Feb. 24th 2009
"I'll squeeze galaxies between my unfettered fingers, swallowing the molten juice, inhaling exhumed nebulous clouds, downing the tiny many, and flecking the sticky remainder from my lightless lips."
It's a city tired as it's tall. Out for a day's drive some clutter, Harris isn't even sure what (he has to keep his eyes on the road) falls into the seat next to him, a few flakes hitting his bare scalp. They must have come through the sunroof. Writing of sun, some shine from that celestial competitor in a galactic chili cookoff jumped from the corner-decorations of a skyscraper and swiped Harris in the eye. He had returned los ojos to admiring the details (those he could make out at 70 km/h) when a mischievous wind reeled back a scrap of smog to put our local chilipot on center stage. It has details of its' own too bright for a man to ever make out at our Earth's spinning speed: bubbling fire that arcs like a playful puppy. Harris had looked at some of the stuff brushed from his baldness and it had a gray rocky appearence, aerated enough it didn't hurt landing on him from however high up. Whatever newer fragments carried through off the roof or as part of a promenade of jumpers, dashingly making it into the car just before the sunroof sealed, were no more informative. Harris had passed the last newer buildings this road wove, some of those w/scaffolding still in use, and entered the run-down section of Ebulon City. He wasn't going as far as the slums, where demolition charges would wake up squatters, but home. Into the territory of skyscrapers which ascended higher than the smog rose at the hottest time of year, pitted by acid rain, streaked by soot delivered in snowlike flurries then half-washed down, their pores looking like a mascara-wearing woman after her boyfriend breaks up w/her. Harris took his gear-shift in a calloused hand and looked in his rearview mirror before switching lanes. The part of his windshield's hud that showed the cityscape behind gave a glimpse of In Cindy-Sahn Phoom, the platan where his work was. The closest car (a conspiciously expensive Darbi) was trailing far enough back Harris could switch lanes w/out any fear of a crash. His exit was coming up. He took a right onto Imelt Tower. Where the road forked to the building's sides he road the East face. In the shadow of a skyscraper, during sunset, the Darbi's bodylight got Harris's attention. He had a tail.
Forget the speed advisory, risk of disconnecting from the magnitop, potential cars 'round the unseen tower corner, and above all safety: Harris accelerated. The engine misfired. His Miraldi doesn't have quite the pickup-and-go needed to manage his orders. A flash of light beneath him and electric pop was embarrisingly loud. Sparks cascaded in his wake. Enough to blind the Darbi so he could lose it? No. The trailing car had switched lanes (dodging the discharge) and was catching up. Over the building's edge. Harris knew another way home; he wouldn't be lost by the following manuevre. He violently flipped the polarity-tuner of his Miraldi and the resulting repuslision pushed his car into the air. His heart caught reflexivly but his motor skills took over: throwing his weight to the left to get the car's belly turning the opposite way and jerking the polarity-tuner back into position. Harris was still as a tinfoil hat before a flying saucer's openign bay doors as the highway parralel to Imelt Tower pulled his car to its' magnitop. Harris pulled into the emergency lane and turned off his Miraldi's lights. He checked the vehicle's underside to be sure that earlier pop hadn't burnt anything out. The underside was fine. As he got back in his ride he saw a terribly familiar Darbi and done what he shouldn't-a done: he panicked. Keeping ahead of the enemy he had his magnibay in a higher gear, closing to connect less w/the magnitop, before it'd established a good loop in a lower gear. It was a few minutes but they passed fast. The cars about Harris became abstracter streaks of glowing color as he hurtled down the straightaway to get distance between himself an' the unknown follower. Soon his chassis-transmission AI had locked the Miraldi's body-plates into their most streamlined, low-center-of-gravity arrangement and fellow drivers showed up as the opaquer patches in a polygonless cosmos to jink from before touching. Dangerously, Harris accessed his Navigator while the other hand steered through constelations that reset w/a blink. Driver Assistence>Defensive Driving>Other Drivers>Vehicle Identification. Both hands were returned to the wheel and both eyes watched the windshield as Harris waited for the "done" boop. Cars keeping up w/him would show up first as those closest-but-passed would be a lower-on-the-list streaming update. Boop. 1) Darbi 2)-Harris felt nervous. He checked his speed (still cycles to add before topping out). But he couldn't spare the brain cells or time to think right now and avoid collision. He could only read signs on his windshiled's hud. Needing to think, Harris decided if the man in the Darbi hadn't been lost at this speed there was no benefit to maintaining it so he might as well shred some cycles and plan...yeah. Now he could see the Darbi through his camera's rear-display. It was risky but Harris knew one more trick for shaking a follower. He felt confident enough to pull it off. At Yuo Overpass he would jump the magnitop. 3 exits left. 2. 1 He made a 90 degree turn while fully closing the magnibay for a second. That shutter-click moment almost had his car dragging and scratching but it got airborne. Falling down to the Yuo Overpass, Harris's Miraldi got some unwanted lift on its' rear. He clutched at the steering wheel, pressed his feet tight to the floor, and arced his back in an attempt to alighn the magnibay of his Miraldi w/the magnitop of Yuo Overpass. Crunch. The windshield had cracked. Harris shut down his Miraldi. The Darbi was lost. He had been holding the forward trigger down on his steering-wheel with such force and over such duration his released pointer-finger curled in the air -like a shrimp- convulsivly grabbing at nothing as its' muscles clenched.
Bently was flying but he felt like he was swimming. He had to go slower to fix the location of the casino above him. Translucent overlays of its' position jittered left and right, arguing about where the building sat in space. Bently knew it was static, hung in the sky by turbines, mechanical parts spun by the steam from uranium-heatsinks, fixed like cut jewels in gold filigree by the city sprawled in 360 degrees, draped around the casino so it couldn't lift off without tremendous frame-imploding property damage. When the harsh scrape-scream of metal on whatever-blend-his-Hummingbird's-made-of tells Bently he drifted too high he tilts the throttle. The sound is horrendously loud, a battalion of shock troops into his battered battlefied of a throbbing head, jolting him into a state closer to awake. A bounce-bump against the ceiling-building above bit down Bently's bleached teeth into his martinied tongue. A tab of iron taste scratched its' way down his throat. He's blinking w/bloodshot eyes but lids flutter clears the picture not-at-all. This casino's shadow is cool, much nicer than the sun-warm air he'll have to fly in soon. Smoothco. called him today to check the Yuo overpass out. Reports of dramatic shenanigans had come in. The road's manager wanted to be sure there were no cracks in the magnitop needing a repair team to be sent. Bently would do his appraisal -ah, it's bright! He's emerged from under the casino and squints. He's jabbing his thumb on the down arrow to dim his windshield. Black. Relaxing but he can't fly blind. It hurts to see glimmers of sunlight through his tinted windshield. On the scene of the alleged crash Bently leaves his Hummingbird hovering next to the road and staggers off. He stands still untill the ground sways a bit less. Ah, nice and flat. He goes through the whole procedure: running the planer over the site to measure its' levelness, slides magnets over the surface to confirm it has maintained functional levels of electrical current, setting up markers to let drivers know to go around, laser-scans the magnitop to find the deepest pit, fills it w/water then sucks la agua into a vacume tube that gives a readout of how deep the depression is (well below safety concerns). As a personal touch Bently runs his fingers over Yuo Overpass' pits. Meh. He has felt rougher skyscraper exterior walls. These dinky dents won't even cause a cycle to lose power. Bently gathers his tools and reloads his Hummingbird's underbelly. He'll file a report saying no repair crew's needed w/the modification of "high-risk work zone" on his price. That designation's technically for area's w/sterilizing radioactivity, unidentified chemical spills, wildfires, deadly crime rates, etc. but Yuo Overpass lets cars run at enough cycles of electricity and has enough accidents he'd use those numbers as justification for the designation. Really Bently's just erked to've had to go out and check this non-issue. Whoever pays him won't dispute the claim though. Smoothco. wants its' inspectors happy an' he'sn't grifting enough they'll give a shit. Unsteady, Bently trips while returning to the cockpit. His stomach swings into the sidedoor's steps. A burp is slapped out of him. His unsupported legs kick. His eyes are wide and staring as he struggles to hold on. Not sure what to do. Lactic acid already burns in his arms. "Steps extend" he says and a few more steps unfold from the Hummingbird's undercarraige. He thinks he can lay on these. Tentatively, acting ahead of thoughts like "no you'll kill yourself!" he puts one arm 'round the side of the steps. He has a good grip and the steps don't make a sound of protest underneath his torso. A stranger asks, "need some help?". W/his first foot on a rung Bently turns around enough to see who pulled over. "No I'm fine". Red-faced, Bently scrabbles up the steps and stands in the cockpit, holding onto the doorframe for support. "Thanks for the offer". The stranger returns to his car and crackles away. Seated, Bently commands, "stairs retract" and loses his last feelings of needing to justify why he added an additional fee. When he gets home it'll be coffee and a shower.
...you crazy? Darbi's are the best selling car this year!" Braver than a million of his brothers Ted heads out to search for food though he senses shouting and light. "razor me! We still have roaches Harris! Maybe we could spare for an exterminator if we weren't paying for a new windshield every time you think you're a fucking spy!"
I didn't think I was a spy. You see a Darbi in your rearview and think it's following you? What's wrong with you? ... she has her pointer finger in the right corner of her mouth. She's holding her purse. The roach is in the trash can, crumpled in a paper towel, imprinted w/a heel. Harris has his hands in his pockets. He looks up at her and her eyes meet his showing love blended w/worry and uncertainty. What am I going to do with you? I've set aside some coin for a new motherboard. I'll use that for the windshield. Harris steps over to her. Puts his arms around her waist. Folds them across her back. They tilt their foreheads in together. She sighs. In a tone of 'that's it' 'the game is lost' as one confessing something she'd rather not admit but must address she says, "I have to go get Sesillia."
Bob wonders where Ted went. Harris waits until his wife's done looking at him through the door gap then smooshes the roach he saw. He cleans his hands and wipes her lipstick from his lips. Lawrence was afraid to leave but wants to be with Ted and Bob.
Harris' old windshield is being recycled. Road corporations give discounts to customers who turn in enough car parts. A lot of cars contain materials used in road construction. The rest can be resold to car manufacturers, chop shops, or custom designers. Its' sand had been a rich deep purpily gray. Sparkly, soft, and compressed in a Carribean Quarry. Automatons checked the molten sand for impurities. There were many stages of manufacture. Some of the more interesting included a mold, air-cooling, water-spray cooling, cleaning solutions, being dipped in water, air dried again, and a sprayed-on layer of electroconductive polymer used to display miniture camera fees, GPS arrows, the 'call incoming' jiggly phone animation, etc. The windshield had liked Harris. He usually drove fast so the windshield could feel more airflow on it. Strong air pressure reminded it of its' birth in the O'Gangsta factory. A fast drive was reminescent of its' hydraulic-muscled mother's spurt-of-air curresses. When dust or pollen clogged the windshield's pores faster than it could turn them into enough citrus to smell Harris ran it through his garage's carwash. The windshield loved sitting in Harris' home's garage in the cool dark evening, shiny from moonlight. It had been in pain from the afternoon's accident. Each movement ground its' fractures together a little so it'd say "ooo" or "eee" if it could. The windshield heard the screach of thunderous machines with large shaking bodies. The other windshield's on the rack passed down the story of the machines being Brahman. Windshields were shattered by sonics and crunched by metal needle-teeth into grains. The grains would be melted as they were delivered: hot orange. They were all to be reborn. The windshield took comfort in the story. His cracks ached. On the ground he saw shattered glass smothered in dust. He did not want to decay like those bottle-pieces: discarded, forgotten, dirty, skin coated in dirt. The rack moved and he could see into the gate of the great machine. All he could hear was the screech of glass-polymer broke into smaller and smaller pieces. He could not see the fires. How would he be reforged? Condensation streaking down his face the windshield tinkled to know who had seen the fire. 3 more windshields entered and none could say they saw it. The fourth was cut off after "I see" but he sounded awed. Maybe the fire was real. Harris' windshield focused all its' attention on looking ahead, straining to see if it would be reforged. The rack placed the next three windshields through the great gate. Then the openings in the collossal mechanical afterlife aligned just right and Harris' windshield could see several steps ahead, further down the process-line. A fire roared. Hotter than any he remembered. It knew it had come through such a fire before, though it couldn't remember. The vision of fire was so complete in the windshield it forgot its' cracks as forgelight flickered through them. Then the great gate closed behind it, the machine filled for this cycle, and the windshields who'd heard Harris' windshield's questioning of the fire did not see what became of him.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Tabula Litterae
scribbled 21:54 3/12/2008
He isn’t that old. Bristles of unshaved rough prickle the hand his face rests on. Some gray hairs salt his head. When a smile splits his lips skin creases at the sides of his eyes like the flab-rolls of a g-string clad fatty.
He wishes a white beard hung to his belly-button, neatly trimmed into a conical form. A bald head around the top leaving a horseshoe of white hair…then he’d be respectable old. But he’s a handsome-enough 50-something to easily be mistaken for 40-something.
The pencil he’s holding taps the pad on his table -taps, but doesn’t write. No stimulus comes from the distance in which his eyes stare. An egg-yolk-orange sun twitters between trees like the cheery bird laughter abounding about branches. Some granite is put to yellow lined paper-pad -he jerks his hand away. Unsure, clamps teeth together. A submissive sigh then a consterned glare.
Damn the old codger who’ll dodder! The senile coot with his name, family, and past years of life forgotten. May he trip and die while wandering, a lost man in the neighborhood that’d been home for the last several decades. Drooling unawares…Damn his frumpy weak self. Shits so often his rocker may as well get plumbing. Looked up to by those who read his works but unable to even remember yesterday…
“Pop?” a teenager tall enough to seem a senior steps out of the screen door “anything come yet.” The bird-song’s sweet and comforting. Maybe man learned to use it as a measure of safety. When the birds sing sweetly the forest is deserted of dire predators but when they’re struck silent, canaries in a mine shaft, it’s time man use precaution. The youth sets his hand on his father’s shoulder, looking over he sees the pad has just a little scrawl. He admits what he hadn’t wanted to, “nothing‘s coming to me”. “It‘s alright pop. ” thinking better of it “I‘m sorry you‘re having this trouble. You were great though, people already remember you because of what you‘ve written.” Hopeful, needing this consolation to close off a path to tears he asks, “I was one of the greats, wasn‘t I Tim?” pale blue eyes pleading “yeah, pop. You are one of the greats.” Their shadows should be basketball players. Waste of height that they’re not. Father’s left hand embraces the son’s right. He may lose his mind; his father before him did. Yet the man sitting there now, is comfortable.
He isn’t that old. Bristles of unshaved rough prickle the hand his face rests on. Some gray hairs salt his head. When a smile splits his lips skin creases at the sides of his eyes like the flab-rolls of a g-string clad fatty.
He wishes a white beard hung to his belly-button, neatly trimmed into a conical form. A bald head around the top leaving a horseshoe of white hair…then he’d be respectable old. But he’s a handsome-enough 50-something to easily be mistaken for 40-something.
The pencil he’s holding taps the pad on his table -taps, but doesn’t write. No stimulus comes from the distance in which his eyes stare. An egg-yolk-orange sun twitters between trees like the cheery bird laughter abounding about branches. Some granite is put to yellow lined paper-pad -he jerks his hand away. Unsure, clamps teeth together. A submissive sigh then a consterned glare.
Damn the old codger who’ll dodder! The senile coot with his name, family, and past years of life forgotten. May he trip and die while wandering, a lost man in the neighborhood that’d been home for the last several decades. Drooling unawares…Damn his frumpy weak self. Shits so often his rocker may as well get plumbing. Looked up to by those who read his works but unable to even remember yesterday…
“Pop?” a teenager tall enough to seem a senior steps out of the screen door “anything come yet.” The bird-song’s sweet and comforting. Maybe man learned to use it as a measure of safety. When the birds sing sweetly the forest is deserted of dire predators but when they’re struck silent, canaries in a mine shaft, it’s time man use precaution. The youth sets his hand on his father’s shoulder, looking over he sees the pad has just a little scrawl. He admits what he hadn’t wanted to, “nothing‘s coming to me”. “It‘s alright pop. ” thinking better of it “I‘m sorry you‘re having this trouble. You were great though, people already remember you because of what you‘ve written.” Hopeful, needing this consolation to close off a path to tears he asks, “I was one of the greats, wasn‘t I Tim?” pale blue eyes pleading “yeah, pop. You are one of the greats.” Their shadows should be basketball players. Waste of height that they’re not. Father’s left hand embraces the son’s right. He may lose his mind; his father before him did. Yet the man sitting there now, is comfortable.
Trying it out
scribed 3/1/2007
Trebitharn wished there was someone to guide him through his body's monstrous alterations.
But there wasn't anyone to help him. He looked to Plizer
that's the guy who trained him in weapons use
yeah he looked to old man Plizer for guidance but Plizer just ran.
He saw Trebitharn's tremendous left hand, tendon's thick as snakes, spines of yellow-brown bone trailing from the knuckles up through his arms, fingers fused together into a flexible blade, metallic and gored on blood torn during its' growth, and ran to the sanctuary of his abbey. They spoke through the eye-hatch of Plizer's door. Plizer asked
"what have you become?"
stop interrupting me.
You narrate I'll do the voices.
I want to do voices too.
Alright you cut in when you want and I'll cut in when I want. Okay?
Okay...so what was I saying?
Plizer just asked Trebitharn what he'd become.
Right, so Trebitharn showed himself right womanly then and cried.
Well, a man can cry.
Right but in Dustarpeir culture men always hold it in. You've seen their 40 year olds look like 80 year olds.
That's probably why they were dying in their 30s.
Right. Ripe old age of 30.
If they made it there even.
Yes, most Dustarpeirs died in infancy, many mothers died from infection, boys and men died growing up from training for war, plagues, all kinds of stuff.
What do you think they died of most? Unsafe work conditions? Cause a guy could be tending a horse, get kicked right in the head his skull smashed open, and the horse's owner wasn't even expected to apologize to the father or pen the beast up
yeah they got to free range
it was just thought of as part of the job. But what do you think's the deadliest thing -or what do you think was the biggest factor in their short life spans?
Disease definitely. Even on Chelta they were sick all the time, they didn't wash their hands, they didn't bathe regularly (common citizenry didn't bathe at all), feces were just left in the street to rot, people would sleep in the same beds as their pets, they had lice and rats spreading sickness around. Their water wasn't purified.
Yeah but the Talsminin had it worse in a way.
Had it worst! They lived longer.
Yeah I know but in getting rid of rats they got roaches. The stuff they used to kill off diseases and disease-spreaders built up until it was a new type of disease. They'd set chemical weapons off on themselves.
Sure they hurt themselves but better to be poisoned slowly then die of a quick painful infection.
I'm not talking about slow-poison I'm talking about Bloom Day...
Oh.
Should probably get back to the story.
Yeah, so Trebintharn had come to Plizer for help and Plizer had fled. But when he saw Trebintharn break down like that he noticed his face, knew who it was, and recognized this man was not a monster. It took some strain between the time Plizer looked away from the peeping grate and when he opened the door; he had to set his will to trust he wouldn't be attacked. But merciful feelings of love for Trebintharn moved him to open the door. He jumped when he saw Trebintharn again in the low light with nothing standing between them.
