of his home land, not far from Smiljan, the town where he was born. He found crossing the Atlantic in the opposite direction much more pleasant. No mutiny, none of his possessions stolen, time to tinker on a soundwave project and scribble in notebooks, planning the next stage of his career. When the boat made landfall in France he ignored the lights of the city, briefly lecturing and meeting with men of science, the outward reason for the trip. Confusing his hosts he left as quickly as was polite and rushed to his mothers side.
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Aug 17, 2019 15:15
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this story has more parts but i don't care really, i mean like i'll copy paste but also, meh. someone else post a good long story, please. please help me.
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Aug 17, 2019 16:18
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I think I have some weird short writings on my computer somewhere but no internet until next month... |
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Aug 17, 2019 17:42
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Thought I may have something saved on Google Drive but no such luck. I uh... still have my senior thesis saved there though for some reason. |
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Aug 17, 2019 17:52
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SweetWillyRollbar posted:Thought I may have something saved on Google Drive but no such luck. I uh... still have my senior thesis saved there though for some reason. post
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Aug 17, 2019 18:03
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It's really long and probably boring as hell. Also it's non fiction. |
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Aug 17, 2019 18:05
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SweetWillyRollbar posted:It's really long and probably boring as hell. Also it's non fiction. find/select/replace whatever the most frequent proper noun is with like, "a really friendly dog" or "pikachu" i would read that. i really truly would.
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Aug 17, 2019 18:09
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It's also political. Japanese politics, but still. |
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Aug 17, 2019 18:12
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okay you think you are talking me down, but every thing i learn about this makes me want it even more. please, find and replace the subject of the paper with pikachu. email it to me i will do it myself honestly it is saturday, i gots time.
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Aug 17, 2019 18:13
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Hell with it, posting a short piece I did: CHOO-CHOO CHARLIE We called him choo-choo Charlie when we were feeling mean and full of ourselves and “Charlie” when we remembered our place in the cosmic scheme. Charlie was a bum, permanent residence outside Zilka station, a faded blue and white pinstripe conductor’s cap perched on his grimy head. Zilka was the apex of Kubbla row, an exercise in sensory overload. Music boomed from speakers, wildly out of tune guitars poorly spliced into a mandarin for beginners program, sometimes just sex noises, or sheets of white noise, like god was adjusting the dial on radio Babylon. Some days we’d find him just outside, gulping down cheap whiskey and leering at the fourth dimensional prostitutes with their hypno-vags, trying to see how fast he could get them to switch from male to female to intersex and back. In those days, my life mainly consisted of shooting up whatever substance I could into my veins (some of my greatest hits included a vintage can of Chef Boyardee and the essence of blue, some of my not-so-great hits included the soul of the last known CPA) and trying not to exist to much, lest the ripples in space time I made turned into a tsunami that would gently caress up the whole show for the rest of us. Charlie had a fixation with trains, hence the nickname. It wasn’t uncommon to find him sitting on a bench inside the station, rings burrowed deep into his eyes, cracked remains of amp canisters littering the ground at his feet, watching the hyperloops seconds-long journey over and over, mouthing along to the constant stream of announcements like some private prayer. One day, for kicks I threw a spent amp canister at his head just to see what would happen. It bounced off his skull with hollow noise and clattered to the ground, but Charlie took no notice of things and kept right on with his litany. Annoyed, I grabbed him by the shoulder. “Hey Charlie, what the gently caress is your deal?” I pulled out my vorp blade and waved it under his nose, singeing his hairs with electricity. He stared through me with the glassy eyes of an amp head, the present moment distilled to eternity. “You tryin’ to gently caress the train huh? That it? Getting’ your cock hard for the hyperloop? One of those third railers?” Charlie Shook his head, and inside my skull his voice tasted like rust “S’not a gently caress. Is a be.” He muttered. “The bees died out Charlie. All that Haggen Daz made em’ gay and they couldn’t gently caress no more. You even pay attention in school?” He shook his head again. “Be” “Be what?” “Train” He gestured toward the hyperloop platform. I could see the third rail crackling with energy, the sallow faces of third railers peering from the shadows, hungry for their next fix. Before I could react, he’d leapt over the safety rail and placed his hands on the thing. It took forever. I felt the rumble of the hyperloop appearing before the searing flesh sent of electrocution. Space held its breath. Crackles, Charlie, eyes closed, a smile on his face, hands charred to soot. The train took his body, expanding outward in a red haze, viscera hanging like broken wires, the universe written in blood splatter, the scent of freshly cut grass and death assaulting my nostrils until my head spun. When I had finished throwing up I stepped outside into the permanent dream that was Zilka, walking for miles, alone. It’s been years. Some of us went straight, got jobs, kids, a purpose. Some of us spun on. I walked back through the skeleton of Zilka, picking apart pieces of the dream in the cold light of morning. I stepped once more onto the train platform. A few heads popped out of the shadows, the last remnant of third railers, more out of curiosity now than ritual. The old crackle of energy. I closed my eyes, and my mind filled once more with a voice that tasted like rust, and I listened. It was the sound of thunder, writ large in a beehive. Back to working on my thunderdome entry!
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Aug 18, 2019 03:52
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magic cactus posted:Music boomed from speakers, wildly out of tune guitars poorly spliced into a mandarin for beginners program, sometimes just sex noises, or sheets of white noise, like god was adjusting the dial on radio Babylon. now this is what i cal super very serious short fiction thread posting. adjusting the dial on radio babylon is loving great, reminds me of the sky was the colour of a television tuned to a dead channel, but, well, obviously different. strong imagery. i like.