Don't forget, Trebitharn's hand looked horrible. There where these ugly splotches on it and the drying layers of blood made it look like he had killed someone.
Those splotches were truly hideous, almost like marks on a wound-victim with advanced gangrene. They stood out on the calloused stumps his palm had become as dark brownish-green scabs. They looked like cuts healing but instead of blood caking over they looked mossy or moldy.
It'd be nice if they reconciled in a sweet way hugging or something. But Plizer swung the door full open and just stepped back into the abbey, out of the way. Trebitharn came in slouched forward without saying a word. He walked past. (His face was already dry again) and Plizer followed Trebitharn's round-topped shadow with his eyes.
Plizer asked Trebitharn about what had happened to him. Plizer watched Trebitharn. Plizer shut the door still facing his one-time apprentice. He was a serious man so he didn't gasp or anything. He watched and waited. Thinking to tend to typical hosting duties to alleviate some weight from their shoulders, Plizer offered Trebitharn a chair. Once Plizer saw his guest settled he asked him about his malady’s roots. Trebitharn moved left and right then said "I don't know".
I thought it was "something's happened to me but I know not what".
I think you’re right. You want to continue telling it?
We can skip this part. Plizer finds out what Trebitharn knows which is nothing and they come to the big decision.
Don't forget the additional mutation. During their time together Trebitharn asks Plizer not to panic, to brace himself. He then precedes to slice open his shirt around the right breast. On his chest are two different-sized eyes. They're milky, seeing in spectra man's God-given eyes don't. Having a shirt get caught in their blinks was bothering Trebitharn.
Maybe God gave him those eyes too.
Maybe.
So they get through the mushy parts and then Plizer gets to Trebitharn's few and potently consequential options: he can make it quickly known to everyone what happened to him so they get their panic over with and he doesn't become some secret people whisper about in fear or he could go away. They had agreed that suicide, though Trebitharn was sad and saw some release in it, was not viable. It'd be self-committal to hell. Trebitharn had asked Plizer about remedies, having some measure of hope but if there were any the abbey could provide Plizer didn't know them. The abbey's were the most medically advanced institutions among Dustarpeirs. So they agreed on a plan for Trebitharn to take one of Plizer's personal-size heavencraft as his own. When questions came up about Trebitharn's disappearance Plizer would say he had went out to be a cartographer. His mother would be sad to never see him again but his father would encourage her.
Cartographer's were the cultural apex of Dustarpeir people. An alchemist named Jobe Yillmor had died in an explosion that turned his keep into ruins. A later alchemist, Rephim Quafranapta was ordered by Gulyj, Judge of Avloaes to put research into whatever Jobe was working on; he was sure there was some practical use for something so powerful. After 17 years of research, during which he was outshined by Blez I. Snuihhwo (who developed many a use for common herbs and made remedies for maladies that had recently thrown his people into dreadful fear), Rephim finally found a very useful function of the chemical processes Jobe had experimented with.
You should mention, he had backup books in other keeps besides that of his main estate. He was rich because his family had served high nobility for generations.
It's taken for granted that all of Jobe's work wasn't lost. Otherwise we wouldn't have heaven travel.
But whoever the cub is who gets this might not know that.
You're right. Metallurgy had advanced very far since the famous Siege of Tockurn which saw a small fortress withstand an assault by hundreds of thousands of siege machines because it's walls were reinforced by a very low grade of steel. Tockurn's Ofé, what was his name?
I don't know it either eeg. I think he's always just referred to as "Tockurn's Ofé".
Alright, he went on to sack many a neighbor using metal in his weapons-arsenal. Far-away Zairts and Qaghs took note so they too bent their subjects to the refinement of metals.
All this, the metal vessels and the exploding chemicals, added up to machines that could fly into the black heaven of stars and shoot straight from place to place.
Small by today's standards, the largest of these vessels could only hold a single warlord's compound. Many of them were made for rich churches, wealthy merchants, and middle-class men with a love of travel.
So that's what Trebitharn did. He mapped more region's of heaven than any other man, or creature has to date.
Eventually he thought he was famous enough that, though all his body had a touch of weirdness, from his beak
onward. Wrap it up.
Trebitharn was announced to the people by Plizer. They loved him but thought his horrid appearance must have been from being out in heaven so long or contact with something there.
Although there were other worries like the losses (exceptional even by those days standards), alien people's contacted, monster's, illnesses Chelta-natives had no immunities to, and a concentration on sky combat after heaven-engines were refined Trebitharn is agreed by most historians and scholars, except for Northeasterners, as the main cause of The Low Time of Heaven Travel.
Trebitharn wished there was someone to guide him through his body's monstrous alterations.
But there wasn't anyone to help him. He looked to Plizer
that's the guy who trained him in weapons use
yeah he looked to old man Plizer for guidance but Plizer just ran.
He saw Trebitharn's tremendous left hand, tendon's thick as snakes, spines of yellow-brown bone trailing from the knuckles up through his arms, fingers fused together into a flexible blade, metallic and gored on blood torn during its' growth, and ran to the sanctuary of his abbey. They spoke through the eye-hatch of Plizer's door. Plizer asked
"what have you become?"
stop interrupting me.
You narrate I'll do the voices.
I want to do voices too.
Alright you cut in when you want and I'll cut in when I want. Okay?
Okay...so what was I saying?
Plizer just asked Trebitharn what he'd become.
Right, so Trebitharn showed himself right womanly then and cried.
Well, a man can cry.
Right but in Dustarpeir culture men always hold it in. You've seen their 40 year olds look like 80 year olds.
That's probably why they were dying in their 30s.
Right. Ripe old age of 30.
If they made it there even.
Yes, most Dustarpeirs died in infancy, many mothers died from infection, boys and men died growing up from training for war, plagues, all kinds of stuff.
What do you think they died of most? Unsafe work conditions? Cause a guy could be tending a horse, get kicked right in the head his skull smashed open, and the horse's owner wasn't even expected to apologize to the father or pen the beast up
yeah they got to free range
it was just thought of as part of the job. But what do you think's the deadliest thing -or what do you think was the biggest factor in their short life spans?
Disease definitely. Even on Chelta they were sick all the time, they didn't wash their hands, they didn't bathe regularly (common citizenry didn't bathe at all), feces were just left in the street to rot, people would sleep in the same beds as their pets, they had lice and rats spreading sickness around. Their water wasn't purified.
Yeah but the Talsminin had it worse in a way.
Had it worst! They lived longer.
Yeah I know but in getting rid of rats they got roaches. The stuff they used to kill off diseases and disease-spreaders built up until it was a new type of disease. They'd set chemical weapons off on themselves.
Sure they hurt themselves but better to be poisoned slowly then die of a quick painful infection.
I'm not talking about slow-poison I'm talking about Bloom Day...
Oh.
Should probably get back to the story.
Yeah, so Trebintharn had come to Plizer for help and Plizer had fled. But when he saw Trebintharn break down like that he noticed his face, knew who it was, and recognized this man was not a monster. It took some strain between the time Plizer looked away from the peeping grate and when he opened the door; he had to set his will to trust he wouldn't be attacked. But merciful feelings of love for Trebintharn moved him to open the door. He jumped when he saw Trebintharn again in the low light with nothing standing between them.
Don't forget, Trebitharn's hand looked horrible. There where these ugly splotches on it and the drying layers of blood made it look like he had killed someone.
Those splotches were truly hideous, almost like marks on a wound-victim with advanced gangrene. They stood out on the calloused stumps his palm had become as dark brownish-green scabs. They looked like cuts healing but instead of blood caking over they looked mossy or moldy.
It'd be nice if they reconciled in a sweet way hugging or something. But Plizer swung the door full open and just stepped back into the abbey, out of the way. Trebitharn came in slouched forward without saying a word. He walked past. (His face was already dry again) and Plizer followed Trebitharn's round-topped shadow with his eyes.
Plizer asked Trebitharn about what had happened to him. Plizer watched Trebitharn. Plizer shut the door still facing his one-time apprentice. He was a serious man so he didn't gasp or anything. He watched and waited. Thinking to tend to typical hosting duties to alleviate some weight from their shoulders, Plizer offered Trebitharn a chair. Once Plizer saw his guest settled he asked him about his malady’s roots. Trebitharn moved left and right then said "I don't know".
I thought it was "something's happened to me but I know not what".
I think you’re right. You want to continue telling it?
We can skip this part. Plizer finds out what Trebitharn knows which is nothing and they come to the big decision.
Don't forget the additional mutation. During their time together Trebitharn asks Plizer not to panic, to brace himself. He then precedes to slice open his shirt around the right breast. On his chest are two different-sized eyes. They're milky, seeing in spectra man's God-given eyes don't. Having a shirt get caught in their blinks was bothering Trebitharn.
Maybe God gave him those eyes too.
Maybe.
So they get through the mushy parts and then Plizer gets to Trebitharn's few and potently consequential options: he can make it quickly known to everyone what happened to him so they get their panic over with and he doesn't become some secret people whisper about in fear or he could go away. They had agreed that suicide, though Trebitharn was sad and saw some release in it, was not viable. It'd be self-committal to hell. Trebitharn had asked Plizer about remedies, having some measure of hope but if there were any the abbey could provide Plizer didn't know them. The abbey's were the most medically advanced institutions among Dustarpeirs. So they agreed on a plan for Trebitharn to take one of Plizer's personal-size heavencraft as his own. When questions came up about Trebitharn's disappearance Plizer would say he had went out to be a cartographer. His mother would be sad to never see him again but his father would encourage her.
Cartographer's were the cultural apex of Dustarpeir people. An alchemist named Jobe Yillmor had died in an explosion that turned his keep into ruins. A later alchemist, Rephim Quafranapta was ordered by Gulyj, Judge of Avloaes to put research into whatever Jobe was working on; he was sure there was some practical use for something so powerful. After 17 years of research, during which he was outshined by Blez I. Snuihhwo (who developed many a use for common herbs and made remedies for maladies that had recently thrown his people into dreadful fear), Rephim finally found a very useful function of the chemical processes Jobe had experimented with.
You should mention, he had backup books in other keeps besides that of his main estate. He was rich because his family had served high nobility for generations.
It's taken for granted that all of Jobe's work wasn't lost. Otherwise we wouldn't have heaven travel.
But whoever the cub is who gets this might not know that.
You're right. Metallurgy had advanced very far since the famous Siege of Tockurn which saw a small fortress withstand an assault by hundreds of thousands of siege machines because it's walls were reinforced by a very low grade of steel. Tockurn's Ofé, what was his name?
I don't know it either eeg. I think he's always just referred to as "Tockurn's Ofé".
Alright, he went on to sack many a neighbor using metal in his weapons-arsenal. Far-away Zairts and Qaghs took note so they too bent their subjects to the refinement of metals.
All this, the metal vessels and the exploding chemicals, added up to machines that could fly into the black heaven of stars and shoot straight from place to place.
Small by today's standards, the largest of these vessels could only hold a single warlord's compound. Many of them were made for rich churches, wealthy merchants, and middle-class men with a love of travel.
So that's what Trebitharn did. He mapped more region's of heaven than any other man, or creature has to date.
Eventually he thought he was famous enough that, though all his body had a touch of weirdness, from his beak
onward. Wrap it up.
Trebitharn was announced to the people by Plizer. They loved him but thought his horrid appearance must have been from being out in heaven so long or contact with something there.
Although there were other worries like the losses (exceptional even by those days standards), alien people's contacted, monster's, illnesses Chelta-natives had no immunities to, and a concentration on sky combat after heaven-engines were refined Trebitharn is agreed by most historians and scholars, except for Northeasterners, as the main cause of The Low Time of Heaven Travel.
#s4Names
“Report”
“47618112 carried out the ambush orders successfully sir. We were able to set off the enemy chad‘s air-medic call and delivered a second ambush via AAR. An enemy Chad not recorded as patrolling through the Demiga Path took was confirmed to have claimed are ambush site by the rearguard. Acting on trust in the accuracy of our intelligence 47618112 decided the unidentified chad had been redeployed from the Hussri‘an picket-line to investigate the air-medic‘s destruction. 617095, our chad’s sniper, eliminated the commanding officer of the enemy Chad to extenuate it‘s deployment at the ambush site. It was believed the reduction of enemy strength at the Hussri‘an picket line would increase the likelihood of a puncture by our forces. We retreated to the extraction site, awaited the planed pick-up time and boarded. During our trip here 47618112 entered a state of increased adrenaline and diminished upper brain function.”
“How did you determine the latter?”
“Another member of the unit, it might have been 784348, was first aware of the commander‘s change in disposition. Bubble were moving beneath the skin of his face and started to burst. He was repeatedly asked if he was alright but showed no response to verbal stimuli. When the bubbles began steaming and venting through his skin he tried to escape his harness.”
“And this is when he was shot?”
“Almost, super. His attempts at escape were violent enough to tip the hull.”
“Did he ever try to unbuckle his restraints?”
“No, super. Other members of the team reached out for the releases but he attacked whoever got close. 817940 had part of his hand bitten off. The pilot yelled back that he couldn‘t correct the flight-path if we kept rocking. Me and some other team members had left our seats to hold the commander down but he broke the arms that reached out for him first. His speed and strength had increased.”
“That‘s when you shot him.”
“Yes-”
“Have you noticed in yourself or any of the other chad members a change in disposition which may be owed to instability exposure?”
“No super.”
Silence bounced off the corners of the room and entered the reporter’s body through his ears, telling him to be nervous.
“9995136 go immediately to station Beo. From there you‘ll ride to another fort. Recount your story and worn them the 47------ line may be unstable. When you return you will be your chad‘s commanding officer. Dismissed.”
9995136 rode on an immense vehicle. Somewhat like a train in shape. 14 stories tall. Immense drills and laser grids at its’ front base chewed or burned through whatever lay in its’ path. Ash mixed with vegetation and dirt spewed from pipe-pumps that spread from its’ top in Y shape. Forests, mountains, lakes =speed-bumps.
During the trip 9995136 contemplated the unsaid things. Then his body demanded attention. Painfully, internal gases stretched his stomach. Not a post-Thanksgiving stretch; his stomach, which had been held in by muscles, ripped the seams of his armor to spread around him before stopping. Looked like he was a cartoon character who’d swallowed a rubber tube. The floor wouldn’t stop tilting away from his feet while he sweated. Slightly mad, afraid of being found, 9995136 jumped into the air. He landed in the forest but his leg broke to catch him. 9995136 hobbled into unknown, humanless jungle to forage hermetic.
The fort he was supposed to’ve warned already showed fire trails in the distance. It had needed warning because it had a high-concentration of the 47------ line.
“47618112 carried out the ambush orders successfully sir. We were able to set off the enemy chad‘s air-medic call and delivered a second ambush via AAR. An enemy Chad not recorded as patrolling through the Demiga Path took was confirmed to have claimed are ambush site by the rearguard. Acting on trust in the accuracy of our intelligence 47618112 decided the unidentified chad had been redeployed from the Hussri‘an picket-line to investigate the air-medic‘s destruction. 617095, our chad’s sniper, eliminated the commanding officer of the enemy Chad to extenuate it‘s deployment at the ambush site. It was believed the reduction of enemy strength at the Hussri‘an picket line would increase the likelihood of a puncture by our forces. We retreated to the extraction site, awaited the planed pick-up time and boarded. During our trip here 47618112 entered a state of increased adrenaline and diminished upper brain function.”
“How did you determine the latter?”
“Another member of the unit, it might have been 784348, was first aware of the commander‘s change in disposition. Bubble were moving beneath the skin of his face and started to burst. He was repeatedly asked if he was alright but showed no response to verbal stimuli. When the bubbles began steaming and venting through his skin he tried to escape his harness.”
“And this is when he was shot?”
“Almost, super. His attempts at escape were violent enough to tip the hull.”
“Did he ever try to unbuckle his restraints?”
“No, super. Other members of the team reached out for the releases but he attacked whoever got close. 817940 had part of his hand bitten off. The pilot yelled back that he couldn‘t correct the flight-path if we kept rocking. Me and some other team members had left our seats to hold the commander down but he broke the arms that reached out for him first. His speed and strength had increased.”
“That‘s when you shot him.”
“Yes-”
“Have you noticed in yourself or any of the other chad members a change in disposition which may be owed to instability exposure?”
“No super.”
Silence bounced off the corners of the room and entered the reporter’s body through his ears, telling him to be nervous.
“9995136 go immediately to station Beo. From there you‘ll ride to another fort. Recount your story and worn them the 47------ line may be unstable. When you return you will be your chad‘s commanding officer. Dismissed.”
9995136 rode on an immense vehicle. Somewhat like a train in shape. 14 stories tall. Immense drills and laser grids at its’ front base chewed or burned through whatever lay in its’ path. Ash mixed with vegetation and dirt spewed from pipe-pumps that spread from its’ top in Y shape. Forests, mountains, lakes =speed-bumps.
During the trip 9995136 contemplated the unsaid things. Then his body demanded attention. Painfully, internal gases stretched his stomach. Not a post-Thanksgiving stretch; his stomach, which had been held in by muscles, ripped the seams of his armor to spread around him before stopping. Looked like he was a cartoon character who’d swallowed a rubber tube. The floor wouldn’t stop tilting away from his feet while he sweated. Slightly mad, afraid of being found, 9995136 jumped into the air. He landed in the forest but his leg broke to catch him. 9995136 hobbled into unknown, humanless jungle to forage hermetic.
The fort he was supposed to’ve warned already showed fire trails in the distance. It had needed warning because it had a high-concentration of the 47------ line.
In-Fight Upgrade
crafted 10/1/2006
17:26
Straight as a stone, the first reactor fell out from the machine’s back, no longer glowing with power, and boomed against a dusty ground of evacuated cityscape torn then swept sideways by successive concussive bombings. Imagining his in-flight enemies future position helped per a cockpit-wrapping screen is Hetinra Boudswid. Coppery silk-like hair is held back beneath his shoulder blades by a flower-stem loop. The screen’s projection is clear, absent of any hud or overlayed information feeds unless prompted to bring them up, a sliver brighter than what a bare eye would see.
Stratiated tough ground and object-debris follow after a billowing shimmer that curves towards the AEWP* Hetinra’s piloting. It’s a friend’s. In dense, disconnected, round-edged letters it says Ammo Hoard. So fast that it’s a sand-dune brown, yellow, plastic weapons case grey, and senior citizen hair gray flurry of streaks, Ammo Hoard jumps sideways, dives, and rolls on it’s shoulder. Three explosions spread out in spherical patterns. Chips of buildings “tink” against Ammo Hoard’s shell. Hetinra keeps it in a crouch behind one of the spacescrapers that hasn’t entirely submerged in geological tides. Out of a missing corner-space he spies Burrower (Altom Idrethuanox‘s AEWP). In a roar so loud the building Hetinra’s shielding himself with shakes, shells, too big for a pair of Mac trucks to drag, spew violently out of auto-loading twin barrels. Chunks of Burrower’s armored breastplate, over a kilometer distant from twin fires of guns, are knocked aside by lower parts of Burrower they hit into before falling for miles to the ground where Ipeburg was. Altom activates an electromagnetic field installed in Burrower. It disables a lot of systems and warps the image in his glasses of the battlefield. But he doesn’t hear impacts against his craft anymore.