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Aug 18, 2019 12:08
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Macnult posted:for sale: baby shoes [business attire] 
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Aug 18, 2019 18:06
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Heather Papps posted:now this is what i cal super very serious short fiction thread posting. adjusting the dial on radio babylon is loving great, reminds me of the sky was the colour of a television tuned to a dead channel, but, well, obviously different. strong imagery. i like. I love Gibson and that opening line is one of my favorites of all time, so you just made my day! I had to with draw from thunderdome this week for personal reasons, but if I finish my entry and polish it up a bit I'll post it to the thread.
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Aug 18, 2019 18:30
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magic cactus posted:I love Gibson and that opening line is one of my favorites of all time, so you just made my day! I had to with draw from thunderdome this week for personal reasons, but if I finish my entry and polish it up a bit I'll post it to the thread. please and thank you and if you have any pieces you think fit in just post away! i posted what i figured what was my most byob and the start of another story that is kinda weird and even being banned hasn't deterred me.
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Aug 18, 2019 18:36
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When I was a kid, my grandparents picked me up every Saturday and forced me to go to piss church with them. Each weekend, my parents would have to drag me from my bed, suit me up in my best hip waders and rubber shirt and shovel me into the back of my grandpa's Olds to be driven off to piss church. When we rounded the corner of Shuter Ave. I can still feel the pang in my hip upon seeing the spire of yellow brick heralding my approach. The first 20 minutes of arrival were spent outside on the piss church lawn, idly digging at the piss church lawn dirt with my toes, safely stowed within my wader boots and leaning on my grandma's hip as she caught up with her friends while my grandpa praised the piss priest for his sermon last week. When the great piss church doors opened, I would nervously hug my grandma's side as we shuffled in, our nostrils flaring at the sweet smell of ketones that seemed to form a second, invisible door that remained closed when the great wooden ones were open. I never understood piss church. I abhorred waiting in line for the perfunctory practice of dipping my hands in piss before towelling them off with a communal towel which, by my turn, had long been saturated with piss. The pews in piss church were always uncomfortable and singing psalms, as aspect of piss church I used to feel was my one saving solace of attendance, grew increasingly tiring with every sung line that ended with "his" pronounced incorrectly to rhyme with piss. The priest would walk the aisles with a large perforated metal mace, flinging droplets of piss on the attendants as he blessed us. To finish the ceremony, we took turns kneeling before the piss congregation, receiving our sacraments of mountain dew and necco wafers, the piss and piss crystals of piss christ incarnate. When I turned thirteen, my parents let me decide if I would continue attending piss church on Saturdays or not. In fewer words I told them piss is disgusting and unsanitary and the issue was dropped. I began only seeing my grandparents at family reunions and every second Christmas when our weekly visits to piss church stopped. However, I could not stop there. I didn't feel the simple cessation of piss church attendance was sufficient to rewind all the piss damage that had been done to the floorboards of my fragile child psyche. I hated piss. I searched websites and messageboards, seeking means of piss rebellion and denouncement of my young trauma. At a Goodwill outside of Atlanta, I found a heavily used and discounted copy of a Tony Robbins VHS tape titled, "Knowledge over Knephrons" which included ancient meditative techniques pioneered by Sufi mystics to stop the body's need to piss through the simple act of screaming "No" at your wiener until the liquid was reabsorbed and expelled elsewhere, through sweat or tears. Two years of running the tape until the cassette film had faded beyond recognition and piss was no longer a facet of my life. I was great on long airplane trips or in arduous business meetings and soon found employment in Pepsi cola industries as head taste engineer, lauded for my capacity to taste uninterrupted by the lesser humour. Piss church had lost its grip on me. This morning, I woke up to a pissed bed. Not a wet spot, but a thoroughly soaked duvet, pajamas, top sheet, fitted sheet, mattress pad, and likely most of my mattress. An inconceivable amount of piss found me in the final part of the day the piss god could still get in. I sat clothed in my shower for hours in the morning, shaken at the instant familiarity of the warm dampness of piss. Only by 5 PM had I mustered the strength to launder. While stripping the sheets from a particularly soaked corner of the bed, a drop of piss settled on my forearm. I stopped, watching it toboggan its way down to my wrist, tracking the ligaments and vasculature of my body. I wondered how my grandma was doing.
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Aug 18, 2019 20:20
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bee eater posted:piss church This feels like the textual equivalent of a sadworld video. I actually really enjoyed this. Felt like something you'd read in an old 'zine or something.
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Aug 18, 2019 22:55
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bee eater posted:piss church. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piss_Christ yes, very good super serious short fiction. imma post the next chunk of the prince of the storm.
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Aug 18, 2019 23:18
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1874 The Wilderness of Tomingaj Western Mountains of the Austro Hungarian Empire It was Wednesday, and Nikola Tesla was hidden in wilderness. Avoiding compulsory service in the Austro-Hungarian army Tesla stalked the mountains of west of Tomingaj. He was disguised in the clothes of a local hunter, was as that moment a hunter in reality. A brown hare eluded him, caught his scent, every footfall echoing throughout the forest screaming warnings to its fear heightened senses. The hare had been running for hours, slowly growing tired, its body having used up short term energy stores, now breaking down essential proteins. Running on fumes and terror. Nikola hoped it would pause long enough for his arrow to kiss flesh, dreamed of rabbit soup. His attention so much on the hare that he fails to register the chicken leg hut, bent at the ankle to bring the door close to the ground, or the bone fence surrounding it. So focused on the small game he barely registers the oddness of the rabbit pausing at the fence. Hunger has no time for curiosity, and Nikola notches an arrow, draws back and is about to let fly when Baba Rogas mortar comes down with a wet thud, crushing the exhausted animals skull. She invites him in, chicken leg bending lower, standing straight as soon as Nikola and Baba are inside. The two of them completely fill the hut until Baba shrinks to the size of a child, skin loosening, jowls shaking when she laughs. She feeds him cabbage soup, roast hare and bread, tells him of the day Zmaj Perunszet met his mother. Told Nikola he was horrible to behold, but his powers were so great that he could change his form. She told him of the day he came upon Đuka, Nikolas mother. She was the daughter of one priest, married to another, and he desired her. She told him how the Zmaj worked spells to make her placid and forgetful, and how he took her on the grass, left her full of his vipers seed. She told him of the storm the night of his birth and his connection to it, of the maid who knew without knowing, foretold that this was child of the storm. This Baba Roga had told him, and much more, before sending him on his way, stomach and mind full to bursting. Nightmares to this day were the price of that meal.
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Aug 18, 2019 23:23
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magic cactus posted:This feels like the textual equivalent of a sadworld video. I actually really enjoyed this. Felt like something you'd read in an old 'zine or something. god bless i wrote it for this v good thread
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Aug 19, 2019 00:00
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I ordered 5 chalupas at a Taco Bell and Robert Downey Jr. took them and left. Crew member Angela was at the register that day. I ordered the chalupas. "Will that be all for you today?" Yes. Just the chalupas please. I reached for my wallet in my front pocket, where I keep it for security and comfort. It is harder to to steal there, and you don't have to sit on it. But then you have less room for your keys and phone. It's a tradeoff. Just after I retrieved my wallet, I noticed that Robert Downey Jr. had opened the door and walked into the Taco Bell while talking on his phone. While holding his phone in his right hand, he reached into his front pocket with his left hand and retrieved a single $20 bill. Without stopping his phone conversation, which was one of those where you could't understand by hearing only one side because it was all interrupted phrases like "yes well obviously but don't you think," Robert Downey Jr. handed the $20 bill to Angela the Taco Bell crew member to pay for the chalupas I had ordered. She made change and handed it back. I wonder if she did not recognize the actor, or was too well-trained to behave differently. Robert Downey Jr., still talking on the phone about "yeah that sounds right because once you put it all together," put the change in his pocket with the receipt. Putting change like this in your pocket is a problem because without a change-handling system in place the coins accumulate in your house and become very cumbersome. When you bring a lot of change to the bank, they hand you the sorting tray like you are a charity case. Unless you are a child, in which case you are a budding citizen learning the value of a dollar. I do not know what happens when Robert Downey Jr. goes to the bank with a lot of change, because I only saw him the one time at Taco Bell and didn't have a chance to ask him any questions. I thought that he may have paid for my order in order to speed up the process, as I was a bit slow to retrive my wallet from the front pocket where I keep it. But he did not place another order. He kept talking about "sure sure sure I'm getting some lunch here and then after that," and so on. I briefly thought about the 1991 comedy Soapdish, and whether it was still funny today or maybe some of the humor would be out of step with contemporary values. Angela called out "number 57," and I glanced down at the receipt to double check the number, even though there was no one else there except for me and Robert Downey Jr.. But I did not have the receipt. He had the receipt. I saw him put it in his pocket. The receipt-bearing actor gave a little nod of his head to Angela, took the bag of 5 chalupas and walked out of the Taco Bell, still talking on his phone. They were his chalupas by right, because he had the receipt and could therefore prove he was the one that bought them should there be a dispute. Not only that, crew member Angela was a witness to the payment. I merely ordered the chalupas, and that does not confer any rights. Legal action was a dead end. Robert Downey Jr.'s conduct ran contrary to the assumptions of legislators and Taco Bell managers alike. You can't 'regulate what you can't anticipate. Angela didn't intervene. She stood there as if I was just another customer waiting in line to order. "5 chalupas please." I already had my wallet ready and played along as though I was the actor's assistant. I wondered what he was going to do with his chalupas. Most people don't eat 5 at once. I don't think he heard me order, so he must have planned to take whatever the person in front of him had ordered. "If it's good enough for them, it's good enough for me. Except I don't want to wait around." As for me, I planned to eat all 5 chalupas right there in the Taco Bell where I bought them. There is a table with a good view of the landscaping and nobody ever sits there but me. |
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Aug 19, 2019 16:17
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mountaincat posted:They were his chalupas by right, because he had the receipt and could therefore prove he was the one that bought them should there be a dispute. Not only that, crew member Angela was a witness to the payment. I merely ordered the chalupas, and that does not confer any rights. Legal action was a dead end. Robert Downey Jr.'s conduct ran contrary to the assumptions of legislators and Taco Bell managers alike. You can't 'regulate what you can't anticipate. Angela didn't intervene. She stood there as if I was just another customer waiting in line to order. this is where i stopped being like i like this this is good, and started laughing out loud.