Hetinra stays in hiding, in case he hasn’t been spotted yet. For when Ammo Hoard is found he diverts fuel to its’ pretarsus-installed jets. A part of Ammo Hoard’s torso opens up and shuffles off. This drone will fire mortars to kill Burrower in the air. Hetinra keeps up a flow of armor piercing rounds. He knows they’re not hitting anymore but he can spare ammunition to keep Altom blind while his drone sets up. A round connects between plates of Burrower’s armor, jamming a joint. Trying to move in a way that bends the surrounding joints only scrunches the slag between them in tighter. Another AEWP size bullet-tip takes a trip past stomach-guarding plastic to disconnect a pressure-keeping line. Steam sprays out in a small white airstream. Warnings about pressure being lost are ignored by Altom (who has switched off the electromagnetic repellent) as he busily tries to find the drone’s command channel and jam it. Too late, the drone’s in place and fires its’ first mortar. Burrower leans away from a blow in the air that brushes its’ front black with soot and scars its’ outermost layer with shrapnel. “This was meant for you Hetinra” is transmitted over shared lines while a rounded shape catches sunlight. When it hit’s the ground there’s a ripple of shredded-building, dirt forced into the air, and parts of what was once the drone.
What looks like a fist-sized fireball is growing in Hetinra’s sight. By this he knows Altom has found him. Ammo Hoard slides a remote-activated mine in a decrepit level of the building before him. When Burrower is clearly distinguishable from its’ travel exhaust and matching Ammo Hoard in size its’ enemy makes some weak shots at it. Two heads taller than the somewhat insect-looking Ammo Hoard, Burrower crashes through the building while the other AEWP gets away on an emergency burn. Hetinra’s thumb clicks in a button. The whole building is taken up in a charcoal cloud and Burrower rises into the air on a parabolic route as if given an uppercut. A block away he crunches a stack of building-parts.
Burrower rears up from the war zone-angel its’ made -in a panic. From the right corner of his glasses Altom reads the computer is still counting and tracking rockets. (14 were showing when he first glanced). Now a hornet’s cloud of smoky backwash sends threatening tips across the distance in more arcs than his computer can count in time. Burrower throws out a box that’s triggered by forward-sensing proximity. More metal balls then’re’n a shotgun shell stop the rockets’ along their courses. More sparks shower out than are in a 4th of July grand finale. Burrower charges forward on foot. Altom has it swipe smoke to clear his optical view. In comes a laser shot to its’ side. Containers inside Burrower break; watery liquids spill out, flowing down its’ legs. It looks like a bite was taken out of Burrower’s left side, up to its’ abdomen. Groups of legs braced against recoil, Ammo Hoard crouches with its’ laser rifle out. A lens is unloaded, flipping in the air before it shatters on the ground. Burrower fires its’ largest caliber cannon at Ammo Hoard. The latter keeps its’ hold on its’ weapon but loses its’ limb from the forearm down. The laser rifle clatters between them, breaking with the sound of something expensive. Instead of replacing the shell he just used (which would need reloaded manually), Altom has his AEWP take the final steps needed to be in close range. He then has it grab for a globe his AEWP’s vision shows him inside Ammo Hoard. Burrower punches through AH’s flexible metal torso to squeeze a central round casing. It crunches and folds, imprinted with Burrower’s right hand, squeezed, and screams open (as only metal can) in the spaces in-between. As it implodes, drops of oil mixed with red acid gurgle down AH’s innards. Burrower pulls back out a hand coated with stickiness. Hetinra gloats, “that only looked^ like a processing core”. A hydraulic drill comes out and grinds in Burrower’s side-wound until it’s too tangled in robo-organs to rotate. That’s one of a few surprises AH packs for such intimate engagements. Altom has his AEWP back up, fearful that another such drill will cut off important power lines. Altom doesn’t know that AH doesn’t have any more of those traps. Hetinra detaches the drill-clamp so Burrower won’t break it away and carry something off that’s important.
AH slides back a panel and projects a superheated flame. Burrower’s shell (where it wasn‘t coated black by those rockets) gets an orange glow even as it retreats out of range. The sound of pressure-restoring gas escaping from the line cut earlier is like an exhaled breath without changing volume. Burrower takes off vertically, leaving an unleashed cache of metal balls behind as a present. They split open and discharge acidic gas pellets. AH leaps as far as it can but is unable to land on its’ worn-away leg tips. Acid still drips from some of them. AH’s underside is cut open on impact against a pile of war-torn rubble. Hetinra pulls power from dysfunctional legs to overclock AH’s sensors in hopes of triangulating trajectories that’ll reach Burrower sooner.
Altom calls a sonic strike from the satellite he’s in. AH’s remaining arm starts to transform, curved plates of metal circling (powered by their own momentum and the arm’s magnetism), cylinders extend, lengthening the arm, locks open to let joints fit in relocated mechanisms, armor is dropped making circuit boards temporarily exposed, antennas extend out of the arm as its’ inside is filled with fodder that slides out of the shoulder then it’s rattled, destructively, with the rest of AH. An audible cascade shakes screws loose, separates rivets, cracks welding, shatters lenses, pops recording speakers, and jellies softer inorganic sections. Damaged during transformation, the heavy sniping gun that was AH’s last arm has a jammed reload-contraption. A message blinks on his wraparound screen, prompting him to patch the WPG Stealthkill’s interface, he ignores it; Hetinra takes the one shot he has. Simultaneously (according to a human eye’s response-time): a wispy line is drawn to Burrower’s sternum, a crater forms there as the plate implodes, a hole larger than the crater, on the opposite side of Burrower’s body, appears, unfurling torn edges then synthetic guts come out of the exit wound in a clump, are diluted in the sky, and smack the ground while Burrower strains to stay aloft. Altom concedes, “amazing shot!”. The persistent team of beep and flash have annoyed Hetinra enough that he finally presses a button to download the patch.
“Ag! Stop the fight, stop the fight! Hetinra, why‘d you download that?” Hetinra looks back at excited Palbrim with bewilderment. “What‘s the matter? I won with you’re A.E.W.P., didn‘t I?”.
Palbrim Joacs relaxes himself. “Nevermind I‘ll have to get used to a new interface when I overhaul Ammo Hoard anyway. Yeah, you did a good job. I got some ideas watching you. The lenses in a laser rifle are its‘ ammo, the focusing of light is so quick and intense that a permanent lens is out of my price range. But I think, since the glass shatters anyway, I‘ll add a container to store the shards. Then they can be used as a point blank attack. You did great with that last shot! You should be using a sniper-oriented A.E.W.P. based on performance. But what‘s going to stick with you most is you got to change cores. Is something you get to do once in your lifetime at most. The only time I ever did it was on my training A.E.W.P.: Crypt Sting. It was really old -barely working when I was a kid, probably recycled now. But I dropped out its’ last core. I saw it shut-off. ”
*All Enviorments Weapons Platform
^it was actually a lubricant exchanger
17:26
Straight as a stone, the first reactor fell out from the machine’s back, no longer glowing with power, and boomed against a dusty ground of evacuated cityscape torn then swept sideways by successive concussive bombings. Imagining his in-flight enemies future position helped per a cockpit-wrapping screen is Hetinra Boudswid. Coppery silk-like hair is held back beneath his shoulder blades by a flower-stem loop. The screen’s projection is clear, absent of any hud or overlayed information feeds unless prompted to bring them up, a sliver brighter than what a bare eye would see.
Stratiated tough ground and object-debris follow after a billowing shimmer that curves towards the AEWP* Hetinra’s piloting. It’s a friend’s. In dense, disconnected, round-edged letters it says Ammo Hoard. So fast that it’s a sand-dune brown, yellow, plastic weapons case grey, and senior citizen hair gray flurry of streaks, Ammo Hoard jumps sideways, dives, and rolls on it’s shoulder. Three explosions spread out in spherical patterns. Chips of buildings “tink” against Ammo Hoard’s shell. Hetinra keeps it in a crouch behind one of the spacescrapers that hasn’t entirely submerged in geological tides. Out of a missing corner-space he spies Burrower (Altom Idrethuanox‘s AEWP). In a roar so loud the building Hetinra’s shielding himself with shakes, shells, too big for a pair of Mac trucks to drag, spew violently out of auto-loading twin barrels. Chunks of Burrower’s armored breastplate, over a kilometer distant from twin fires of guns, are knocked aside by lower parts of Burrower they hit into before falling for miles to the ground where Ipeburg was. Altom activates an electromagnetic field installed in Burrower. It disables a lot of systems and warps the image in his glasses of the battlefield. But he doesn’t hear impacts against his craft anymore.
Hetinra stays in hiding, in case he hasn’t been spotted yet. For when Ammo Hoard is found he diverts fuel to its’ pretarsus-installed jets. A part of Ammo Hoard’s torso opens up and shuffles off. This drone will fire mortars to kill Burrower in the air. Hetinra keeps up a flow of armor piercing rounds. He knows they’re not hitting anymore but he can spare ammunition to keep Altom blind while his drone sets up. A round connects between plates of Burrower’s armor, jamming a joint. Trying to move in a way that bends the surrounding joints only scrunches the slag between them in tighter. Another AEWP size bullet-tip takes a trip past stomach-guarding plastic to disconnect a pressure-keeping line. Steam sprays out in a small white airstream. Warnings about pressure being lost are ignored by Altom (who has switched off the electromagnetic repellent) as he busily tries to find the drone’s command channel and jam it. Too late, the drone’s in place and fires its’ first mortar. Burrower leans away from a blow in the air that brushes its’ front black with soot and scars its’ outermost layer with shrapnel. “This was meant for you Hetinra” is transmitted over shared lines while a rounded shape catches sunlight. When it hit’s the ground there’s a ripple of shredded-building, dirt forced into the air, and parts of what was once the drone.
What looks like a fist-sized fireball is growing in Hetinra’s sight. By this he knows Altom has found him. Ammo Hoard slides a remote-activated mine in a decrepit level of the building before him. When Burrower is clearly distinguishable from its’ travel exhaust and matching Ammo Hoard in size its’ enemy makes some weak shots at it. Two heads taller than the somewhat insect-looking Ammo Hoard, Burrower crashes through the building while the other AEWP gets away on an emergency burn. Hetinra’s thumb clicks in a button. The whole building is taken up in a charcoal cloud and Burrower rises into the air on a parabolic route as if given an uppercut. A block away he crunches a stack of building-parts.
Burrower rears up from the war zone-angel its’ made -in a panic. From the right corner of his glasses Altom reads the computer is still counting and tracking rockets. (14 were showing when he first glanced). Now a hornet’s cloud of smoky backwash sends threatening tips across the distance in more arcs than his computer can count in time. Burrower throws out a box that’s triggered by forward-sensing proximity. More metal balls then’re’n a shotgun shell stop the rockets’ along their courses. More sparks shower out than are in a 4th of July grand finale. Burrower charges forward on foot. Altom has it swipe smoke to clear his optical view. In comes a laser shot to its’ side. Containers inside Burrower break; watery liquids spill out, flowing down its’ legs. It looks like a bite was taken out of Burrower’s left side, up to its’ abdomen. Groups of legs braced against recoil, Ammo Hoard crouches with its’ laser rifle out. A lens is unloaded, flipping in the air before it shatters on the ground. Burrower fires its’ largest caliber cannon at Ammo Hoard. The latter keeps its’ hold on its’ weapon but loses its’ limb from the forearm down. The laser rifle clatters between them, breaking with the sound of something expensive. Instead of replacing the shell he just used (which would need reloaded manually), Altom has his AEWP take the final steps needed to be in close range. He then has it grab for a globe his AEWP’s vision shows him inside Ammo Hoard. Burrower punches through AH’s flexible metal torso to squeeze a central round casing. It crunches and folds, imprinted with Burrower’s right hand, squeezed, and screams open (as only metal can) in the spaces in-between. As it implodes, drops of oil mixed with red acid gurgle down AH’s innards. Burrower pulls back out a hand coated with stickiness. Hetinra gloats, “that only looked^ like a processing core”. A hydraulic drill comes out and grinds in Burrower’s side-wound until it’s too tangled in robo-organs to rotate. That’s one of a few surprises AH packs for such intimate engagements. Altom has his AEWP back up, fearful that another such drill will cut off important power lines. Altom doesn’t know that AH doesn’t have any more of those traps. Hetinra detaches the drill-clamp so Burrower won’t break it away and carry something off that’s important.
AH slides back a panel and projects a superheated flame. Burrower’s shell (where it wasn‘t coated black by those rockets) gets an orange glow even as it retreats out of range. The sound of pressure-restoring gas escaping from the line cut earlier is like an exhaled breath without changing volume. Burrower takes off vertically, leaving an unleashed cache of metal balls behind as a present. They split open and discharge acidic gas pellets. AH leaps as far as it can but is unable to land on its’ worn-away leg tips. Acid still drips from some of them. AH’s underside is cut open on impact against a pile of war-torn rubble. Hetinra pulls power from dysfunctional legs to overclock AH’s sensors in hopes of triangulating trajectories that’ll reach Burrower sooner.
Altom calls a sonic strike from the satellite he’s in. AH’s remaining arm starts to transform, curved plates of metal circling (powered by their own momentum and the arm’s magnetism), cylinders extend, lengthening the arm, locks open to let joints fit in relocated mechanisms, armor is dropped making circuit boards temporarily exposed, antennas extend out of the arm as its’ inside is filled with fodder that slides out of the shoulder then it’s rattled, destructively, with the rest of AH. An audible cascade shakes screws loose, separates rivets, cracks welding, shatters lenses, pops recording speakers, and jellies softer inorganic sections. Damaged during transformation, the heavy sniping gun that was AH’s last arm has a jammed reload-contraption. A message blinks on his wraparound screen, prompting him to patch the WPG Stealthkill’s interface, he ignores it; Hetinra takes the one shot he has. Simultaneously (according to a human eye’s response-time): a wispy line is drawn to Burrower’s sternum, a crater forms there as the plate implodes, a hole larger than the crater, on the opposite side of Burrower’s body, appears, unfurling torn edges then synthetic guts come out of the exit wound in a clump, are diluted in the sky, and smack the ground while Burrower strains to stay aloft. Altom concedes, “amazing shot!”. The persistent team of beep and flash have annoyed Hetinra enough that he finally presses a button to download the patch.
“Ag! Stop the fight, stop the fight! Hetinra, why‘d you download that?” Hetinra looks back at excited Palbrim with bewilderment. “What‘s the matter? I won with you’re A.E.W.P., didn‘t I?”.
Palbrim Joacs relaxes himself. “Nevermind I‘ll have to get used to a new interface when I overhaul Ammo Hoard anyway. Yeah, you did a good job. I got some ideas watching you. The lenses in a laser rifle are its‘ ammo, the focusing of light is so quick and intense that a permanent lens is out of my price range. But I think, since the glass shatters anyway, I‘ll add a container to store the shards. Then they can be used as a point blank attack. You did great with that last shot! You should be using a sniper-oriented A.E.W.P. based on performance. But what‘s going to stick with you most is you got to change cores. Is something you get to do once in your lifetime at most. The only time I ever did it was on my training A.E.W.P.: Crypt Sting. It was really old -barely working when I was a kid, probably recycled now. But I dropped out its’ last core. I saw it shut-off. ”
*All Enviorments Weapons Platform
^it was actually a lubricant exchanger
How's That?
written 14:56 2/21/2008
Toots. He’d call her that but she smacked his face as an introduction. Should he remember her’s? The door slams behind her, a rattling window-pane shutters with the slammed wood frame. Her stare is angry an’ expectant. Any moment he’ll remember why…no the connection’s not coming.
“Do I know you?”
Aghast expression, “ya damn well should buddy. I want to know who sent ya.” Leans back, puts out a leg to tap the foot, crosses arms and looks down expectantly for a moment. “Come on, get talkin‘.”
Might bother Harry Salone to’ve a dame address him so flippant. But his mind’s off wondering where she’s from, hardly listening.
“You can talk cant‘cha? Who se-”
“hold on a second babe” such address readjusts her posture “I don‘t know what you‘re talking about.”
“You been trailing me for the last three days. I seen ya, in your blue ford, don‘t think I ain‘t seen ya. Was it Jackie? Did Jackie pay ya ta tail me?”
He’d follow her tail. Hadn’t been commissioned to. Blue ford…
Harry’s face is a Christmas tree just plugged in. “You want Mack Two-pugh. He’s in the office next door.”
Doll’s face is a lobster just steamed. “Sorry, ‘bout hittin‘ ya buddy.”
He was saying it was alright when she lost the downcast armholding and went for the door. Jiggled, with a softer closing, in a ceremony of ecstatic attempt to contact god.
What an easy mistake to make. Had the man got here to fix our numbers today, like he was suppose to, she wouldn’t-a stepped in here. Wonder what Mack’s following her for…
Toots. He’d call her that but she smacked his face as an introduction. Should he remember her’s? The door slams behind her, a rattling window-pane shutters with the slammed wood frame. Her stare is angry an’ expectant. Any moment he’ll remember why…no the connection’s not coming.
“Do I know you?”
Aghast expression, “ya damn well should buddy. I want to know who sent ya.” Leans back, puts out a leg to tap the foot, crosses arms and looks down expectantly for a moment. “Come on, get talkin‘.”
Might bother Harry Salone to’ve a dame address him so flippant. But his mind’s off wondering where she’s from, hardly listening.
“You can talk cant‘cha? Who se-”
“hold on a second babe” such address readjusts her posture “I don‘t know what you‘re talking about.”
“You been trailing me for the last three days. I seen ya, in your blue ford, don‘t think I ain‘t seen ya. Was it Jackie? Did Jackie pay ya ta tail me?”
He’d follow her tail. Hadn’t been commissioned to. Blue ford…
Harry’s face is a Christmas tree just plugged in. “You want Mack Two-pugh. He’s in the office next door.”
Doll’s face is a lobster just steamed. “Sorry, ‘bout hittin‘ ya buddy.”
He was saying it was alright when she lost the downcast armholding and went for the door. Jiggled, with a softer closing, in a ceremony of ecstatic attempt to contact god.
What an easy mistake to make. Had the man got here to fix our numbers today, like he was suppose to, she wouldn’t-a stepped in here. Wonder what Mack’s following her for…
Gratrangest
written 031 3/31/2008
They slithered across his face. He couldn’t see them but he felt. Their scrabby multi-legs pushed into his skin, tingling. Not the tingling of actual sensation but the jolt of neurons neutralized, paralyzed, unable to render regular sensory data in the mind. Had he been able to feel he’d know they were horrifyingly many, bellies rubbing slimy against his pockmarked face. Involuntarily, he tried to blink. Something was at his eye. But the insect held the lids apart and walked across. From fresh feelable damage he screamed. Regret. He’d told himself not to scream again. The thousands responded with their own screams, too many to describe. The pressure from the audible invaded his eardrums, cutting clefts in his canals, substantial long after the last reverberations escaped. Again he heaved against the soaked coils around his submerged forearms. His muscles burned, weary and water-logged. Macerated timbers creaked beneath his raw feet. “Ah” sucked in some crunchies. He gagged out some of the uglies that had been in his facial hair, nesting.
Calming down, he relaxed. It was more comfortable not to struggle. Not enough strength was left in him to lift-off the coils. He had tried earlier ‘til his muscles burned and his head throbbed. Beaten. Clammy liquid dripped from one of his remaining hair patches, rippling with a plop in the placated pool. His body was swelling from osmosis.
He wanted to sleep. So tired the world was out of focus. Things were heard through a haze. His conscious drifted in and out, back and forth, barely understanding the sensory information that did come in. But he couldn’t get comfortable. His muscles were so tired. They ached for real rest: a prone position. But the coils kept him sitting up, he couldn’t break them. The sneeze-inducing filthy liquid, chest-high, kept him awake. Every now and then his nodding head would dip in the water. Small things which stirred verminous beneath the just-broken surface would brush against his chin. Like a drunk, he would try to sober from his stupor -but without sleep such mental clarity was unattainable.
Eventually it didn’t think of itself as ‘he’ having long forgotten its’ name. It would have died if it still needed to eat. If the roots in its’ feet didn’t sustain. Torturer’s intravenous force-feeding. A newer voice screamed, botheringly. Sub-primal, inanimal, it lent its’ rough voice to the cacophony of reply screams. It was always bothered by the newer voices. If its’ mind was healthy enough to analyze it might deduce the hale human sound, lost to itself, was what rubbed it so wrongly. The sound was heavy with reminiscence, lost things, nostalgia, odious humanity and reminders of identity. If it could feel it would know creepers stirred in the exposed organs it had left. The muscles, fat and skin which once surrounded its’ submerged torso were long gone.
Still, among the many, it lives.
They slithered across his face. He couldn’t see them but he felt. Their scrabby multi-legs pushed into his skin, tingling. Not the tingling of actual sensation but the jolt of neurons neutralized, paralyzed, unable to render regular sensory data in the mind. Had he been able to feel he’d know they were horrifyingly many, bellies rubbing slimy against his pockmarked face. Involuntarily, he tried to blink. Something was at his eye. But the insect held the lids apart and walked across. From fresh feelable damage he screamed. Regret. He’d told himself not to scream again. The thousands responded with their own screams, too many to describe. The pressure from the audible invaded his eardrums, cutting clefts in his canals, substantial long after the last reverberations escaped. Again he heaved against the soaked coils around his submerged forearms. His muscles burned, weary and water-logged. Macerated timbers creaked beneath his raw feet. “Ah” sucked in some crunchies. He gagged out some of the uglies that had been in his facial hair, nesting.
Calming down, he relaxed. It was more comfortable not to struggle. Not enough strength was left in him to lift-off the coils. He had tried earlier ‘til his muscles burned and his head throbbed. Beaten. Clammy liquid dripped from one of his remaining hair patches, rippling with a plop in the placated pool. His body was swelling from osmosis.
He wanted to sleep. So tired the world was out of focus. Things were heard through a haze. His conscious drifted in and out, back and forth, barely understanding the sensory information that did come in. But he couldn’t get comfortable. His muscles were so tired. They ached for real rest: a prone position. But the coils kept him sitting up, he couldn’t break them. The sneeze-inducing filthy liquid, chest-high, kept him awake. Every now and then his nodding head would dip in the water. Small things which stirred verminous beneath the just-broken surface would brush against his chin. Like a drunk, he would try to sober from his stupor -but without sleep such mental clarity was unattainable.
Eventually it didn’t think of itself as ‘he’ having long forgotten its’ name. It would have died if it still needed to eat. If the roots in its’ feet didn’t sustain. Torturer’s intravenous force-feeding. A newer voice screamed, botheringly. Sub-primal, inanimal, it lent its’ rough voice to the cacophony of reply screams. It was always bothered by the newer voices. If its’ mind was healthy enough to analyze it might deduce the hale human sound, lost to itself, was what rubbed it so wrongly. The sound was heavy with reminiscence, lost things, nostalgia, odious humanity and reminders of identity. If it could feel it would know creepers stirred in the exposed organs it had left. The muscles, fat and skin which once surrounded its’ submerged torso were long gone.
Still, among the many, it lives.
A Selection of Rigtt Slheppi’s Statement to the Q.V. Council
Written 2/10/2007 2:34
It entertains the mind to imagine that there’s a lot of depth and strategy to combat -layers, depth movements, contradicting fields that aren’t quite parallel, subtle feints, unavoidable blows, ricocheted, diverted, and returned attacks. This counters that in a balanced set-up where for every assault or defense there’s an equal overriding counter. But in reality, outside our minds where physics and spirits are at play, conflict is brutal in its’ simplicity: the stronger element wins. No amount of maneuvering can avoid an enemy whose forces encompass the world; a boxer who’s faster and stronger than his opponent can keep pounding until he’s too tired (there‘s no need to shadowbox), and a deft fencer finishes whomever’s against him with a single lethal strike. Mudrigal had thoughts similar to these but in a language I couldn’t quite comprehend or make out. I scryed his mind from Azbourne Heights during the Montil’s passing when Al Kon Dais had yet to reach its’ zenith. Multitudes of forces overwhelmed Mudrigals stronghold and swept it away -with all of his research, every patient he pain-inducingly examined in care, like so much chaff in a hurricane. There wasn’t time for the sentries message to be returned as a retreat order but men retreated anyway. His own forces shook the earth with their fearful stampede. Yet no redeployment would come. No dropships fell to pick up the wounded, dying, loyal or brave. That’s one of the power’s of Frighenka that has been tested and proven: the clouds covering their bodies are a result of myopic spores. Replaced more often then any human tissue, many of the spores are swept away by air currents. Some of these spores will trace paths onto human skin, bury tendrils into a man’s pores, and cause a chemical reaction of induced fear. It’s hard to get any of our own soldiers to fight because fear is so strongly seeded in them. Fleets of Frighenka will fly over unguarded human-bearing lands just to lay their spores across them. The fear induced is so strong that it permanently leaves its’ victims with a terror associated with the Frighenka. So pilots behind layers of plastic and metal shielding, in craft that scrub their air internally, will tremble when they even see a Frighenka. These parades of their kind spread such phobia amongst us as much as possible because it affects those of us who don’t come in contact with spores too. When two men are together and one begins to panic the other’s emotions are set on fire as well. This has occasionally backfired on our common enemy. Men have been so jacked with adrenaline they’ve emptied clips in the biggest Frig they could fire upon; those would be their leaders. But most often when one man turns from a turrent or wall and flees his second doesn’t take the time to weigh his options or own survivability between staying or fleeing. He figures the decision has been made and heads out himself. So, though Mudrigal’s forces weren’t human we’ve seen much of the same reaction’s in them (likely due to much shared physiology) and we can use Mudrigal’s recent fall as an example of what an assault on one of our own orbital strongholds will be like.
I’m trying to make my report sound more entertaining so we all keep our spirits up. …eh, heah. The most efficient countermeasure we’ve encountered to Frighenka advantages was the Tolpoln’s long-range battery exhaustion. The effects of these tactics in protecting some of their last holdouts have been much lauded. It’s egregiously flawed. Battery stores can not be manufactured at the same pace as Frighenka troops meaning that a few won battles eventually lead to a massacre where the defenders are without ammunition. Secondly, and more importantly, the long-range battery exhaustion can easily be countered by smaller forces. At the close of the campaign against Tolpoln Frighenka had already begun to split their waves into smaller sequences that were large enough to overwhelm small-yield turrents but small enough to leave reserves that could not be countered were batteries fired on earlier waves. It is because the Tolpoln system requires our own weapon stores be upgraded to accommodate it that I advise against it. Though it worked to stall some stations takeover it was effectively countered. Altering our own stations to perform an outmoded defensive model is madness. Instead I suggest that we expand spending and divert funds to Heyman’s mine-drones. Increasingly mechanized detachments seem the way to go as they can not be overcome by fear and are much more easily replaced. In the time it has taken Frighenka forces to plot routes between mine-lanes we have been able to isolate them long enough for armada sections to eliminate. Our current coverage of the space between stations is inadequate to protect and defer the Frighenka armada.
I was a proponent of thinking that the attacks on the Wriqub Duaxzy meant we had more time to observe and hold back on manufacturing. Further mapping of WD’s holdings have shown that most of their old-lands are already lost. What we see left is too small to require more than a quarter of the known Frighenka forces attention. We’ve seen them split their forces before. With our proximity to the WD’s heart we should expect that the forces our fleets have engaged are not routine scouts but the final intelligence gatherer’s before our space is massively incurred into.
I hope I’ve entertained you gentlemen and not put too fine a point on the knowledge that my next colleague to speak may be interrupted by the Frighenka which overwhelmed our warning-satellites before they could send signals. I recommend mass mine production be begun -I mean, will we care what the cost would have been if our death’s imminent?
It entertains the mind to imagine that there’s a lot of depth and strategy to combat -layers, depth movements, contradicting fields that aren’t quite parallel, subtle feints, unavoidable blows, ricocheted, diverted, and returned attacks. This counters that in a balanced set-up where for every assault or defense there’s an equal overriding counter. But in reality, outside our minds where physics and spirits are at play, conflict is brutal in its’ simplicity: the stronger element wins. No amount of maneuvering can avoid an enemy whose forces encompass the world; a boxer who’s faster and stronger than his opponent can keep pounding until he’s too tired (there‘s no need to shadowbox), and a deft fencer finishes whomever’s against him with a single lethal strike. Mudrigal had thoughts similar to these but in a language I couldn’t quite comprehend or make out. I scryed his mind from Azbourne Heights during the Montil’s passing when Al Kon Dais had yet to reach its’ zenith. Multitudes of forces overwhelmed Mudrigals stronghold and swept it away -with all of his research, every patient he pain-inducingly examined in care, like so much chaff in a hurricane. There wasn’t time for the sentries message to be returned as a retreat order but men retreated anyway. His own forces shook the earth with their fearful stampede. Yet no redeployment would come. No dropships fell to pick up the wounded, dying, loyal or brave. That’s one of the power’s of Frighenka that has been tested and proven: the clouds covering their bodies are a result of myopic spores. Replaced more often then any human tissue, many of the spores are swept away by air currents. Some of these spores will trace paths onto human skin, bury tendrils into a man’s pores, and cause a chemical reaction of induced fear. It’s hard to get any of our own soldiers to fight because fear is so strongly seeded in them. Fleets of Frighenka will fly over unguarded human-bearing lands just to lay their spores across them. The fear induced is so strong that it permanently leaves its’ victims with a terror associated with the Frighenka. So pilots behind layers of plastic and metal shielding, in craft that scrub their air internally, will tremble when they even see a Frighenka. These parades of their kind spread such phobia amongst us as much as possible because it affects those of us who don’t come in contact with spores too. When two men are together and one begins to panic the other’s emotions are set on fire as well. This has occasionally backfired on our common enemy. Men have been so jacked with adrenaline they’ve emptied clips in the biggest Frig they could fire upon; those would be their leaders. But most often when one man turns from a turrent or wall and flees his second doesn’t take the time to weigh his options or own survivability between staying or fleeing. He figures the decision has been made and heads out himself. So, though Mudrigal’s forces weren’t human we’ve seen much of the same reaction’s in them (likely due to much shared physiology) and we can use Mudrigal’s recent fall as an example of what an assault on one of our own orbital strongholds will be like.
I’m trying to make my report sound more entertaining so we all keep our spirits up. …eh, heah. The most efficient countermeasure we’ve encountered to Frighenka advantages was the Tolpoln’s long-range battery exhaustion. The effects of these tactics in protecting some of their last holdouts have been much lauded. It’s egregiously flawed. Battery stores can not be manufactured at the same pace as Frighenka troops meaning that a few won battles eventually lead to a massacre where the defenders are without ammunition. Secondly, and more importantly, the long-range battery exhaustion can easily be countered by smaller forces. At the close of the campaign against Tolpoln Frighenka had already begun to split their waves into smaller sequences that were large enough to overwhelm small-yield turrents but small enough to leave reserves that could not be countered were batteries fired on earlier waves. It is because the Tolpoln system requires our own weapon stores be upgraded to accommodate it that I advise against it. Though it worked to stall some stations takeover it was effectively countered. Altering our own stations to perform an outmoded defensive model is madness. Instead I suggest that we expand spending and divert funds to Heyman’s mine-drones. Increasingly mechanized detachments seem the way to go as they can not be overcome by fear and are much more easily replaced. In the time it has taken Frighenka forces to plot routes between mine-lanes we have been able to isolate them long enough for armada sections to eliminate. Our current coverage of the space between stations is inadequate to protect and defer the Frighenka armada.
I was a proponent of thinking that the attacks on the Wriqub Duaxzy meant we had more time to observe and hold back on manufacturing. Further mapping of WD’s holdings have shown that most of their old-lands are already lost. What we see left is too small to require more than a quarter of the known Frighenka forces attention. We’ve seen them split their forces before. With our proximity to the WD’s heart we should expect that the forces our fleets have engaged are not routine scouts but the final intelligence gatherer’s before our space is massively incurred into.
I hope I’ve entertained you gentlemen and not put too fine a point on the knowledge that my next colleague to speak may be interrupted by the Frighenka which overwhelmed our warning-satellites before they could send signals. I recommend mass mine production be begun -I mean, will we care what the cost would have been if our death’s imminent?
Coming to a Street Near You
written 20:07
8/12/2007
Dim shapes show into adjusted eyes in darkness. Car eyes cast out light afront. Red widths tint, sweeping across the interior in a wide band. Rectangular glass shows starbursts blue and red. Maybe there was another checkpoint. His identification chip has been on the fritz.
Fortunate I was nearby. Heard on the police bandwidth that a car scanned empty of occupant markers on Jefferson/NAU-172. Lower eyelid is pushed out by some wetness. My car’s engine roars somewhere far from mind as my hands tremble. Get it together. Can’t look like this when I arrive. I’ll tell him…
Solid colors blur down the international highway. Free cars. The officer approaches. Maybe he’ll go easy on him. He wasn’t a runner and there’s been a lot of them. Pain in the ass for a guy just doing his job. We decide what we do. They were talking about the ticket, beside the car’s outside, when the officer turned to look. I almost saw his face before hitting him.
A stranger yelling to get in. Some hesitance. No threat noticed. A decision to comply. One order’s as good as another and this man’s more dangerous than the officer. He starts to look back at his car but is yelled at until he focuses, frantic attention.
I tell him about Jesus: He is the determinant between men going to the Kingdom of Heaven and those thrown to hellfire. Maybe it’s because he’s afraid; I hope he’s sincere. He prays and comes to tears. Hope it’s not adrenaline (can‘t tell). What do I work for if it’s insincere?
In bloodied blue uniform the officer crawls to his radio. “[police terminology, gives the template of the situation that just happened, what he caught of the vehicle description, heading, and a request for the way to be blocked off]”.
He and me are killed at the blockade.
To the men on the ground, there heads in the ground, that’s two criminals down. By God it’s known, that was one more saved.
8/12/2007
Dim shapes show into adjusted eyes in darkness. Car eyes cast out light afront. Red widths tint, sweeping across the interior in a wide band. Rectangular glass shows starbursts blue and red. Maybe there was another checkpoint. His identification chip has been on the fritz.
Fortunate I was nearby. Heard on the police bandwidth that a car scanned empty of occupant markers on Jefferson/NAU-172. Lower eyelid is pushed out by some wetness. My car’s engine roars somewhere far from mind as my hands tremble. Get it together. Can’t look like this when I arrive. I’ll tell him…
Solid colors blur down the international highway. Free cars. The officer approaches. Maybe he’ll go easy on him. He wasn’t a runner and there’s been a lot of them. Pain in the ass for a guy just doing his job. We decide what we do. They were talking about the ticket, beside the car’s outside, when the officer turned to look. I almost saw his face before hitting him.
A stranger yelling to get in. Some hesitance. No threat noticed. A decision to comply. One order’s as good as another and this man’s more dangerous than the officer. He starts to look back at his car but is yelled at until he focuses, frantic attention.
I tell him about Jesus: He is the determinant between men going to the Kingdom of Heaven and those thrown to hellfire. Maybe it’s because he’s afraid; I hope he’s sincere. He prays and comes to tears. Hope it’s not adrenaline (can‘t tell). What do I work for if it’s insincere?
In bloodied blue uniform the officer crawls to his radio. “[police terminology, gives the template of the situation that just happened, what he caught of the vehicle description, heading, and a request for the way to be blocked off]”.
He and me are killed at the blockade.
To the men on the ground, there heads in the ground, that’s two criminals down. By God it’s known, that was one more saved.
3 Bachelors
Written April 19th 2009
3 friends who're bachelors set out to travel to some special places in search of a wife. The first place they're heading is the biggest city in their country. It's a mix of so many cultures and people with plenty of party-houses they're sure they'll find women worth marrying there. But they become lost. In a beautiful forest, full of old trees, with systems of symmetric waterfalls so decorative in appearance they're unnatural, and glowing lights darting between the trees. They set up and sleep in their tents.
Ixnomay is an intellectual. His affections are for geeky things, his encyclopedic knowledge of some subjects implies obsession, he's shy but with his two friends is bursting with enthusiasm.
Hok is an athlete. He has a daily routine of exercise to keep his physique in shape. He's careful about what he eats, having packed the meals for his travel to go with his diet. He seeks challenges for fun, "bet I can hit the highest apple on that tree twice-in-a-row!", "I'll be first across the river!", etc. 'round his friends he encourages friendly competition and for them to believe they're physically capable, "you can handle this cliff Ixnomay. You're the man!"
Atee is an engineer. He appreciates the formal qualities of things. He's looking forward to seeing the factories in Tespagh Ytillin. He shares some of Ixnomay's interests and accepts Hok's challenges though he usually loses. He often stares off into space, noticing the small details on things or feeling good just watching beauty, the flat metal birds of wind chimes tinkling together.
While the boys sleep hands touch them. But the exploration is felt so slightly none of them wake up until Ixnomay, the lightest of the boys, is lifted off the ground. He shocks awake to see glowing forms are slowly drifting him through the air towards the tent flaps. He lets them lift him outside and through the air. There's a commotion. His friends fought the things off when they woke up. They're flying out of their tents hurriedly in a panic. Atee caught one by the legs. He sees the small things frightened face and apologizes letting it go. Hok yells at Ixnomay to fight free but Ixnomay yells back he's fine. The other two boys follow Ixnomay to wherever he's going. The faeries direct them, pointing out easier slopes around the ground. They come upon a steep rocky hill, almost an angled cliff, and Ixnomay is carried out of view. The faries gesture to a slope around the hill which'll presumably take them the same way their friend has gone. Hok objects, preferring to take the steep cliff face. Atee follows him. They make it a fair way's up (more than half) when Atee is out of breath and must stop to rest. Hok encourages him but Atee says, "go on without me". The faeries surround Atee and carry him up the rest of the way.
Hok's playing with one of the faeries. He slides a hand between its' legs to poke it quick. It dives down and slaps his crotch before swooping back up. He swipes at its' chest. Its' breasts jiggle and it flys higher, leaning down, swaying left and right while giggling. Hok jumps to twist a nipple. It laughs, curves up, and hovers down a bit higher than before, shaking its' breasts at Hok. "They don't mind if you touch 'em. It's like a game to them."