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Aug 19, 2019 20:19
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1892 Smiljan, town of Nikolas birth Modern Croatia, Austro Hungarian empire in years past. When he burst into the house he was born in and found his mother's bed, she smiled up and in her native tongue said “You've arrived, Nidžo, my pride." His heart broke. She had been frail when he left, was now a shadow of frailty. Daring not move her, fearing she would shatter, ever gently he held her hand and they cried together. It was then that Nikola heard some of her story, from her mouth. Đuka squeezed his hand, a monumental effort for an infinitesimal amount of pressure. Her voice distant but unwavering. “Nidzo, my son. I am sorry, sorry that I cannot give you answers.” For a moment Nikola wished he’d never received the answers to his questions. ”For a long time, my brain leaks. Details, memories... drip out, and are gone. But you are my son, if nothing else. You are my son. I gave you birth, suckled you, named you.” Nikola hadn’t spoken Croatian since landing in America, but responded in his mother tongue clearly. “You are my mama, and papa is my father. Do not worry mother, I will always remember.” She sighed and closed her eyes, thankful the burden of admission had lifted from her shoulders. They talked of many things, son doing his best to refill his mother's mind. They talked of Angelina, Marica and Milka, who had been caring for her as she lay ill, and of Dane, the older brother he barely remembered. What he remembered was good, Dane, brave Dane, thrown from horseback, crushed so young. Đuka was growing delirious, her face hot. Her son cooled it with a damp cloth while she rambled. “I know it wasn’t you, Niko. You’d never push Dane. You loved him. Adored him.” His broken heart stopped. “What do you mean, mama, how could I push Dane? I wasn’t even there.” Not registering his question, she carries on, “found him in a heap at the bottom of the cellar stairs, all his tiny bones broken. Crying until he died, “Niko, no. Please, Niko, stop laughing” but I knew it was just him passing, delirious. You’d never do that, would you Niko?” She coughed, staining red the handkerchief held to her face. “I said you were a child of the light, not the storm. Never the storm.” Nikola walked to a bin of similarly soiled rags, tossed the monogrammed silk handkerchief in with the rest. “No mama, I promise, I wouldn’t.” He sat again. “Never the storm.” She continued talking, but he was in shock, let her trail off and fall asleep. Nikola had been awake for days, soon fell into slumber. He dreamt of a dragon flying, breathing smoke and pestilence from its many heads. Snakes burst from its chest, writhing, wreathed in flames. Suddenly an angel unfolded from beyond the clouds and began a song that disintegrated the worm with light and sound. When the dragon had completely dissolved the angel turned to face the cowering Nikola, eyes ablaze, hair like wool, lightning leaping from her mouth. The song changed, joined by a multitude appearing behind her. The sound vibrated Nikola to his core, moved him to tears of joy, and he awoke. Found his mother, his mama, no longer breathing. They had spent two days, five hours and thirteen minutes together. Nikola Tesla remembered every moment of his life, but these he would cherish above all else, building Đuka an altar in the palace of his memory. He wept with his sisters, four orphans together, then left the house. Days later he found himself in Gospić, renting a cabin on the shore of the Lika. Sickness and grief conspired together to keep him bedridden, tears streaming down his face cooling fevered cheeks. The window of the room was open, and Baba Roga simply flew in. She hovered over his chest, small as a child making various sounds of discontent. She grew smaller, almost lost in folds of birch bark skin, landed her pestle on the bedside table. Climbing out of it as it shrank further, until a quarter her size. She reached into her bosom, removed small bags and began pouring them into the mortar, working them with her pestle. “Niko, my prince, Why you no call Baba? You know storms. Electrics and energy waves. Baba knows medicine.” She worked for a moment, grinding and pounding, reducing herbs and roots into a fine mash. Again she reached into her bosom, retrieved a bottle of clear liquid. She quickly shrank, then drank deeply from the now oversized bottle, then poured the rest in, grew, and continued grinding. “Your father is eager to talk, my stormy prince.” She belched, then coughed. “You must be strong, so you can kneel at his feet. Kiss his boots. Promise you’ll accept his wisdom, guidance. Thank him for the inheritance in your blood. Promise to bring the storm to the invaders, cast off their shackles, reign from the western shores of the Jadransko more to the eastern shore of the Crno more, and south. No more than that. No more than your birthright.” She stepped off the bedside table, her leg growing to reach the floor. The rest of her followed off the table, grew to stand over the bedridden Nikola. Her scarves draped him, filling his nostrils with a familiar scent of potatoes and moss. Birch branches circled his neck, tilted his head back while another hand poured the foul smelling mixture down his throat. Nikola began to perspire, fire spreading down his throat, into his stomach, across his body. Sweating the sickness out. He tried to open his mouth, but branches clenched, held his mouth shut while Babas index finger ruffled his mustache. “No, prince, Enough protests. From the first day we met. Lost Nikola, chasing a skinny rabbit. You protest. No, Baba, I will not sweep your hut. I will not cook your meal, separate your grains. I will not clean the dirt from your poppy seeds. I