His friends are startled when Ixnomay comes over in his boxers. Hok had to do a running jump off a rock to get his faerie again. "Aren't they beautiful guys?"
"Kinda stringy for my tastes"-Hok
Their eyes aren't human. They're sharply angled and colored (some dark, some glowing, some squint-to-view bright colors, each a single color gradient), wispy eyelashes trail high and curl at the ends, their lips are pale, thin and long, their noses almost come to a point, their hair is a bird's-nest combination of lion's mane and afro, close view of where insectoid wings connect with scapula looks disgusting, the exoskeleton extending over skin, then discolored skin.
"Not really"-Atee.
Hok's faerie, tall enough to come to his hip, holds his fingertips (held high as they can reach with him flat-footed) to lead him away.
"I'm going to spend the night here."-Ixnomay.
"I'm going back to our tents. Make sure no one steals our shit."-Atee
Atee backtracks to sleep in his tent. Ixnomay enters a pack of faeries.
The next morning, Hok returns under a pale light. He starts packing up Ixnomay's tent.
"Where's Ixnomay?"-Atee.
"He decided he's going to stay with the faeries. I'm wrapping up his tent as a going away present. Or wedding present. He thinks he'll marry one of the things."
"How're they in bed?"
Hok laughs. "They don't have beds. The one I was with took me to a little cave. There was a place in it where the floor was soft with moss. I couldn't even put it in she's so small."
"So you didn't get laid?"
"...I sorta did. She rubbed on me until I came and I returned the favor."
Atee and Hok split the weight of Ixnomay's provisions and follow the path Hok took to get down. Ixnomay comes out of a cloud of faeries to meet them. He thanks them for coming. He accepts his stuff and introduces his fiance. She flits away after bowing to Atee and Hok.
"How do you even keep track of her? For all I could tell she's the one I fucked last night."-Hok
"She's one of the few with black hair. She has pastel green eyes. She's shyer than most. She has the cutest laugh..."
Atee sees one with black hair...a second with black hair that is lost behind several others...a glint of green in a momentary gap between flesh...he tries to keep track of just one faerie up front but it soon is positioned behind several other's. It's like they all want a look at Hok and Atee but also want to stay close to each other.
The friends bid each other well and take what (through Ixnomay's half-conversation with his wife-to-be) is the route to Tespagh Ytillin.
They're halfway through some misty marshlands, the noon sun making them sweat heavily, when whooping people come running towards them. They're beaten and their packs stolen.
"After them!"-Hok.
The boys give chase and come up to dryland just as it starts to rain. The trees are so thick above the dryland there're only a few pools made from steady dripping.
Atee drops his speed to a walk thinking caution's best. Hok charges into firelight around a spot of trees and bellows how whoever has his stuff better come forward before he finds 'im and beats 'is ass!
Hok is surprised to find everyone around the circle's a topless woman with atleast single D tits. He recognizes some of his belongings in their hands, being traded and shown off to one another. One with most of his tent and possessions beats her chest and yells at him. He raises his fists. She charges. You can't really follow what's happening as blurred limbs flash out, they bang into rocks, scatter sticks, roll on the ground, and keep hitting each other. Eventually Hok stands up and gathers his stuff. His opponent seems knocked out. Hok is asking for his other things, scratched, clothes torn, bleeding a few spots, hoping to regain his possessions by intimidation, not wanting to fight again while some of the women resuscitate his opponent. She gets up. Hok turns around at the sound, preparing himself for another tangle. She grabs his crotch and his mind flashes fear until she kisses him. Hok sets down his things to squeeze on her ass and tits while she makes him hard. When she feels he's ready she runs away. Hok chases her. Around some bends is a little tent of limbs and leaves with a cover of bound-together twigs. He has his schlong hanging out when she grunts and points back at the tent opening. He covers the tent.
Atee goes around finding the women who have his things and trying to get them back. The bravest eventually worked up the nerve to steal what Hok set down and after a scramble to grab the remaining bits, like kids for a pinata, the new possessors are back to bartering. The women Atee gets the attention of puff out their chest (which's effective but not in the way they intend). They raise their fist and get ready to strike but he pushes them away and holds up his hands defensively. He tries to explain he doesn't hit girls. They get the jist he won't fight them, some after landing a few blows, then they yell at him. Apparently to get out of their sight or something as they chase after him and kick him in the ass until he's far enough away. Atee's getting more and more pissed off. He has been cast out from a bunch of these women's meeting places. He's looking for one that's reasonable. Weary, he walks into one of their tents. This woman, smaller than most and without a little hoard piled up, recoils from him. He tries to scare her more and yells to know where his things are. She can't understand him beyond the necessity of fear. He sits down. Eyes adjusted to the light he sees she's much more bruised than most of the women. He reaches out to her and strokes her shoulder where one of the larger marks are. He meant it as a soothing gesture -or thought he did- but finds he's overwhelmingly horny. Maybe from negotiating with barbarians who go around shirtless all day. Atee presses against her and kisses her neck. Her bush is so thick it reminds him of the long grass of the marsh w/its' moisture hidden beneath.
In the morning Atee looks over and can't believe he had sex with this thing. She's more ripped than he or Hok. She's dirty like, "what's a bath?". The expression on her face is stupid while she sleeps. Her brow's big. The bruises, cuts, and scabs turn him off further. Atee gets up and leaves.
Hok's fiance and him make a great team. They've collected all of he and Atee's stuff . It was a sweaty morning workout to fight so much. Hok's bleeding but he's exhilarated. The last few holders gave up their possessions without a fight. Some included other things in what they gave. The missus demanded extra things from some. One woman had buried one of Hok's sandwiches. He was going to let her keep it (he's not eating the thing after it was leaf-wrapped and put in the Earth) but the lady insisted he take it. Hok asked to find his friend and his fiance got it. She asked around and led him towards the room he'd been in,making sounds that sounded like disparaging remarks about Hok's chosen company.
"Meet Ms.Ribbins."
"Already? You move faster than Ixnomay. Aren't you going to be betrothed for awhile first?"
"I don't think they actually have a marriage ceremony..."
"Alright. I'm going to continue going the way the faeries said Tespagh Ytillin was in. Fuck, I don't really wanna go alone. Why don't you come with me. We know where this place is we could always double-back."
"We agreed setting out that along the way we'd leave whoever wanted to settle-down, even if it was in Tespagh Ytillin."
"I don't think I'd walk all the way to Morast now for a wife. I'll probably look for work in Tespagh Ytillin. There're so many women there I can probably spend years checking out options. I guess I'll pick the fruit we saw on the trees we passed coming here..."
"Why?"
"I need something to eat. I didn't get any of my shit back man."
"Don't worry about it. I'm going to live here. I can scrounge up some more stuff. Here."
Hok hands over the collected provisions of himself and Atee that were in salvageable condition.
"What about your wedding present? Atleast keep your own stuff."
The missus is pissed off Hok's giving their morning's earnings away. He whacks her once to silence her protest. She doesn't understand having enough to give that much away.
"How about this: you take these now and when you've a job in Tespagh Ytillin buy some nice clothes for my wife and come back here."
"I'll do that. Thanks alot."
"Anytime Atee. Anytime."
Twice the provisions seemed a great idea but it more than halved Atee's progress. On a frosted field of grass he can see pillars of smoke rising. It's a slight detour.
There're usually folks on the street but usually less than 10. People are closing what shutters they have open. A man goes into an unlit house, the lights turn on, smoke starts coming out of the chimney. Atee sees an industrial building 5 and a half houses long. He goes inside. Warm air drafts from the open door. He's admiring the scenery when a gal goes to punch out next to him. He sees she's covered in soot. Her hands are black with oil. Flecks of metal sparkle in her palms. There're stains on and holes in her clothes. Atee can tell from a sideview, where her stomach's visible, she's curvy. Even under overalls he can tell she has a good bust. He looks at her, she looks at him, and she's awesomely pretty. She walks outside. Atee chases her outside and talks to her. She turns around and responds in a different language. Every marriage has its' difficulties....
3 friends who're bachelors set out to travel to some special places in search of a wife. The first place they're heading is the biggest city in their country. It's a mix of so many cultures and people with plenty of party-houses they're sure they'll find women worth marrying there. But they become lost. In a beautiful forest, full of old trees, with systems of symmetric waterfalls so decorative in appearance they're unnatural, and glowing lights darting between the trees. They set up and sleep in their tents.
Ixnomay is an intellectual. His affections are for geeky things, his encyclopedic knowledge of some subjects implies obsession, he's shy but with his two friends is bursting with enthusiasm.
Hok is an athlete. He has a daily routine of exercise to keep his physique in shape. He's careful about what he eats, having packed the meals for his travel to go with his diet. He seeks challenges for fun, "bet I can hit the highest apple on that tree twice-in-a-row!", "I'll be first across the river!", etc. 'round his friends he encourages friendly competition and for them to believe they're physically capable, "you can handle this cliff Ixnomay. You're the man!"
Atee is an engineer. He appreciates the formal qualities of things. He's looking forward to seeing the factories in Tespagh Ytillin. He shares some of Ixnomay's interests and accepts Hok's challenges though he usually loses. He often stares off into space, noticing the small details on things or feeling good just watching beauty, the flat metal birds of wind chimes tinkling together.
While the boys sleep hands touch them. But the exploration is felt so slightly none of them wake up until Ixnomay, the lightest of the boys, is lifted off the ground. He shocks awake to see glowing forms are slowly drifting him through the air towards the tent flaps. He lets them lift him outside and through the air. There's a commotion. His friends fought the things off when they woke up. They're flying out of their tents hurriedly in a panic. Atee caught one by the legs. He sees the small things frightened face and apologizes letting it go. Hok yells at Ixnomay to fight free but Ixnomay yells back he's fine. The other two boys follow Ixnomay to wherever he's going. The faeries direct them, pointing out easier slopes around the ground. They come upon a steep rocky hill, almost an angled cliff, and Ixnomay is carried out of view. The faries gesture to a slope around the hill which'll presumably take them the same way their friend has gone. Hok objects, preferring to take the steep cliff face. Atee follows him. They make it a fair way's up (more than half) when Atee is out of breath and must stop to rest. Hok encourages him but Atee says, "go on without me". The faeries surround Atee and carry him up the rest of the way.
Hok's playing with one of the faeries. He slides a hand between its' legs to poke it quick. It dives down and slaps his crotch before swooping back up. He swipes at its' chest. Its' breasts jiggle and it flys higher, leaning down, swaying left and right while giggling. Hok jumps to twist a nipple. It laughs, curves up, and hovers down a bit higher than before, shaking its' breasts at Hok. "They don't mind if you touch 'em. It's like a game to them."
His friends are startled when Ixnomay comes over in his boxers. Hok had to do a running jump off a rock to get his faerie again. "Aren't they beautiful guys?"
"Kinda stringy for my tastes"-Hok
Their eyes aren't human. They're sharply angled and colored (some dark, some glowing, some squint-to-view bright colors, each a single color gradient), wispy eyelashes trail high and curl at the ends, their lips are pale, thin and long, their noses almost come to a point, their hair is a bird's-nest combination of lion's mane and afro, close view of where insectoid wings connect with scapula looks disgusting, the exoskeleton extending over skin, then discolored skin.
"Not really"-Atee.
Hok's faerie, tall enough to come to his hip, holds his fingertips (held high as they can reach with him flat-footed) to lead him away.
"I'm going to spend the night here."-Ixnomay.
"I'm going back to our tents. Make sure no one steals our shit."-Atee
Atee backtracks to sleep in his tent. Ixnomay enters a pack of faeries.
The next morning, Hok returns under a pale light. He starts packing up Ixnomay's tent.
"Where's Ixnomay?"-Atee.
"He decided he's going to stay with the faeries. I'm wrapping up his tent as a going away present. Or wedding present. He thinks he'll marry one of the things."
"How're they in bed?"
Hok laughs. "They don't have beds. The one I was with took me to a little cave. There was a place in it where the floor was soft with moss. I couldn't even put it in she's so small."
"So you didn't get laid?"
"...I sorta did. She rubbed on me until I came and I returned the favor."
Atee and Hok split the weight of Ixnomay's provisions and follow the path Hok took to get down. Ixnomay comes out of a cloud of faeries to meet them. He thanks them for coming. He accepts his stuff and introduces his fiance. She flits away after bowing to Atee and Hok.
"How do you even keep track of her? For all I could tell she's the one I fucked last night."-Hok
"She's one of the few with black hair. She has pastel green eyes. She's shyer than most. She has the cutest laugh..."
Atee sees one with black hair...a second with black hair that is lost behind several others...a glint of green in a momentary gap between flesh...he tries to keep track of just one faerie up front but it soon is positioned behind several other's. It's like they all want a look at Hok and Atee but also want to stay close to each other.
The friends bid each other well and take what (through Ixnomay's half-conversation with his wife-to-be) is the route to Tespagh Ytillin.
They're halfway through some misty marshlands, the noon sun making them sweat heavily, when whooping people come running towards them. They're beaten and their packs stolen.
"After them!"-Hok.
The boys give chase and come up to dryland just as it starts to rain. The trees are so thick above the dryland there're only a few pools made from steady dripping.
Atee drops his speed to a walk thinking caution's best. Hok charges into firelight around a spot of trees and bellows how whoever has his stuff better come forward before he finds 'im and beats 'is ass!
Hok is surprised to find everyone around the circle's a topless woman with atleast single D tits. He recognizes some of his belongings in their hands, being traded and shown off to one another. One with most of his tent and possessions beats her chest and yells at him. He raises his fists. She charges. You can't really follow what's happening as blurred limbs flash out, they bang into rocks, scatter sticks, roll on the ground, and keep hitting each other. Eventually Hok stands up and gathers his stuff. His opponent seems knocked out. Hok is asking for his other things, scratched, clothes torn, bleeding a few spots, hoping to regain his possessions by intimidation, not wanting to fight again while some of the women resuscitate his opponent. She gets up. Hok turns around at the sound, preparing himself for another tangle. She grabs his crotch and his mind flashes fear until she kisses him. Hok sets down his things to squeeze on her ass and tits while she makes him hard. When she feels he's ready she runs away. Hok chases her. Around some bends is a little tent of limbs and leaves with a cover of bound-together twigs. He has his schlong hanging out when she grunts and points back at the tent opening. He covers the tent.
Atee goes around finding the women who have his things and trying to get them back. The bravest eventually worked up the nerve to steal what Hok set down and after a scramble to grab the remaining bits, like kids for a pinata, the new possessors are back to bartering. The women Atee gets the attention of puff out their chest (which's effective but not in the way they intend). They raise their fist and get ready to strike but he pushes them away and holds up his hands defensively. He tries to explain he doesn't hit girls. They get the jist he won't fight them, some after landing a few blows, then they yell at him. Apparently to get out of their sight or something as they chase after him and kick him in the ass until he's far enough away. Atee's getting more and more pissed off. He has been cast out from a bunch of these women's meeting places. He's looking for one that's reasonable. Weary, he walks into one of their tents. This woman, smaller than most and without a little hoard piled up, recoils from him. He tries to scare her more and yells to know where his things are. She can't understand him beyond the necessity of fear. He sits down. Eyes adjusted to the light he sees she's much more bruised than most of the women. He reaches out to her and strokes her shoulder where one of the larger marks are. He meant it as a soothing gesture -or thought he did- but finds he's overwhelmingly horny. Maybe from negotiating with barbarians who go around shirtless all day. Atee presses against her and kisses her neck. Her bush is so thick it reminds him of the long grass of the marsh w/its' moisture hidden beneath.
In the morning Atee looks over and can't believe he had sex with this thing. She's more ripped than he or Hok. She's dirty like, "what's a bath?". The expression on her face is stupid while she sleeps. Her brow's big. The bruises, cuts, and scabs turn him off further. Atee gets up and leaves.
Hok's fiance and him make a great team. They've collected all of he and Atee's stuff . It was a sweaty morning workout to fight so much. Hok's bleeding but he's exhilarated. The last few holders gave up their possessions without a fight. Some included other things in what they gave. The missus demanded extra things from some. One woman had buried one of Hok's sandwiches. He was going to let her keep it (he's not eating the thing after it was leaf-wrapped and put in the Earth) but the lady insisted he take it. Hok asked to find his friend and his fiance got it. She asked around and led him towards the room he'd been in,making sounds that sounded like disparaging remarks about Hok's chosen company.
"Meet Ms.Ribbins."
"Already? You move faster than Ixnomay. Aren't you going to be betrothed for awhile first?"
"I don't think they actually have a marriage ceremony..."
"Alright. I'm going to continue going the way the faeries said Tespagh Ytillin was in. Fuck, I don't really wanna go alone. Why don't you come with me. We know where this place is we could always double-back."
"We agreed setting out that along the way we'd leave whoever wanted to settle-down, even if it was in Tespagh Ytillin."
"I don't think I'd walk all the way to Morast now for a wife. I'll probably look for work in Tespagh Ytillin. There're so many women there I can probably spend years checking out options. I guess I'll pick the fruit we saw on the trees we passed coming here..."
"Why?"
"I need something to eat. I didn't get any of my shit back man."
"Don't worry about it. I'm going to live here. I can scrounge up some more stuff. Here."
Hok hands over the collected provisions of himself and Atee that were in salvageable condition.
"What about your wedding present? Atleast keep your own stuff."
The missus is pissed off Hok's giving their morning's earnings away. He whacks her once to silence her protest. She doesn't understand having enough to give that much away.
"How about this: you take these now and when you've a job in Tespagh Ytillin buy some nice clothes for my wife and come back here."
"I'll do that. Thanks alot."
"Anytime Atee. Anytime."
Twice the provisions seemed a great idea but it more than halved Atee's progress. On a frosted field of grass he can see pillars of smoke rising. It's a slight detour.
There're usually folks on the street but usually less than 10. People are closing what shutters they have open. A man goes into an unlit house, the lights turn on, smoke starts coming out of the chimney. Atee sees an industrial building 5 and a half houses long. He goes inside. Warm air drafts from the open door. He's admiring the scenery when a gal goes to punch out next to him. He sees she's covered in soot. Her hands are black with oil. Flecks of metal sparkle in her palms. There're stains on and holes in her clothes. Atee can tell from a sideview, where her stomach's visible, she's curvy. Even under overalls he can tell she has a good bust. He looks at her, she looks at him, and she's awesomely pretty. She walks outside. Atee chases her outside and talks to her. She turns around and responds in a different language. Every marriage has its' difficulties....