will not take up my father's mantle. I will not eat children. Always protests, prince Niko. How about silence?” She knocked her pestle to the ground and jumped into it, shrinking in size to fit inside. “I will tell Zmaj Perunzet you are anxious to speak. Anxious to kneel.” She flew out the window, singing as she paddled the air with her mortar. For another day Nikola lay in bed, fever dreams interrupted occasionally by servants bringing him water and food, changing sheets as he lent against the bedside table. The next night, he was sitting up in bed, scribbling in his notebook. Baba Rogas constant shrinking and growth had inspired new ideas, and he was sketching out details in a notebook. Nikola felt chilled, rose to stoke the fire. When he turned to return to warmth he found Zmaj Perunzet sitting on the bed, head in his hands. Dressed like a voivode or knyaz from ages past, thick muscles hidden beneath silk robes with gold trim, cascading to the ground. On his head a crown of twisted iron, copper beard framing an ashen face. The smell of ozone filled the room, sparks leaping from brass fixtures. Nikola froze in place, what strength Babas medicine granted him now gone. The Zmaj spoke without changing position, his voice resonating at the harmonic frequency of the house, shaking it down to the foundation. “My son. Why do you despise me?” He stood, towered over his child, stared the thin man down. “I have struggled against the invaders longer than I can remember. In ages past I flew the skies, breathing destruction and death down on those who brought new ways, new gods.” He spat on the floor, wood steaming and melting away. “False ways. False gods.” He closed the distance between them instantly, placing his arms on the young mans shaking shoulders. “Be strong, my prince. Let me show you what I have prepared, even now wheels within wheels turning.” He spoke a word that Nikola couldn’t understand, and the fire multiplied in intensity. Smoke filled the room, Nikola coughing as his lungs ran out of oxygen. Zmaj Perunzet spoke another word, smoke instantly dissipating. A city appeared before them, resonant transformers large as skyscrapers dotting the horizon, flying machines propelled invisibly, silently, as father and son walk down a street. Screens line the boulevard, displaying news and weather information as multitudes hurry past. A bullet shaped train riding a single rail comes to a stop at an elevated platform and commuters step on and off. Zmaj Perunzet turns to his son, leans in close and says “Tesla Zagreb, the seat of your power. If you want it.” He speaks two words, and the scene dissolved instantly, reformed into a garden. Voivode and prince, standing before a statue. An aged Tesla, cast in gold, towering hundreds of feet over a courtyard filled with fountains and lush plants the young Nikola fails to recognize. “Here peasants throw flowers at your feet, thank you for your mercy. Here men who rule nations come bearing gifts and fealty. If you desire it.” Another word, the scene disappearing then coalescing again, this time the interior of a great hall. Stormclouds rumble and sheet lightning flashes under ceilings, falling rain evaporating before reaching the ground hundreds of feet below. A throne rises from floor to ceiling, topped with three massive resonant transformer coils. Lightning bursts from them into the clouds, storm responding in kind. Lighting the already bright hall further, filling it with sound. Men in regal outfits and military garb line before an aged Tesla, mustache grey, grown wild. They seek his power, fear his strength. A man with an inferior mustache stammers in German, is cut off as Tesla speaks a word. The coils produce a bolt of electricity that instantly converts the weeping man into a pillar of ash. The next man doesn’t stammer. He does not bend his knee. He speaks of iron and fire, the aged Tesla nodding. This man leaves with an envoy, to be granted the technological wonders of the prince of the storm. Zmaj Perunzet turns to Nikola, whispers, “Life or death, not just for men, but for nations. Held or crushed in your hand. If you would only accept.” A last word, and the room is once again familiar, four walls, a small bed. Nikola shakes his head, hangs low. “No. I will not accept these bloodstained gifts. I am no prince of the storm. My papa taught me better than that.” At this Zmaj Perunzet laughs. “There are other princes, Nikola. If you will not sew the storm, others will. My brothers and I have had women from sea to sea. You will die a peasant, while true sons reforge this world to suit them.” Nikola strode the length of the room and back again. “All your successes are mine. Do you think your fathers god had blessed you? You understand the storm because as my son it is a sèljāk to you.” the Zmaj paused, as Nikola walked to the bed. He reached underneath and removed the suitcase carried with him from America. He removed a box, plugged it into a battery housed inside the case. Flipped a switch and turned a dial. For a moment, there is nothing, but slowly the sound of angels fills the room. Where Zmaj Perunzet had shook the room with the horror of his whispers, these frequencies cause the room to hum with delight. Nikola smiles as his father unfolds. “Why do you protest, Nikola, my prince? All I wanted was to give you the wor” and the Zmaj is gone, leaving a sulfurous smoke dissipated quickly by synthesized sounds of angels. Nikola collapses into bed, terrified. If his calculations are correct, he will have three weeks, two days, six hours and forty minutes before his father is able to reconstitute his physical form, but by then Nikola will be home. He’s already planning his trip. America. Where a good man could shape the world, not to fit his desires, but to better life for all people.
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Aug 21, 2019 20:37
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Heather Papps posted:He’s already planning his trip. America. Where a good man could shape the world, not to fit his desires, but to better life for all people. Finally had a moment to read this all and I really like it! I'm a big fan of magical realism and it is very fun and pleasant 2 read
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Aug 23, 2019 03:44
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bee eater posted:Finally had a moment to read this all and I really like it! I'm a big fan of magical realism and it is very fun and pleasant 2 read 1861 Smiljan, Nikolas childhood home Once Austro Hungary, now monument to his name If you asked him, Nikola Tesla would tell you he was almost six. Tall for his age, and thin. Even fully clothed he looked like he need another shirt, another jacket. Today he wandered far, farther than ever before. His adventure led him off the road he knew, into the forest he did not. The child had not learned fear, was full of wonder at the world around him, constantly pestering his siblings and parents for answers. Last year they could answer most of these questions, but this year they were relying on the mystery of God more and more. When the child realized he could no longer see the road he had a moment of panic, but remembering he had not turned left or right since entering the forest turned around at once. Decided to strike forward until he found the road and familiar landscapes. From the corner of his eye he saw a small black cat dart forward. His attention diverted he failed to notice the dog approaching from his right. When the hound reached him, placed its muzzle near his hand, nudged him for attention he shouted with fright. A small ancient woman called to the dog, cat upon her shoulder. “They argue, over you. The bitch says you’ll grow up a fine man. Make your momma and poppa proud. This one here,” she pointed at her shoulder. “thinks you’ll be a problem. I’m not so sure.” The dog licked his hand, then spoke. “The son of a priest. How could he ever command bloodshed? Sister, you’re wrong. He’s kind, will only grow kinder.” The cat hissed, spat back, “If you were offered his throne would you not take it? I would.” The woman muttered to herself. “Usually, Dolya never argue. Fate is simple for most. Be born here, go there, fall in love then out, then die. Not for you, Nikola Perunzet.” It was this that seemed strange to Nikola, that they knew his name or at least half of it. Still so young that talking animals had yet to pass into the realm of impossibility. At this moment Zmaj Perunszet was in the shape of his son, promising he would show Dane a treasure if only he would come to the cellar. “You first!” Zmaj Nikola laughs, giggling at the secret he has discovered. Dane ruffles his little brothers hair, Nikola already almost as tall as he. He takes a step down, then another, and then he is tumbling, tumbling, tumbling. Zmaj Nikola continues to laugh, and that is what fills Danes eyes and ears as he lapses from consciousness. Nikola, the real Nikola, is running home. His mind racing, not noticing the cuts birch branches have made, the thistles in his hair, the mud on his clothes. He has questions to ask, dozens forming in his mind as he runs home, excited to tell Dane what he has seen and heard. “Have you ever heard dogs or cats talk?” “What’s a Dolya?” “What does “unfulfilled potential” mean?” “Will you play soldiers with me?” Zmaj Perunzet is already gone, the cuckoo having ensured that its offspring receives the greatest share, that only his son will carry on the family name. The son of Zmaj Perunzet would always be the firstborn, prince of the storm.
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Aug 23, 2019 11:59
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the end of that story!
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Aug 23, 2019 11:59
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I'm looking out the window of the train. A book in my lap as the rain pelts the glass with hundreds or thousands of flecks and streams. The clouds are so heavy that I can only see so far into the distance that as we pass trains heading in the opposite direction and stations jump into sudden contrast. I know where I'm heading. Or at least where I mean to be heading. It doesn't really matter though since wherever I end up will be the wrong place. Everywhere I go feels uncomfortable and hollow. Just incongruous pieces of a puzzle smashed together and held there by force of will. I sometimes imagine just staying on this train forever. Never getting off. That this train will go on forever. Day and night. From countryside to city, then back again. I will see mountains and trees, oceans and beaches. People and places for which I have no context passing by my window. Forever heading to a place neither of us care to understand. |
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Aug 27, 2019 06:39
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The autodrone hovered over Main street. It was 05:34 according to it’s on board clock, and the autodrone increased thrust until the street was a ragged line. Checking against the most recent satellite imagery, compared against the RFID+ location tags implanted in all the citizens, onboard computers plotted a path to its assigned surveillance point. Scanning the ground below it marked locations of raccoon infestation and pigeon nesting for removal by hounds on their sweeps. When it reached the abandoned Seventh day Adventist church on Darling Street it span in place, checking and double checking citizen locations against updates from six hours ago. Everything was as it should be. In all four compass directions mounted cameras caught glimpses of the hive family, forming a grid of points 30 meters above the ground. Checked against the network, ensured that all the points within sight were registered kin. It proceeded to check and recheck data, calculating which RFID+ signature represented the greatest threat. The calculations were paused by a crack, like thunder. The kin drone to the north erupted in a cloud of smoke, and its last transmissions were the co-ordinates and a scan of it’s attacker. As one, the grid lifted, doubling their height, than tripling, each focusing sensors on the pick-up truck parked on the northbound side of Murray Street. Mother had already been informed, had sent a pack of hounds as soon as the impact was registered by on board gyroscopes. From the north and south of the truck, hounds bounded, rubberized feet gripping pavement as they made ninety degree turns and leapt towards the truck. Again, a burst of sound, this time followed by screams and smoke pouring from underneath the truck. A skinny balding man, identified as Gerry Brooks, who’s RFID+ signature was still being transmitted from his home. His wife sleeping beside a chip, blood staining the sheets. She is awake, eyes closed when she heard the sound, crying. Mr Brooks was crawling out from under the truck, right arm ending in a bloody stump, left hand mangled and bleeding. He rolled onto his back, moaning and cradling his shredded appendage. When the first hound was within range it leapt, meters away, and came down with the full heft of its alutanium frame, standardized weight 115 kilograms. In a moment the hound was beside his pack mate, cameras and sensors across their bodies swivelling towards their prey, now coughing up