In Vitro Spam
Written 7/11/08
Your Mum's Favorite Author
We's sittin' in Cafeteria we is when the whole roof is torn off. This giant robot all glowy and shining starts grabbing kids w/metal arms through the hole in the roof. I was ready to fight it I was but some bum administrator tells me to get out of there and those guys is bigger than me so I can't fight 'em back. He don't know who I is though right? So I run off toward the robot to get a better look. Then it grabbed me and was gonna eat me 'cept some blurry gay guy what wears his underwear on the outside broke it good. When he landed he looked like a fag but I didn't say nothin' cuz he was strong as hell -he smashed the damn robot and I didn't know if he'd fight me for it. Some teachers I call fags and they don't do nothing about it. They just send you to the office. Sometimes they call your mum or have you put on a dunce cap in the corner for detention. I hate that. I may be stupid but I'm not a dunce. Dunces don't learn nothin'. Just the other day I learned I can only get my lunch money from Carl once a day. I socked him and thought he was lying when he said he couldn't give me any more. I checked his pockets I did and he really was cleaned out. So I was right pissed to miss my lunch 'cause of some bastard robot but I didn't sock Carl 'cause I knew he had no money. I can control myself. Teachers are always saying I have no self control. That I'm in a bad mood. It pisses me off. I might be less pissed off if Jonah wasn't always saying I sucked at breakdancing the fag. Mohammed showed up after lunch. Me and Jacob razzed him 'cause he had missed the robot and the flying guy. That's something you only see once in your life it is. He was so nervous when we was talkin' to him we quit joking. It's not even funny if someone's gonna take it all serious. He is so squirmy round me but I ain't never hit him or nothin'. I ain't hit Jacob either. Jacob's alright but sometimes he's annoying w/his phrases. He says things out of nowhere, doin' with nothin', and looks at you like you're handing out medals for clever phrases. That Jilly girl must go for them. She hangs round us a lot and I think she's sweet on one of us. I tell her one day "nice tits" and she turns all red and walks off. It was funny. She's screwy. You can't pay her a compliment. I picked up this rad piece of the robot and was showing it to Jacob in Ms.Anthersod's class when she took it from me and had me go in the corner. I wans't bein' a dunce. She was bein' a fag.
PS I'm your mum's favorite b/c out of the hundreds of guys what go to see her in a year I pound her cooch the hardest.
Yesterday me and Tussler were sitting in the cafeteria. I said, "inject some injuns" and he laughed. We were talking about a wrestling match between me and this Howard kid. I beat him so bad, in front of the teachers too. Jilly came over to our table. I was half-listening when a loud thump came from behind and above me. The roof was ripped off w/a jagged edge where it used to be connected to the rest of the school. A piece of rock fell from the ceiling and hit me into Jilly. She slapped me and ran off. I guess because I hit into her breasts by accident. She's the only girl in our class who has them yet so she's real sensitive about it. I was watching the robot: it had a body you could see through. Inside were glowing parts that looked like one of those lava lamps. I might have got a better look at it but Mr.Tucker, the PE teacher told me off. I heard him telling Tussler to leave too. Tussler always skips PE. I don't think he even knows who Mr.Tucker is.
In the hallway I was the only kid around. There were other kids around but they all ran by and didn't stay. The one kid who hung by was Mohammed. Not because he is brave or anything but because running from the cafeteria must have winded him. He was breathing w/an inhaler. I feel bad for him since he can't play with the rest of us guys at football or anything. I tell Tussler to lay off of him a lot of the time but there's no telling Tussler anything. In the hall passed by this guy in spandex. He stopped, turned to me, and says, "It's hard being able to read thoughts sometimes". I didn't know what he meant but he said to himself, "even those I rescue think poorly of me".
Tussler showed up then. He had a scrap piece of metal from the robot. It was solid now instead of glowing. He let me play w/it which was pretty cool. I armed wrestled him for it and won but he got upset so I let him keep it. Some guys don't really care if they lose a game. But it was already his so he wouldn't win anything by winning. Tussler told Mohammed to buzz off but he stayed, wheezing there in the hall. I told Tussler to lay off him and he did since Mohammed was catching his breath and all. I saw Jilly get in her Mom's car from the hall. The doors all have glass panes so you can see outside. I don't know why she was leaving school. Maybe the robot ate a friend of hers and she couldn't handle it.
10/10/2013 This morning Mom left me dress myself again. She says I was right, I am ready to do it. I think it's going pretty sucessfully. I put on a white button-up, a sleeveless vest, and jeans. I waited for the bus w/Samantha hall. She's the only other student at our stop. She's awfully cute. Her smell is soft and nice. The bus came up, reeking of smoke, and I went on. Gum was stuck on the handrail and felt terrible. On the way to school Anthony was sitting in front of me and had his window up. I got sneezing fits because I'm allergic to this season's tree pollen. You know: acorns, nuts and cones. I asked him to put his window up but he wouldn't. He's a jerk.
At school we had PE. Mr. Tucker keeps telling me I dribble like a girl. He's a jerk. I dribble fine it's just that the balls are lumpy. Their air is unevenly distributed. Jacob threw a ball and it hit my face, rough and bumpy, but I don't think he ment it. He said he was sorry. Jacob's alright. The squeaks of sneakers on the floor were driving me nuts so I threw my ball out the door to get outside for a while. We're not supposed to chase after balls if they leave the PE room but lots of students do it and Mr.Tucker lets them. I went outside and the basketball went a bit further than I intended. I chased it and it got stuck under a car that smelled like pine.
My arms were burning from trying to dislodge the basketball when Ms. Swiss, Tussler's Mom, walked over. Her perfume was faint enough that you could miss it but intriguing. She looked kind of sad until she asked if I needed some help. I thanked her and she unlocked the car door, opened it, the ball rolled away. I was going to get it when she said to hold on. I was in Tussler's class wasn't I? Apparently she'd been called in again about him playing hooky. I was looking down and accidentally saw under her skirt. She wasn't wearing women's underwear. I'd never seen a woman's...you know, before. I looked up as fast as I could but was too embarrassed to look her in the eye. My mouth was watering. That wasn't my body's only reaction. Ms.Swiss must have noticed my blushing and guessed what I'd seen. The bell rang. I'd missed the end of PE! She asked me if I wanted to see more. I couldn't answer her. I couldn't just run away. I went to get the basketball and she lifted my chin up. She had pushed back her skirt and was holding herself open w/her other hand. I got erect. I couldn't help it. I got loose and got the basketball, holding it in front of my crotch. Ms.Swiss leaned over me from behind and took the basketball, saying she'd help me put it back after she'd helped me w/something else. She unzipped my pants. I looked around; I was panicking. I told her I was late for class. She said it wouldn't hurt then to be a little later. Her hand was so warm. It was cold outside. I kept getting a little limp but she'd get me hard again until I sputtered. Nothing came out like in the sex ed. videos. Ms.Swiss asked if I was done. I nodded. She zipped up my pants and asked if I was alright. I nodded. She drove off and I ran back inside through the main entrance. I ran right into Tussler! Oh my God did he see anything? I thought for sure he'd know something but he didn't do anything.
-Mohammed Mohammed Omama
Today I stood up to Tussler. He told me to scram but I didn't. I was so nervous I was wheezing.
Dear Diary,
Jacob and I started going out yesterday b/c I asked Jenny to pass him a note if he liked me: a little, a lot, or not. He checked off a little. In the cafeteria Jenny was w/Hel, Valesa, Nezzy, and Vedanu, wearing an orange knitted cap, powder-purple knitted scarf, yellow jacket, purple boots, and gray pants. Could she have more color? Hel was wearing all black, as usual. I couldn't even make out what clothes they were. She's so goth. Sara says she's an emo. Valesa was wearing a light coat w/fluffy trim, it looked so pretty on her. It really goes w/her hair. Nezzy had on a kimonon or whatever. It was red w/yellow trim. Vedanu had her hood up, which teachers are always bugging her to put down, and a red dot on her forehead. Some days it was there some days it was off. At the boys table Jacob was being all cute. Tussler was being stupid as usual. He thinks he's so great. He's not even British like he talks. My Mom says his Mom's a whore and to avoid him. Like I'd want to hang out w/him anyway. I've got Jacob. But today, when I walked over to talk to him, he GROPED me out of NOWHERE! I wasn't even thinking as I ran to the office, crying. Nezzy was there and comforting me. She was crying too, saying something about Hel, Valesa, and Vedanu getting eaten. I couldn't take it anymore. How can you face a boy after he does that? Up close I could see Nezzy has really good skin. I called my mom and told her I was sick and needed picked up. She wanted me to walk b/c our house is so close but I wouldn't. She knew I wasn't sick but came to pick me up anyway. That's what loving mothers do. I passed Jacob in the hall and he wouldn't even look at me. Tomorrow I'm telling him it's over.
Your Mum's Favorite Author
We's sittin' in Cafeteria we is when the whole roof is torn off. This giant robot all glowy and shining starts grabbing kids w/metal arms through the hole in the roof. I was ready to fight it I was but some bum administrator tells me to get out of there and those guys is bigger than me so I can't fight 'em back. He don't know who I is though right? So I run off toward the robot to get a better look. Then it grabbed me and was gonna eat me 'cept some blurry gay guy what wears his underwear on the outside broke it good. When he landed he looked like a fag but I didn't say nothin' cuz he was strong as hell -he smashed the damn robot and I didn't know if he'd fight me for it. Some teachers I call fags and they don't do nothing about it. They just send you to the office. Sometimes they call your mum or have you put on a dunce cap in the corner for detention. I hate that. I may be stupid but I'm not a dunce. Dunces don't learn nothin'. Just the other day I learned I can only get my lunch money from Carl once a day. I socked him and thought he was lying when he said he couldn't give me any more. I checked his pockets I did and he really was cleaned out. So I was right pissed to miss my lunch 'cause of some bastard robot but I didn't sock Carl 'cause I knew he had no money. I can control myself. Teachers are always saying I have no self control. That I'm in a bad mood. It pisses me off. I might be less pissed off if Jonah wasn't always saying I sucked at breakdancing the fag. Mohammed showed up after lunch. Me and Jacob razzed him 'cause he had missed the robot and the flying guy. That's something you only see once in your life it is. He was so nervous when we was talkin' to him we quit joking. It's not even funny if someone's gonna take it all serious. He is so squirmy round me but I ain't never hit him or nothin'. I ain't hit Jacob either. Jacob's alright but sometimes he's annoying w/his phrases. He says things out of nowhere, doin' with nothin', and looks at you like you're handing out medals for clever phrases. That Jilly girl must go for them. She hangs round us a lot and I think she's sweet on one of us. I tell her one day "nice tits" and she turns all red and walks off. It was funny. She's screwy. You can't pay her a compliment. I picked up this rad piece of the robot and was showing it to Jacob in Ms.Anthersod's class when she took it from me and had me go in the corner. I wans't bein' a dunce. She was bein' a fag.
PS I'm your mum's favorite b/c out of the hundreds of guys what go to see her in a year I pound her cooch the hardest.
Yesterday me and Tussler were sitting in the cafeteria. I said, "inject some injuns" and he laughed. We were talking about a wrestling match between me and this Howard kid. I beat him so bad, in front of the teachers too. Jilly came over to our table. I was half-listening when a loud thump came from behind and above me. The roof was ripped off w/a jagged edge where it used to be connected to the rest of the school. A piece of rock fell from the ceiling and hit me into Jilly. She slapped me and ran off. I guess because I hit into her breasts by accident. She's the only girl in our class who has them yet so she's real sensitive about it. I was watching the robot: it had a body you could see through. Inside were glowing parts that looked like one of those lava lamps. I might have got a better look at it but Mr.Tucker, the PE teacher told me off. I heard him telling Tussler to leave too. Tussler always skips PE. I don't think he even knows who Mr.Tucker is.
In the hallway I was the only kid around. There were other kids around but they all ran by and didn't stay. The one kid who hung by was Mohammed. Not because he is brave or anything but because running from the cafeteria must have winded him. He was breathing w/an inhaler. I feel bad for him since he can't play with the rest of us guys at football or anything. I tell Tussler to lay off of him a lot of the time but there's no telling Tussler anything. In the hall passed by this guy in spandex. He stopped, turned to me, and says, "It's hard being able to read thoughts sometimes". I didn't know what he meant but he said to himself, "even those I rescue think poorly of me".
Tussler showed up then. He had a scrap piece of metal from the robot. It was solid now instead of glowing. He let me play w/it which was pretty cool. I armed wrestled him for it and won but he got upset so I let him keep it. Some guys don't really care if they lose a game. But it was already his so he wouldn't win anything by winning. Tussler told Mohammed to buzz off but he stayed, wheezing there in the hall. I told Tussler to lay off him and he did since Mohammed was catching his breath and all. I saw Jilly get in her Mom's car from the hall. The doors all have glass panes so you can see outside. I don't know why she was leaving school. Maybe the robot ate a friend of hers and she couldn't handle it.
10/10/2013 This morning Mom left me dress myself again. She says I was right, I am ready to do it. I think it's going pretty sucessfully. I put on a white button-up, a sleeveless vest, and jeans. I waited for the bus w/Samantha hall. She's the only other student at our stop. She's awfully cute. Her smell is soft and nice. The bus came up, reeking of smoke, and I went on. Gum was stuck on the handrail and felt terrible. On the way to school Anthony was sitting in front of me and had his window up. I got sneezing fits because I'm allergic to this season's tree pollen. You know: acorns, nuts and cones. I asked him to put his window up but he wouldn't. He's a jerk.
At school we had PE. Mr. Tucker keeps telling me I dribble like a girl. He's a jerk. I dribble fine it's just that the balls are lumpy. Their air is unevenly distributed. Jacob threw a ball and it hit my face, rough and bumpy, but I don't think he ment it. He said he was sorry. Jacob's alright. The squeaks of sneakers on the floor were driving me nuts so I threw my ball out the door to get outside for a while. We're not supposed to chase after balls if they leave the PE room but lots of students do it and Mr.Tucker lets them. I went outside and the basketball went a bit further than I intended. I chased it and it got stuck under a car that smelled like pine.
My arms were burning from trying to dislodge the basketball when Ms. Swiss, Tussler's Mom, walked over. Her perfume was faint enough that you could miss it but intriguing. She looked kind of sad until she asked if I needed some help. I thanked her and she unlocked the car door, opened it, the ball rolled away. I was going to get it when she said to hold on. I was in Tussler's class wasn't I? Apparently she'd been called in again about him playing hooky. I was looking down and accidentally saw under her skirt. She wasn't wearing women's underwear. I'd never seen a woman's...you know, before. I looked up as fast as I could but was too embarrassed to look her in the eye. My mouth was watering. That wasn't my body's only reaction. Ms.Swiss must have noticed my blushing and guessed what I'd seen. The bell rang. I'd missed the end of PE! She asked me if I wanted to see more. I couldn't answer her. I couldn't just run away. I went to get the basketball and she lifted my chin up. She had pushed back her skirt and was holding herself open w/her other hand. I got erect. I couldn't help it. I got loose and got the basketball, holding it in front of my crotch. Ms.Swiss leaned over me from behind and took the basketball, saying she'd help me put it back after she'd helped me w/something else. She unzipped my pants. I looked around; I was panicking. I told her I was late for class. She said it wouldn't hurt then to be a little later. Her hand was so warm. It was cold outside. I kept getting a little limp but she'd get me hard again until I sputtered. Nothing came out like in the sex ed. videos. Ms.Swiss asked if I was done. I nodded. She zipped up my pants and asked if I was alright. I nodded. She drove off and I ran back inside through the main entrance. I ran right into Tussler! Oh my God did he see anything? I thought for sure he'd know something but he didn't do anything.
-Mohammed Mohammed Omama
Today I stood up to Tussler. He told me to scram but I didn't. I was so nervous I was wheezing.
Dear Diary,
Jacob and I started going out yesterday b/c I asked Jenny to pass him a note if he liked me: a little, a lot, or not. He checked off a little. In the cafeteria Jenny was w/Hel, Valesa, Nezzy, and Vedanu, wearing an orange knitted cap, powder-purple knitted scarf, yellow jacket, purple boots, and gray pants. Could she have more color? Hel was wearing all black, as usual. I couldn't even make out what clothes they were. She's so goth. Sara says she's an emo. Valesa was wearing a light coat w/fluffy trim, it looked so pretty on her. It really goes w/her hair. Nezzy had on a kimonon or whatever. It was red w/yellow trim. Vedanu had her hood up, which teachers are always bugging her to put down, and a red dot on her forehead. Some days it was there some days it was off. At the boys table Jacob was being all cute. Tussler was being stupid as usual. He thinks he's so great. He's not even British like he talks. My Mom says his Mom's a whore and to avoid him. Like I'd want to hang out w/him anyway. I've got Jacob. But today, when I walked over to talk to him, he GROPED me out of NOWHERE! I wasn't even thinking as I ran to the office, crying. Nezzy was there and comforting me. She was crying too, saying something about Hel, Valesa, and Vedanu getting eaten. I couldn't take it anymore. How can you face a boy after he does that? Up close I could see Nezzy has really good skin. I called my mom and told her I was sick and needed picked up. She wanted me to walk b/c our house is so close but I wouldn't. She knew I wasn't sick but came to pick me up anyway. That's what loving mothers do. I passed Jacob in the hall and he wouldn't even look at me. Tomorrow I'm telling him it's over.
Swing Sticks or Cooled Stones
Dad and Mom were a united front against going to the baseball field. Hot tears painting his face a graceless washed-out-white wet hadn't yet broken their wall-like stoicism. Unflinching, they held their arms crossed and faces relaxed. When he left the living room (stomping off) to his toysome bedroom the parents looked at each other, Mr. and Mrs. Delore, and wondered if they were being too hard on Tubs. Jorld Anacko was letting his boy go...they were awfully close. But Tubs hadn't cleaned his room.
The Red Stick Warriors were divided factions for warring in Gnocks Hill. Duck poo covered their cheeks with sleek symbolic image-designs solidified and dried over death-cold skin. Fleeing, the living dropped arms. Once out of view (rabbit fast) the loathsome angels of native woods held no compunctions, traditional or tribal, against ambushes...they rejoined and waited. Fired Stone tensed behind a tree.
The stadium filled with descendants of German, Irish, Italian, Greek, British, Dutch, Belgium and men of places not worth naming was called "Red Stick Glorydome".
The toys were put away in Tubs room.
He picked up his weapon, a baseball bat, in the baseball field watched over by the stadium and stood between blades of grass whose ancestors drank Fired Stone's blood, reaching into a mitt.
The Red Stick Warriors were divided factions for warring in Gnocks Hill. Duck poo covered their cheeks with sleek symbolic image-designs solidified and dried over death-cold skin. Fleeing, the living dropped arms. Once out of view (rabbit fast) the loathsome angels of native woods held no compunctions, traditional or tribal, against ambushes...they rejoined and waited. Fired Stone tensed behind a tree.
The stadium filled with descendants of German, Irish, Italian, Greek, British, Dutch, Belgium and men of places not worth naming was called "Red Stick Glorydome".
The toys were put away in Tubs room.
He picked up his weapon, a baseball bat, in the baseball field watched over by the stadium and stood between blades of grass whose ancestors drank Fired Stone's blood, reaching into a mitt.
Kiddy Horror
On 4/7/2008 I'd the idea of taking a writing-style like Clark Ashton's, in which monsters are made more dreadful by pseudo-biblical phrasing and the interjection of words like "dread", and applying it to a less sinister, familiar instead of weird, story. The hated doctor's office of childhood.
Medicine makes man's body an object
-a tool to clean 'til (polished) it sparkles.
Examiners mangle privacy with fingers that wander on bodies, pinching flesh to observe without sentiment, like an executioner or mortician.
Objections are opinions to be swerved
for mortals come by their volition
to rooms so sterile skin rankles
in their atmosphere of white-clod sects.
Whether conscious, sick, dead, healthy, or unconscious the bodies are regarded the same.
Hypocrites cleanly kill the unborn with well-worn implements, clinical in their appraisal of murder-gained wealth, bills blood-splotched and splatter-stained, Hippocratic Oaths
profaned. -Hail Hospitals
A little girl, Ashley, lay on her stomach in her living room, somewhat of a tomboy, she played with cars. Drags races were the day's fantasy and the red car kept winning. Her mother's shadow fell over her before a word was uttered, portentous.
"Honey, get ready we're going somewhere".
"Where mommy?"
"It's a surprise."
Ashley missed the malice in her smile, the meaning hidden, her lips spread like a she-wolf's snarl, baring gory fangs.
"Alright."
Oblivious, Ashley ran off to prepare herself for departure. She tamed shoelaces while her mother fetched her purse. Together, hand-in-hand, they walked to the car. Its' engine rumbled, a primal animal hiding behind the curb, patiently awaiting prey -tender and young- to devour. Vestiges of forewarning lingered out-of-view of Ashley's mental perception; she hopped in the car. Its door slammed. The metallic clash was final, like the sealing of a vault where embalmed bodies would be stored, withering with inhuman slowness. Her mother strapped her to the seat she was in, tightening black bands across her chest and stomach, so she struggled to move. Their house receded in the distance, feelings of comfort and trust diminishing with its faces of brick and mortar.
How long she was strapped in the car she could not say. Hours? Days? Time lost its meaning as they traveled past blurred landscapes, beneath an immobile sun. The number of questions, each a version of "where are we going and when will we get there" Ashley asked were beyond count. Her captor revealed none of what lay in store. Ashley looked through the window at a dimension that knew movement but no constant form: shapes shifted from one to another in a blend of color she couldn't cleave between the details of. A deep sense of unease, nauseous, sunk into Ashley. She felt the wrongness of the place she beheld. She had seen what should not be seen. Only the abyssal darkness of closed eyes were a comfort. With her head diverted from that dread portal she discovered gum stuck to the floor -so close to her bare ankles. Disgusting! Icky! Eons beyond her ilk had seen that filth harden from its first gummy incarnation. Lint had built about the pink brainlike mass, a festering mold which transmitted through eyes the sensation of dirtiness to skin. Ashley could bare the silence no more. It gnawed at her, clasping at her breaths, grabbing the sounds she made from the air so they couldn't escape or return as echos. The radio crackled and cackled in gibbering tongues incomprehensible to man. A cacophony strange and terrible came from its ancient, broken frame. No longer could Ashley stand the sound, like the half-molded words of a larynx scarred by abuse. She pressed the ebony device again and took relief in the suffocating, faceless silence.
They pulled up to a cyclopean building, reared above the level any family could need, a structure capable of devouring Ashley's own home, its geometry was alien, at the pinnacle it flattened in blasphemy against all triangular roofs. Ashley shuddered. What madness gripped her she could not say but she was silent as a dog with led from bark removing surgery as her mother hand-led her to the doors. Those doors, some foul sorcery bewitched them so they parted, twin panels, at their approach, as if invisible hands held the door for them in anticipation. Hingeless, they exhaled as they slid -a mockery of human doors. Ashley was chilled by a gust of cold air against her neck. From pseudo-gill gashes above the door streamed winds from lands too cold for life. Ashley cowered against her mother's arm, partialy hid behind her hips and legs, from spectres, empty of human joy, droll and drained in expression, their garb an eye-searing white. When her mommy told her to continue, pulling her along, Ashley noticed how harsh her dress felt beneath her tense fingers. A single door of solid metal, hingeless like those at this place's mouth, opened in front of the wall Ashley and her mommy had reached, as if an invisible will, watching with calculated malevolence, opened a path before them. Inside, an old priest spoke of his dark lord Flure from an eldritch chair and Ashley's mother completed his cultish invocation. A red ring, as of fire, appeared in the wall and with a chime carried from the Halls of the Dead, their small room closed. Ashley felt her stomach's nervousness, a weight pressing down, and feared her doom.
The room smelled tainted. Human scents had been burned from it, scoured away by some agent nature had never known. Many children were called for and led (whether weeping, fighting, or screaming) through the doorways tot he unknown, past the aged and many-wrinkled guardian, never to return. Ashley was broken from fearful thoughts by the sound of her name. She fled but a large hand halted her escape. Why her mother had betrayed her Ashley could never say. She was lost among the white rooms, each identical and indistinguishable from the last, they stretched out innumerably, even had Ashley run for the hallway she would not know in what direction lay escape or if there even was an exit from the hall, it could extend forever in an eternal cycle.
"Doctor" performed unspeakable tests upon Ashley. All along her mother had served this insane priest and now they prepared her as a sacrifice to some god of the nether, forgotten by mankind save in the most emotive nightmares, yet remembered by older things which worshiped these demonic lords in days of old and await in slumber for darker times return. Tearful Ashley ignored the proffered poison-food. A final meal, sweet and indulgent beyond all others, brightly colored, was offered repeatedly. Finally her mother took it for her. Doctor closed the shadowy drawers he had received that jezebel sucker from. Her soul shattered, Ashley tasted the food. She could not taste through its glamor, she was convinced dum-dum was deliciously sweey. Enraptured, Ashley licked at the crystalline sugar like a girl hypnotized, time lost to her as she savored its intoxicating essence.
"Ow. I cut my tongue."
"Sometimes you catch a hard candy edge. Be careful."
"Thanks doctor."
The mother and daughter left. Doctor Stechi opened the lollipop drawer and made sure he still had enough razors.
Medicine makes man's body an object
-a tool to clean 'til (polished) it sparkles.
Examiners mangle privacy with fingers that wander on bodies, pinching flesh to observe without sentiment, like an executioner or mortician.
Objections are opinions to be swerved
for mortals come by their volition
to rooms so sterile skin rankles
in their atmosphere of white-clod sects.
Whether conscious, sick, dead, healthy, or unconscious the bodies are regarded the same.
Hypocrites cleanly kill the unborn with well-worn implements, clinical in their appraisal of murder-gained wealth, bills blood-splotched and splatter-stained, Hippocratic Oaths
profaned. -Hail Hospitals
A little girl, Ashley, lay on her stomach in her living room, somewhat of a tomboy, she played with cars. Drags races were the day's fantasy and the red car kept winning. Her mother's shadow fell over her before a word was uttered, portentous.
"Honey, get ready we're going somewhere".
"Where mommy?"
"It's a surprise."
Ashley missed the malice in her smile, the meaning hidden, her lips spread like a she-wolf's snarl, baring gory fangs.
"Alright."
Oblivious, Ashley ran off to prepare herself for departure. She tamed shoelaces while her mother fetched her purse. Together, hand-in-hand, they walked to the car. Its' engine rumbled, a primal animal hiding behind the curb, patiently awaiting prey -tender and young- to devour. Vestiges of forewarning lingered out-of-view of Ashley's mental perception; she hopped in the car. Its door slammed. The metallic clash was final, like the sealing of a vault where embalmed bodies would be stored, withering with inhuman slowness. Her mother strapped her to the seat she was in, tightening black bands across her chest and stomach, so she struggled to move. Their house receded in the distance, feelings of comfort and trust diminishing with its faces of brick and mortar.
How long she was strapped in the car she could not say. Hours? Days? Time lost its meaning as they traveled past blurred landscapes, beneath an immobile sun. The number of questions, each a version of "where are we going and when will we get there" Ashley asked were beyond count. Her captor revealed none of what lay in store. Ashley looked through the window at a dimension that knew movement but no constant form: shapes shifted from one to another in a blend of color she couldn't cleave between the details of. A deep sense of unease, nauseous, sunk into Ashley. She felt the wrongness of the place she beheld. She had seen what should not be seen. Only the abyssal darkness of closed eyes were a comfort. With her head diverted from that dread portal she discovered gum stuck to the floor -so close to her bare ankles. Disgusting! Icky! Eons beyond her ilk had seen that filth harden from its first gummy incarnation. Lint had built about the pink brainlike mass, a festering mold which transmitted through eyes the sensation of dirtiness to skin. Ashley could bare the silence no more. It gnawed at her, clasping at her breaths, grabbing the sounds she made from the air so they couldn't escape or return as echos. The radio crackled and cackled in gibbering tongues incomprehensible to man. A cacophony strange and terrible came from its ancient, broken frame. No longer could Ashley stand the sound, like the half-molded words of a larynx scarred by abuse. She pressed the ebony device again and took relief in the suffocating, faceless silence.
They pulled up to a cyclopean building, reared above the level any family could need, a structure capable of devouring Ashley's own home, its geometry was alien, at the pinnacle it flattened in blasphemy against all triangular roofs. Ashley shuddered. What madness gripped her she could not say but she was silent as a dog with led from bark removing surgery as her mother hand-led her to the doors. Those doors, some foul sorcery bewitched them so they parted, twin panels, at their approach, as if invisible hands held the door for them in anticipation. Hingeless, they exhaled as they slid -a mockery of human doors. Ashley was chilled by a gust of cold air against her neck. From pseudo-gill gashes above the door streamed winds from lands too cold for life. Ashley cowered against her mother's arm, partialy hid behind her hips and legs, from spectres, empty of human joy, droll and drained in expression, their garb an eye-searing white. When her mommy told her to continue, pulling her along, Ashley noticed how harsh her dress felt beneath her tense fingers. A single door of solid metal, hingeless like those at this place's mouth, opened in front of the wall Ashley and her mommy had reached, as if an invisible will, watching with calculated malevolence, opened a path before them. Inside, an old priest spoke of his dark lord Flure from an eldritch chair and Ashley's mother completed his cultish invocation. A red ring, as of fire, appeared in the wall and with a chime carried from the Halls of the Dead, their small room closed. Ashley felt her stomach's nervousness, a weight pressing down, and feared her doom.
The room smelled tainted. Human scents had been burned from it, scoured away by some agent nature had never known. Many children were called for and led (whether weeping, fighting, or screaming) through the doorways tot he unknown, past the aged and many-wrinkled guardian, never to return. Ashley was broken from fearful thoughts by the sound of her name. She fled but a large hand halted her escape. Why her mother had betrayed her Ashley could never say. She was lost among the white rooms, each identical and indistinguishable from the last, they stretched out innumerably, even had Ashley run for the hallway she would not know in what direction lay escape or if there even was an exit from the hall, it could extend forever in an eternal cycle.
"Doctor" performed unspeakable tests upon Ashley. All along her mother had served this insane priest and now they prepared her as a sacrifice to some god of the nether, forgotten by mankind save in the most emotive nightmares, yet remembered by older things which worshiped these demonic lords in days of old and await in slumber for darker times return. Tearful Ashley ignored the proffered poison-food. A final meal, sweet and indulgent beyond all others, brightly colored, was offered repeatedly. Finally her mother took it for her. Doctor closed the shadowy drawers he had received that jezebel sucker from. Her soul shattered, Ashley tasted the food. She could not taste through its glamor, she was convinced dum-dum was deliciously sweey. Enraptured, Ashley licked at the crystalline sugar like a girl hypnotized, time lost to her as she savored its intoxicating essence.
"Ow. I cut my tongue."
"Sometimes you catch a hard candy edge. Be careful."
"Thanks doctor."
The mother and daughter left. Doctor Stechi opened the lollipop drawer and made sure he still had enough razors.
We thought it Over
Written 3/17/2008 0:25
Orange skies laced with streams of fire race against ashy cloud cover above my humbled, lowered head on a dawn rumbling. Thin white-blue veins of lightning inaudibly weave into the nebulous thunderhead layers. Borders of collected water brush against each other –clash, and intermarry, copenetrating, mingled, and where one’s hazy figure ends and another’s center lies is indistinguishable. Thicker, violet arteries of lightning roar to partition the sky. Suddenly a downpour obscures the tip of my nose. Something stinks. My boots must strain against the puddles to lift. These rainpools hold onto them like desperate unwanted lovers. The squelch, the viscosity, doesn’t belong to water. At the abrupt end of pitter-patter I see a world anointed in blood. Wind screams at me, a furious god. I fall with a gust that rips tree-roots from the ground, flips cars, and makes the air a leaf field. Now I taste the stench. A lump is on my right breast. It leaves with the sight of a blur leaping past. Ribbit. Regained feet let me see the mists have cleared out. Miles are visible. When I squint, the familiar lines of human architecture are recognizable in the distant pyre. A wind I can’t hear tears at this bon-fire, fed by a city, arcing tongues to the left.
The voice was one I’d attribute to a voice actor and/or digital effects. Upper register, continually humming with a sound like “eh”, the chords slightly ground together but not enough to be painful. “Sure is coming down today”. His face had been washed of color. The facial feature didn’t reveal prior race. Were a man has irises and pupils he had silvery orbs. After staring at them for a bit, if he didn’t move, variances in darkness within them resolved into a threadlike appearance. Cracks came from the noseward corners of his eyes as if he were a drunk. He held his mouth open but I didn’t hear him breathe through it or notice his chest move but movement’s hard to make out through so many layers of rags. Maybe he’s a diaphragm breather. On the metal parts of some machine I didn’t recognize he sat, ass to heels and hands to knees. Smiled at me like he was friendly.
Above the sky had been beaten into a cream of pale yellows, spreading out just above us, with some storms still out on the horizon and others audible. I didn’t know what to say. Maybe shock. I’d just been knocked on my ass. If he had been around…he didn’t look like he’d fallen recently.
“What do you think it’s all about?” he smiled at me again. A different sort, “hmmm”. I wasn’t his confidant. Wasn’t gonna be. Hopped down, “I reckon things’re done with now.” He lagged in his walk, pitching one foot diagonally in front of the other. “It’s the apocalypse-ragnarok”. He grabbed the front of his pants, by the thighs, and lifted them up while leaning forward nose near mine. He said, “what do you think about that?” and I was scared. Can’t say why but my chest recoiled a bit, kinda sad. I took a step back and looked diagonally to the right and bottom.
Things looked still where I was lookin’. A head-turn around showed a world where the storm had stopped. Everything had stopped. I flinched. He was gone. Flames stood still as a picture far-off and nothing moved but me and what I touched. Rocks small enough you could roll them between your fingers crunched under my steps then slowly carried their movement outward, jiggling other rocks, and the spread of movement became smaller as it split between surfaces until a can would rattle and I’d lose track or the move would hit something big and you’d see nothing happen. Things stayed like that while I had a look around and experimented. If I threw something really big, say a car door, I could see things twitch some yards away. I might lose track of where the movement spread to but sometimes, after a delay, something further-out from where the last twitter was seen would jerk.
…
Playing with rubble got boring. I went looking for someone living.
…
I got hungry. Started looking for something to eat. Saw grass, a handless forearm, and considered my options while a rat showed its’ vote gnawing on the forearm. It was immediately night and things were moving as they usually do before my stomach hurt. Want of food was actually great enough to be painful. I tried eating grass but it wasn’t filling. Why I satisfied my hunger how I did is something you’ll never understand. In part because I won’t tell. You wouldn’t -We thought Earth or humanity were done for or God was rolling up. Yet He hasn’t shown, we’re still here, and this planet’s name hasn’t been legally changed. I lost my leg but –hey, most lost their lives.
Orange skies laced with streams of fire race against ashy cloud cover above my humbled, lowered head on a dawn rumbling. Thin white-blue veins of lightning inaudibly weave into the nebulous thunderhead layers. Borders of collected water brush against each other –clash, and intermarry, copenetrating, mingled, and where one’s hazy figure ends and another’s center lies is indistinguishable. Thicker, violet arteries of lightning roar to partition the sky. Suddenly a downpour obscures the tip of my nose. Something stinks. My boots must strain against the puddles to lift. These rainpools hold onto them like desperate unwanted lovers. The squelch, the viscosity, doesn’t belong to water. At the abrupt end of pitter-patter I see a world anointed in blood. Wind screams at me, a furious god. I fall with a gust that rips tree-roots from the ground, flips cars, and makes the air a leaf field. Now I taste the stench. A lump is on my right breast. It leaves with the sight of a blur leaping past. Ribbit. Regained feet let me see the mists have cleared out. Miles are visible. When I squint, the familiar lines of human architecture are recognizable in the distant pyre. A wind I can’t hear tears at this bon-fire, fed by a city, arcing tongues to the left.
The voice was one I’d attribute to a voice actor and/or digital effects. Upper register, continually humming with a sound like “eh”, the chords slightly ground together but not enough to be painful. “Sure is coming down today”. His face had been washed of color. The facial feature didn’t reveal prior race. Were a man has irises and pupils he had silvery orbs. After staring at them for a bit, if he didn’t move, variances in darkness within them resolved into a threadlike appearance. Cracks came from the noseward corners of his eyes as if he were a drunk. He held his mouth open but I didn’t hear him breathe through it or notice his chest move but movement’s hard to make out through so many layers of rags. Maybe he’s a diaphragm breather. On the metal parts of some machine I didn’t recognize he sat, ass to heels and hands to knees. Smiled at me like he was friendly.
Above the sky had been beaten into a cream of pale yellows, spreading out just above us, with some storms still out on the horizon and others audible. I didn’t know what to say. Maybe shock. I’d just been knocked on my ass. If he had been around…he didn’t look like he’d fallen recently.
“What do you think it’s all about?” he smiled at me again. A different sort, “hmmm”. I wasn’t his confidant. Wasn’t gonna be. Hopped down, “I reckon things’re done with now.” He lagged in his walk, pitching one foot diagonally in front of the other. “It’s the apocalypse-ragnarok”. He grabbed the front of his pants, by the thighs, and lifted them up while leaning forward nose near mine. He said, “what do you think about that?” and I was scared. Can’t say why but my chest recoiled a bit, kinda sad. I took a step back and looked diagonally to the right and bottom.
Things looked still where I was lookin’. A head-turn around showed a world where the storm had stopped. Everything had stopped. I flinched. He was gone. Flames stood still as a picture far-off and nothing moved but me and what I touched. Rocks small enough you could roll them between your fingers crunched under my steps then slowly carried their movement outward, jiggling other rocks, and the spread of movement became smaller as it split between surfaces until a can would rattle and I’d lose track or the move would hit something big and you’d see nothing happen. Things stayed like that while I had a look around and experimented. If I threw something really big, say a car door, I could see things twitch some yards away. I might lose track of where the movement spread to but sometimes, after a delay, something further-out from where the last twitter was seen would jerk.
…
Playing with rubble got boring. I went looking for someone living.
…
I got hungry. Started looking for something to eat. Saw grass, a handless forearm, and considered my options while a rat showed its’ vote gnawing on the forearm. It was immediately night and things were moving as they usually do before my stomach hurt. Want of food was actually great enough to be painful. I tried eating grass but it wasn’t filling. Why I satisfied my hunger how I did is something you’ll never understand. In part because I won’t tell. You wouldn’t -We thought Earth or humanity were done for or God was rolling up. Yet He hasn’t shown, we’re still here, and this planet’s name hasn’t been legally changed. I lost my leg but –hey, most lost their lives.