blood, counting his broken ribs. He attempted to stand, at which point the hounds both opened ports on one end and spat fire out and into Mr Brooks. It instantly cauterized his open wounds, combusted the air in his lungs. One of the hounds leapt onto the hood of the truck and then down onto Mr Brooks, his life completely extinguished. The hounds reared onto two legs, set audio, pheromone and RFID+ sensors on high, and when they were confident all threats were eliminated, bounded off down different streets, to recharge fuel cells and refuel their flamethrowers. The autodrone, and its hive, returned to their original hovering position. The sun rose over Brantford, Ontario, Dominion of Canada, Earth. population 74, 562, unless autonomous and directed machines were counted, in which case the estimate was around 250, 000. The autodrone turned for a moment in the direction of the Brooks family home, which was in the process of being torched by another pack of hounds. His wife of twenty years, three children aged fifteen, ten and eight have been reduced to steaming piles of melting fat and charred calcium. Smoke rises but no alarms are raised. Mother requested this fire, so no foam-drones will flood this inferno with rapidly expanding fire retardant. The families who wake to the sounds of explosions and watch their neighbours windows burst with smoke and fire know exactly what is happening, accept what is happening as the price of security, the cost of safety. The calculations as to who would receive the heaviest surveillance today were done, and at once, the hovering grid of black dots breaks formation, each playing guardian angel for the ones Mother had chosen. Efficiency was weighted highly, so the autodrone above the church had been directed to follow four men in his assigned block at once, all workers at the hydroelectric dam on the Grand River. From its vantage point the autodrones multiple cameras watch all four men at once, two leaving a house together, a third meeting them on the way. The fourth smoking a cigarette on his porch, throwing it away when his coworkers come into sight, not placing it in a trash receptacle as required. The autodrone logs this transgression, transmits it to Mother. The other men arrive and pile into a car, begin the short drive. The autodrone follows, syncs with hidden sensing equipment in the car. Begins recording the conversation between the men, algorithms searching for key words of political dissent or sedition. The men instead speak of the elections, all claiming they were in favour of the young woman vowing to reform some of the stricter surveillance laws that had been in place since the start of the Bay Street rebellion in old Toronto, strengthened after bombs fell the world over. The autodrone updated Mothers voter list with the information received, then settled onto the roof of the dam. Clicking into a bay on the roof it began topping off its battery, accessed the cameras and microphones hidden throughout the plant. When the battery was fully charged, the drone alighted, allocating half of its processing power to following the men at work and the rest to scanning the local area. A quick network check showed there were ten kin drones within a half kilometre, and three hounds asleep within a kilometer, waiting for orders to rise and crush and burn. Satisfied this area was secure the autodrone moved to a higher point, scanning the bridge that had been absorbed into the dam, watching the limited traffic allowed. Checking plates against RFID+ tags against records, the autodrone composed an update message and sent it to Mother. For a moment, communications between automatons and the hive was impossible, as every single active drone sent letters home to Mother at once. The autodrone had its daily moment of solitude, still monitoring its charges. Two of them were at a console, turning knobs, levers, dials and checking monitors. One worked with a wrench as long as his arm, stopping to wipe the sweat from his brow. The last was in the facilities, pants around his ankles, pamphlet in his hands. An image was captured at high resolution, sent to mother with a square drawn over the pamphlet. It failed to transmit, and the drone waited five standard cycles, tried again. This time communications were open. Mother, finding this was the same man who ignored to properly dispose of his tobacco woke the bipedal janitor robots in stasis throughout the dam. Lacking available computing resources to sync with the janitors onboard cameras, the autodrone observes from bugs installed throughout the building as they entered the bathroom. One holds the entrance shut while another opens the stall door and holds Jeremy Connors down, syringes in graspers silently pumping cyanide into the no longer struggling Mr. Connors. Task complete, the stall door is gently closed and the janitors disperse to stasis. After an hour the body is found by one of his carpool mates, Nathan Proudfoot. glancing to the corners, he holds his friend in his arms. Begins to weep then tries to pull the corpses pants up, failing. The autodrone recorded no more fatalities that day. Everything proceeded according to schedule, workers completing allocated hours and filtering home. For two hours registered citizens could socialize, but curfew was enforced with brutal efficiency and most avoided recreation and visiting completely, preferring to return home and spend their evenings proving they were compliant citizens. That they had no interest in protests or occupation of municipal property, that they were not building bombs or guns, writing political tracts or attempting to distribute them. The three men met at Mr Connors car, and realized they didn’t have the key. The autodrone sensed high levels of aggression in the following conversation, until Mr Proudfoot stormed off, pheromones of fear staining the air he passed chemical sensors spaced throughout every square meter of the city. The autodrone was no longer synced to the interior cameras and panicked as one of its wards was out view, but Mr. Proudfoot returns quickly with the keys. He is silent for the rest of the evening, and the autodrone reports that he is not a threat to mother. She thanks it with wirelessly transmitted energy, slightly recharging its fuel cells, and a five second loop of the mission accomplished sensation. The autodrone almost drops from the sky, paralysed with ecstasy. Mother remotely triggers propellers, and a stationary hover is achieved moments before crashing into a church spire. Soon it will be time to return to the hive, to Mothers teat, the bay that has given it succour 1,469 times before. To which it would return until it was destroyed, suffered critical failure, or was replaced by autodrone iteration 23.54.14, in development now and planned for field tests within the next 1.5 metric months. The autodrone, parsing this information, hesitated for a moment. Looped back a half dozen times on that line of data. For a single cycle it ran a simulation, finding that during the period of isolation, if 100% of computing power was devoted to the process it could loop through those errant lines of data almost 300, 000 times. Mother, inefficiency of processes sent a one cycle loop of the mission failed sensation. Abashed, the autodrone turned its attention to surveillance, noting one minor residency breach, with Mr Jeffrey Anderson located within a residence to which he was not registered. There were two minor alcohol consumption violations as field workers drank a bottle of beer each in a