Touched Personnel
Written 2/27/2007
Al Budain was busying himself with unimportant things so he didn’t have to dwell on having nothing worth doing. While he was typing a response belly-bump to some woman (hopefully) who he’d never met before another woman he’d previously not been close enough to touch said, “you shouldn’t be using the company’s computer for something so, personal”. Al wasn’t given a jitter because he’d been caught in a wrongful act. If you’re deeply involved in reading this relation don’t you think you’d be surprised to hear a voice centimeters off your shoulder? The company had no assignment for Al. He was coming to put some extra work in on pet projects. After a while of that his passion had left him. So at work he stayed. Maybe he’d regain his fervor for one of those pet-projects. It wasn’t as if there was something he could do at home which he couldn’t do at work.
“Ignoring me won’t make me go away”.
Having shaken-off her initial bother, Al was broke from busying himself again. The Reality Director he answered to knew of Al’s personal work and encouraged it. Al told this intrusive woman as much.
“Jayit isn’t a concern. I’m making it my business to see you keep your work to the business of this company”.
Al told her as I’ve told you: that he had no assignment to carry out.
“Then I’ll give you one.” Amused eyes flinching sadistically searched the personalized work-stations.
“Go help Caggoy finish his project”.
Al told this unnamed woman to leave him alone and report him if she thought he did wrong. He didn’t want to deal with her and knew he’d be in no trouble. Caggoy was kept on Jayit (the Reality Director)’s team out of mercy. He had been one of the finest alterer’s in the entire sector. People wanted him to work on educational, military, or persuasive generateds but his only interest was entertainment. One of his private projects was a generated of an ideal woman. When Jayit found out about the idea he encouraged it –sure it’d artistically impress and financially reward. After three years of labor (mostly nit-picky detail addition 20 months in) Caggoy was finished. Although it greatly disappointed the RD (and Jayit pressed the issue) Caggoy had no intention of selling his design. It was creator-owned like all personal work. “She” was made to be his. Caggoy had all types of plans for what to do with “Cetella”.
His own handiwork was against him. Many of the traits he had put in Cetella were opposed to him so she had no interest in being with him. Caggoy did not want to change her. He did not redesign her or make a replacement. His ideal woman, the best he could have, distanced herself from him. Al couldn’t tell what Caggoy felt when he saw him walk in Jayit’s lounge. He was quiet, shoulderblades hung, corners of lips stretched to the sides, eyes narrowed, jaw tense, brow bulging between his eyebrows, steps hurried. It was easy for Al to later deduce he’d seen Caggoy walking with the intent of selling his latest design. Caggoy took his time off, as is allotted after each project*, while Cetella went into production. After his time off from selling Cetella was through Caggoy used days-off he had saved up.
They all roll over. Some geezers have effectively retired a year early from saved off-time. Or sooner. There were days left from Caggoy’s off-time when he came back. Directors don’t hassle their men about having beards (they do encourage the woman to shave their mustaches) but seeing Caggoy with one changed his face. Before, he had always been clean shaven. In a relatively short time he had a scratchy-as-fiberglass looking beard to his collar bone. He was red-eyed working at his computer. Jayit said he could have his leave extended. Maybe it was out of sympathy or a kindness bought by Cetella’s profits. No, Caggoy wanted an assignment. He worked longer hours than before, debugging more than anyone else. His coding became…twitchy. Simple mis,tuh tuh-takes were made throughhh eh-out it ah-tih-tih-tih at! irregular intervals. Al had eavesdropped on the gossip of his female peers (and that un-faggable Tayce). Word was Caggoy spent his time at home trying to persuade his source generated of Cetella to return his affection. He failed. And that first day’s red-eyed work was the deletion of Cetella’s source code1.
Instead of lending any respect to her, giving atleast a possibility of chance she had some authority to begin commanding him like someone with a role other than teammate, and saying he would not work with Caggoy, Al asked this pestersome nosy person her name. On top of his bean-bag chair, even as she answered, Caggoy was quietly exclaiming slang too mild for me to count as cursing.
Making the hand motions for an in-generated billboard she answered, “Call me Ra’ash’kohlle! Owner of Al’s ass.”
Ra’ash’kohlle was kidding. Had to be. With slight irritation Al spun to face his monitor. She bent to line her head up next to it.
Al would have been surprised by the context, that she knew the language of his parent’s precinct, if he wasn’t shocked by the content of her words “gha ze naw junewitza quet cheg krenattana pulk eschedi ze nuln porras kreangtas”. (Leaving historical references aside) those sounds translate to have the meaning “the proper response to your previous work is your suicide”.
Without thinking Al swung. The back of his left hand flung through Ra’ash’kohlle’s face and sounded painful against his rig. Al sucked in air through teeth biting his lower lip. A conflict had just begun between a sense he should regret having tried to hit a woman and a sense that he was made a fool of by some generated when he spun on Pilaulgi’s laughter.
“Spunky ain’t she? I even drafted some language making tools for her package so people could mod her to talk different.” Caggoy had started to walk over. Al asked what she was.
“Cetella doesn’t suit every man’s taste so I decided to work with a trouble-maker woman gen. I just need Fex to make my tools-package easier to use for the generators who love modification. Then anyone can tailor her hey Caggoy”. Something on that man’s face provoked Al to tell him not to do it. Despite that, Caggoy dropped a magnet on Pilaulgi’s external back-up drive. A second went on his rig’s case, right by the motherboard.
Pilaulgi was yelling stuff about being psychotic and questions about where those magnets came from. Soon after, Caggoy was fired. I don’t know if Al still works there, we’ve been out of touch for a while. Me and Pilaulgi were never close.
*yes, Al could be using his break instead of saving it.
1 Joyit never pressed charges. As far as I know, none of the other Director’s found out Cettella’s source code had been deleted.
Al Budain was busying himself with unimportant things so he didn’t have to dwell on having nothing worth doing. While he was typing a response belly-bump to some woman (hopefully) who he’d never met before another woman he’d previously not been close enough to touch said, “you shouldn’t be using the company’s computer for something so, personal”. Al wasn’t given a jitter because he’d been caught in a wrongful act. If you’re deeply involved in reading this relation don’t you think you’d be surprised to hear a voice centimeters off your shoulder? The company had no assignment for Al. He was coming to put some extra work in on pet projects. After a while of that his passion had left him. So at work he stayed. Maybe he’d regain his fervor for one of those pet-projects. It wasn’t as if there was something he could do at home which he couldn’t do at work.
“Ignoring me won’t make me go away”.
Having shaken-off her initial bother, Al was broke from busying himself again. The Reality Director he answered to knew of Al’s personal work and encouraged it. Al told this intrusive woman as much.
“Jayit isn’t a concern. I’m making it my business to see you keep your work to the business of this company”.
Al told her as I’ve told you: that he had no assignment to carry out.
“Then I’ll give you one.” Amused eyes flinching sadistically searched the personalized work-stations.
“Go help Caggoy finish his project”.
Al told this unnamed woman to leave him alone and report him if she thought he did wrong. He didn’t want to deal with her and knew he’d be in no trouble. Caggoy was kept on Jayit (the Reality Director)’s team out of mercy. He had been one of the finest alterer’s in the entire sector. People wanted him to work on educational, military, or persuasive generateds but his only interest was entertainment. One of his private projects was a generated of an ideal woman. When Jayit found out about the idea he encouraged it –sure it’d artistically impress and financially reward. After three years of labor (mostly nit-picky detail addition 20 months in) Caggoy was finished. Although it greatly disappointed the RD (and Jayit pressed the issue) Caggoy had no intention of selling his design. It was creator-owned like all personal work. “She” was made to be his. Caggoy had all types of plans for what to do with “Cetella”.
His own handiwork was against him. Many of the traits he had put in Cetella were opposed to him so she had no interest in being with him. Caggoy did not want to change her. He did not redesign her or make a replacement. His ideal woman, the best he could have, distanced herself from him. Al couldn’t tell what Caggoy felt when he saw him walk in Jayit’s lounge. He was quiet, shoulderblades hung, corners of lips stretched to the sides, eyes narrowed, jaw tense, brow bulging between his eyebrows, steps hurried. It was easy for Al to later deduce he’d seen Caggoy walking with the intent of selling his latest design. Caggoy took his time off, as is allotted after each project*, while Cetella went into production. After his time off from selling Cetella was through Caggoy used days-off he had saved up.
They all roll over. Some geezers have effectively retired a year early from saved off-time. Or sooner. There were days left from Caggoy’s off-time when he came back. Directors don’t hassle their men about having beards (they do encourage the woman to shave their mustaches) but seeing Caggoy with one changed his face. Before, he had always been clean shaven. In a relatively short time he had a scratchy-as-fiberglass looking beard to his collar bone. He was red-eyed working at his computer. Jayit said he could have his leave extended. Maybe it was out of sympathy or a kindness bought by Cetella’s profits. No, Caggoy wanted an assignment. He worked longer hours than before, debugging more than anyone else. His coding became…twitchy. Simple mis,tuh tuh-takes were made throughhh eh-out it ah-tih-tih-tih at! irregular intervals. Al had eavesdropped on the gossip of his female peers (and that un-faggable Tayce). Word was Caggoy spent his time at home trying to persuade his source generated of Cetella to return his affection. He failed. And that first day’s red-eyed work was the deletion of Cetella’s source code1.
Instead of lending any respect to her, giving atleast a possibility of chance she had some authority to begin commanding him like someone with a role other than teammate, and saying he would not work with Caggoy, Al asked this pestersome nosy person her name. On top of his bean-bag chair, even as she answered, Caggoy was quietly exclaiming slang too mild for me to count as cursing.
Making the hand motions for an in-generated billboard she answered, “Call me Ra’ash’kohlle! Owner of Al’s ass.”
Ra’ash’kohlle was kidding. Had to be. With slight irritation Al spun to face his monitor. She bent to line her head up next to it.
Al would have been surprised by the context, that she knew the language of his parent’s precinct, if he wasn’t shocked by the content of her words “gha ze naw junewitza quet cheg krenattana pulk eschedi ze nuln porras kreangtas”. (Leaving historical references aside) those sounds translate to have the meaning “the proper response to your previous work is your suicide”.
Without thinking Al swung. The back of his left hand flung through Ra’ash’kohlle’s face and sounded painful against his rig. Al sucked in air through teeth biting his lower lip. A conflict had just begun between a sense he should regret having tried to hit a woman and a sense that he was made a fool of by some generated when he spun on Pilaulgi’s laughter.
“Spunky ain’t she? I even drafted some language making tools for her package so people could mod her to talk different.” Caggoy had started to walk over. Al asked what she was.
“Cetella doesn’t suit every man’s taste so I decided to work with a trouble-maker woman gen. I just need Fex to make my tools-package easier to use for the generators who love modification. Then anyone can tailor her hey Caggoy”. Something on that man’s face provoked Al to tell him not to do it. Despite that, Caggoy dropped a magnet on Pilaulgi’s external back-up drive. A second went on his rig’s case, right by the motherboard.
Pilaulgi was yelling stuff about being psychotic and questions about where those magnets came from. Soon after, Caggoy was fired. I don’t know if Al still works there, we’ve been out of touch for a while. Me and Pilaulgi were never close.
*yes, Al could be using his break instead of saving it.
1 Joyit never pressed charges. As far as I know, none of the other Director’s found out Cettella’s source code had been deleted.
Omnibody wants to Play
Mirthful laughter fed our ears those days. Winter’s chill had left so that the glass panes were windows again, baby Mirta was just born, and we’d won another galaxy. It seemed our luck would never run out playing the lotto but a collective consciousness gets all the fears, doubts and conflicts of a single being’s parts. The many bits conflict against one another, loudly shouting to determine what will be remembered. There’re worries all over and it takes knowledge from other parts to assuage them. Like parts of a man’s will are tamed, subjected unto death, so were members of our people. Vessels struck down in our discourse, our internal thought, were quietly cowed. Shoulders slouched, lips dipped at the corners, faces were downcast and they wouldn’t eat. So soon they’d die. And we’d be so much more unified –decisive. It felt great.
Interdimensional lotto was more than just a pastime. It satisfied so many areas of our mind: the threat of death risked to better savor life, a statistically sound investment/risk/payoff, a want to communicate with other beings, the fun of a game, and of course (pride). When we lost a lotto we found it sound to stop playing. Seeing an entire other area, as all dimensions are landmasses and the Play King’s realm their bridge, devoured by The Zhegrityoonkigawnahm made it serious. The monster took pleasure in its’ food. Of all the beasts we know none plays with its’ food before eating it. Hunting is just for sustenance. Be as it may that The Zhegrityoonkigawnahm could innately alter the world around it, like the Play King (though to a degree comparatively negligible) it still toyed with that dimension’s inhabitants –stringing out their deaths: letting worshippers and warriors line up to praise or try to kill it. Knowing that the other dimensions in the lotto’s pool included a being that would kill us. For fun. We realized the depth of the danger in the game. Still it was dreadfully alluring to add to our collection of dimensions. We couldn’t count the possibilities…
So do you think we quit participating in the games? Of course we did! Only mad beings would risk their existence for excessive gain.
Some rule the Play King made up {he claims it always existed} required we forfeit all the dimensions we’d won if we wouldn’t keep ours in the pool. For all his power the Play King reveals a childish demeanor to better hide his craft. Without other dimensions we would have no other beings to talk to. The world we live on hasn’t the materials necessary for space-flight.
So here we are…narrating to ourselves…wondering what could be different.
Interdimensional lotto was more than just a pastime. It satisfied so many areas of our mind: the threat of death risked to better savor life, a statistically sound investment/risk/payoff, a want to communicate with other beings, the fun of a game, and of course (pride). When we lost a lotto we found it sound to stop playing. Seeing an entire other area, as all dimensions are landmasses and the Play King’s realm their bridge, devoured by The Zhegrityoonkigawnahm made it serious. The monster took pleasure in its’ food. Of all the beasts we know none plays with its’ food before eating it. Hunting is just for sustenance. Be as it may that The Zhegrityoonkigawnahm could innately alter the world around it, like the Play King (though to a degree comparatively negligible) it still toyed with that dimension’s inhabitants –stringing out their deaths: letting worshippers and warriors line up to praise or try to kill it. Knowing that the other dimensions in the lotto’s pool included a being that would kill us. For fun. We realized the depth of the danger in the game. Still it was dreadfully alluring to add to our collection of dimensions. We couldn’t count the possibilities…
So do you think we quit participating in the games? Of course we did! Only mad beings would risk their existence for excessive gain.
Some rule the Play King made up {he claims it always existed} required we forfeit all the dimensions we’d won if we wouldn’t keep ours in the pool. For all his power the Play King reveals a childish demeanor to better hide his craft. Without other dimensions we would have no other beings to talk to. The world we live on hasn’t the materials necessary for space-flight.
So here we are…narrating to ourselves…wondering what could be different.
Near-Unification
There will be a man, Jhanicun Witzedefi whose good at programming and glad he is but lacking a wife, incomplete. He’ll not be bad looking. His frame’ll be skinny without reaching a point of frailty, his black hair will have a sheen that Pantene Provene “treatments” can’t pull off, and he’ll stand pretty strait. When he works at his desk he’ll be hunched, focused. Jhanicun’s eyes, thin things with brown beauties in ‘em, will squint up close to a computer’s light. Whenever talking to someone though, he’ll have his chest forward, shoulders back. When he’s working hard he’ll tap around his keyboard in-between typing, to keep a rhythm to his thoughts. There’ll be women in his office too. Mostly ones who never expected to woo a man. Women who committed themselves to self-support, suspecting they’d have no husband. But then they’ll fulfill their own expectations with uncared for looks. (There will be some women in the office though, a few, worth looking at and talking too.) From a bachelor-prospector’s judgment seat. Jhanicun’s handicap will be that he does not expect a good-looking woman to like him. He’ll approach them but he’ll do so in a deceitful manner with airs and shows that don’t befit him. Women who stay dating Jhanicun for a while will never feel they’ve come that close to him. Because they won’t have. He’ll phase in his true self leaving his would-be lovers unsure of whom they’re really with. Eventually one or the other’ll break it off. This won’t happen a lot, most of Jhanicun’s time will be spent at work or on personal projects requiring programming. Don’t feel bad for Jhanicun because his unmarried state won’t bother him a whole lot.
One of the personal projects he’ll steep himself in for hours will be an ideal digital woman development. His passion won’t be derived from dirty thoughts, romance, his age, a want for a wife, or any similar thing. It’ll be a work in a long string of works (varying in subject) he will put equal effort into. A day will come in which he’ll finish this problem, have developed his concept of what he wants in a woman (regarding physical traits) and spend some minutes enjoying his program because it represents both greatness in himself and potential greatness in another.
Unbeknownst to Jhanicun when he makes this program will be Navelim Sumukhshoji A/P Ipansapan Sumukhshoji. Navelim lives relatively close to him, considering the transportation that will exist in his day. She’s a woman who will: smile at sad-looking strangers, buy fruits for her elderly parents, make decent money by well-using what small opportunity will be afforded her in the tiny town she calls home, know a little of her people’s older dances, plan to buy a fourth car, and highly value her health. Most important in relation to ignorant Jhanicun will be that Navelim will possess every physical characteristic he included in his perfect-woman-program. She won’t have many prospects for marriage because she’ll live in a community with very few men her age. Most people there will be elderly.
It would satisfy my curiosity to know what would happen if they met each other and dated. Yet they never will…
Navelim will die, despite all her beauty, an unmarried woman. Her time on Earth will be marked by wise work, noble pursuits, and a sweet manner. Jhanicun will come to marry a woman at 46. Despite their ripe old ages, this will be a union of passion that ends when their sexual urges strength leak out of their softening bodies. They’ll divorce. Jhanicun will stick with work and his second wife, never having kids. His life will be marked by attention given to things he was taught are important despite that they aren’t, working for fun, and brevity.
One of the personal projects he’ll steep himself in for hours will be an ideal digital woman development. His passion won’t be derived from dirty thoughts, romance, his age, a want for a wife, or any similar thing. It’ll be a work in a long string of works (varying in subject) he will put equal effort into. A day will come in which he’ll finish this problem, have developed his concept of what he wants in a woman (regarding physical traits) and spend some minutes enjoying his program because it represents both greatness in himself and potential greatness in another.
Unbeknownst to Jhanicun when he makes this program will be Navelim Sumukhshoji A/P Ipansapan Sumukhshoji. Navelim lives relatively close to him, considering the transportation that will exist in his day. She’s a woman who will: smile at sad-looking strangers, buy fruits for her elderly parents, make decent money by well-using what small opportunity will be afforded her in the tiny town she calls home, know a little of her people’s older dances, plan to buy a fourth car, and highly value her health. Most important in relation to ignorant Jhanicun will be that Navelim will possess every physical characteristic he included in his perfect-woman-program. She won’t have many prospects for marriage because she’ll live in a community with very few men her age. Most people there will be elderly.
It would satisfy my curiosity to know what would happen if they met each other and dated. Yet they never will…
Navelim will die, despite all her beauty, an unmarried woman. Her time on Earth will be marked by wise work, noble pursuits, and a sweet manner. Jhanicun will come to marry a woman at 46. Despite their ripe old ages, this will be a union of passion that ends when their sexual urges strength leak out of their softening bodies. They’ll divorce. Jhanicun will stick with work and his second wife, never having kids. His life will be marked by attention given to things he was taught are important despite that they aren’t, working for fun, and brevity.
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