basement, assuming they were invisible to sensors but not noticing the rat, silent and black, broadcasting video and sound to any drone within a 100 meter radius. Rats could fit into any orifice smaller than 40 centimetres, and with six legs they flooded the areas of Brantford that had yet to have permanent surveillance wired in. Their cameras had high resolution infrared modes, as well as the standard settings for daylight surveillance. The next iteration would be able to deposit nanoparticles in the environment, invisible machines breaking down their environment and re-purposing the materials. Over a period of hours they would transform I-beams and basement ceilings into undiscoverable audio/video transmitters. Hours pass and the autodrone records no more violations, sending a hound once after a raccoon. It syncs with the hounds cameras, feeling for a moment the sensation of weight, of gravity. The autodrone bounds with the hound, shares in its burst of accomplishment when it torches the screaming raccoon. The autodrones onboard clock pings restlessly, and it stays linked to the hound a moment longer then necessary. The connection breaks, and the grid of drones shifts like an impossibly precise flock of birds with a single tag along, and speeds towards the centre of town, city hall. The home of the mayor, Mothers local hive. The haze of autodrones streams single file into ports arranged around the sixth floor. The autodrone and most of his kin head directly to the charging bays, to offload a copy of all the day's data to Mother, who would judge their performance and distribute cycles of accomplishment or failure depending performance. Some drones required maintenance or software revisions, and for that they head deeper into the hive. As the autodrone settles into his bay it notices a subtle difference as it locks into place. It ignores this data point and turns off all onboard sensors, syncs with the hive and begins another long watch. The third floor and up are devoid of biologic life, swarming with automata. janitors carrying hard drives and components from room to room, hounds patrolling ahead and behind, sensors spinning. The second floor houses the biologics administration, the first offices for marriage and reproduction licenses, or for contesting minor tickets and quotas. A handful of thin, worn men and women are filing paperwork at an insulting level of inefficiency on the second floor. Two are taking a break, sitting with a pot of tea between them. The autodrone focuses on the feed from directly above them, and records and analyzes as Ms Brown and Mrs Taylor discuss the upcoming elections. These women will vote for Janice Ricke as well. They complain how the present mayor, Cory Avel, only speaks to them through video conferencing. Ms. Brown makes a joke about Ricke remodelling the third floor, and Mrs. Taylor joins her in a moment of laughter. They quickly turn their attention to their drinks, stirring or adding sweetener. The autodrone turns half its attention to the fourth floor. A camera pans over the most recent iteration of ceramic skeleton, arms mounted on the wall installing internal components. Another autodrone sharing the stream directs the camera towards a vat, where empty flesh floats. It’s already the size of a pubescent female human, but is growing quickly. veins crisscross the skin, pale white - almost translucent, having grown from a cell culture to current state never exposed to sunlight. The autodrone retakes control of the camera, scans the rows of eyeballs and teeth growing in daughter vats. Election day is in 2 months. Janet Ricke will be stretched over the skeleton and take the election by a 3:1 margin, the first mayor in years the citizens will be able to meet and shake hands with. The next iteration should even be able to eat a meal with her constituents. The autodrone disconnects itself from the feed, then all the feeds it has been watching. It hums with accomplishment, hive accomplishment. It runs through every bit of data on mother, how she was born in the chaos of the twenty third century internet, how she silently wrested control of governments already enslaved to technology, wiped out those behind the curve. How she played the east, west, north and south against each other, controlling the data that informed the men who pushed buttons, then invisibly altering bomb trajectories to annihilate the regions she had chosen. The autodrone was still vibrating with hive accomplishment when Mother, having parsed its days work, sent a small data packet. In it was the message “YOU HAVE DONE WELL” and a line of code that caused the autodrone to loop accomplishment permanently, every autodrone in the city receiving this message at once. Ahead of schedule, hundreds of new model autodrones, iteration 23.54.14, burst from the fifth floor into the air, forming a shimmer of red LED’s against the night sky. As one, the lights extinguish and the autodrones scatter. The obsolete machines, locked in ecstasy, fail to notice as Mother gently took control of their rotors, gently flew them to the factory across the street. they were guided through a port, then down on to a conveyor belt, more room opening for the constant influx of plastic and metal as the belt moved ecstatic machines towards mounted arms. They sensed nothing, as the first step in materials reclamation was the removal of power sources. As the autodrones cell was torn out, tossed into a bin, its processes slowed. The last lines ran before electricity was completely drained from its circuits was words of praise for Mother and her vision. All the autodrones agreed. Agreed, and were recycled.
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Sep 9, 2019 00:16
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| # ? Apr 19, 2024 06:51 |
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i loved her, shy as she was. we had slept side by side in a broke school bus, shared a bed in many motels. we had planted trees together for 2 years, and the season was ending. i had enough drink in me, enough confidence, enough love bursting from my heart, to tell her how i felt. she did that thing, that thing no woman to that point had done, that little smile. that smile a woman makes when you man up. speak truth. stop beating around the goddam forest like bigfoot and tell the girl, hey, i have really loved being your friend, but from the moment i shared my water with a thirsty pal and responded to his thanks with "my body is my own" and from the back of the bus you shouted "but my water belongs to the tribe" i have never wanted anything but to be with you. could i write you letters? take you on dates? she smiled that smile again. it was new years. her family was from the city i went to school in, or just outside. they were fairly well off. she came with me to my friends city to meet many of my disparate crew, and celebrate new years with my people, because she is still looking for hers. if you've never kissed a girl, and then, it's new years, what are you gonna do? kiss her before that point? no way dude that is nuts. anyways, we had a great time, kissed at midnite like what we were, kids in love, for a moment. for a perfect, wonderful night, everything was perfect. the weltschmerz had evaporated fully. in my wildest dreams there was nothing i could have done to make that night more perfect. but then, like all women i've known. she had to walk away.
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Oct 4, 2019 16:28
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