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Just in Case you need it, the week I chose was named Paseo Yortuque
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Jul 30, 2023 23:11
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Pale Imitation 1687 word Week #360 - What If Thunderdome, But Too Much Bonus flash: the object is cursed/haunted ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Joseph Haloid Xerox!’ The audience greeted the man of the hour with thunderous applause. Amidst the Great Depression, even such esteemed guests, from politicians to wealthy industrialists, were starved for a good party. And for all they cared, the party was smashing. The dining hall of the Waldorf Astoria was decorated in what an upper crust New Yorker would immediately recognise as African style. Leopard skins on walls, waiters dressed in exotic garb, assorted fertility idols, spears and shields, shaman masks, and even margarita cocktails with coconut milk. Mr. Xerox was determined to convince the impressionable and the moneyed that his prototype wasn’t just another dime-a-dozen gizmo, but something utterly special. Building the thing had already cost him most of the fortune he inherited from his father, and if he had to spend what little he had left to get his money back, so be it. ‘Thank you, thank you. I’ve gathered you all here today for a truly momentous occasion. Mystical knowledge of the Dark Continent reinforced by empirical science of the West resulted in an invention that will change how we think of industrial production for centuries to come.’ Mr. Xerox gestured to the curtain behind him that concealed the machine from the audience. ‘But before we continue, I would like to wholeheartedly thank my dear friend, colleague, and an employee, Mr. Carl Chesterton. The creation of the prototype you’re about to see had many stages, to which not I alone contributed my blood and sweat. In fact it is to Carl that I owe this tremendous opportunity to hold in my hands the key component of the first ever Xerox copying machine.’ Xerox produced a black metallic plate from the podium, lifted it before him like a mirror, and audience’s fascination reflected in its pristine obsidian-like surface. ‘It is also with great sadness that I have to say that Carl is not with us today. Along with this plate, though, I received from him his wedding ring and a goodbye letter that I would like to read to you to mark his contribution to this project. “Joseph, old friend, my mission here is finally complete, although I find it unspeakably hard to think of leaving Ethiopia behind. As you requested, I explored tantalum deposits near Asosa in order to locate a possible source for materials required for our next prototype. There I chanced upon what I can only describe as an ancient sanctuary to a spirit that not even the locals know or speak of in their legends. Behind the altar, there was a secret door that hid a broken-up machine of unknown origin. It took several long weeks, but thanks to the well of experience I accumulated throughout the years of working under you, I managed to decipher its function. Joseph, I suspect now that the story about the emperor and his doubles we saw in New York Times a couple of years ago was true in a very unexpected way. I hope the key component of the machine finds you with this letter and doesn’t fall into the hands of the accursed Italians. I trust you’ll figure out how to incorporate the plate into our previous work, but take into consideration that by infusing light rays with sub-atomical essence of any object and projecting it onto a certain chemical composite, it is now possible to imbue-” and it just goes on for a bit longer, with some personal and very touching words addressed to his family and me.’ Of course, Joseph had to slightly alter some parts of the letter to be more appropriate for the occasion. Thankfully, with careful cutting and pasting from Carl’s research notes, the copying machine allowed not only to replicate what already existed, but also essentially to fabricate entirely new things. Mr. Xerox knew what the audience wanted, and they wanted primordial mysteries and artefacts, not a boring abandoned secret laboratory, advanced technology, and blueprints. This would hopefully cover some of the issues with dubious legality of the whole enterprise if the technology in question was rediscovered as opposed to stolen. The ‘respect the deal or perish’ part, although appropriately sounded like an ancient curse, also didn’t fit the mood for advertising a business opportunity to potential investors. Carl disappearing forever, on the other hand, was very welcome. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, in his hearts of hearts I believe Mr. Chesterton remained a true patriot and his insistence that this miracle technology should belong to the nation of the United States of America, not Italians, speaks volumes of that. At the same time, evidently, Carl was so taken by the wondrous beauty of the Ethiopian land, it inspired him to start a new life there. I am not going to pass judgement, and really wish him all the best, but because I feel at least partially responsible for setting him on that path, I promise that should the Xerox copying machine prove to be a commercial success, his wife and child will receive a reasonable share of profits.’ Some guests offered the woman in black that Mr. Xerox glanced towards their sympathy, others sombrely clapped for the generosity at display, but many were growing impatient with the prolonged introduction. In the invitation, they were promised a spectacle, but were now thrust into uncomfortable familial misery. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am as anxious as you are to see the machine in action, so now, without further ado, I give you Xerox Mark 1!’ With this, Xerox parted the curtain to reveal his invention. The machine consisted of two large boxes, almost sarcophagi, one above the other. There was an ornate lid covering the top one, and an opening on the side of the one at the bottom. The lacquered cherry casing of the machine was adorned with carved writings that none of the guests recognised, but nonetheless confidently identified as magical spells, sharing that discovery with each other in hushed whispers. Mr. Xerox installed the plate into the machine between the two boxes with a satisfying click. ‘For our first demonstration - and let me assure you we have many more planned for tonight - I’ve chosen a one-hundred-dollar bill. Don’t let the ordinariness of this object you see every day convince you it’s anything but amazingly multiplex. I’m sure you’re aware that the design of our legal tender is superbly intricate to prevent forgery, and normally to replicate something approaching this complexity, one would need to own a costly printing press with a very precisely made single-purpose press plate. That will never again be a concern with Xerox Mark 1! To further demonstrate the capabilities of my machine and dispel any suspicion of trickery, allow me to commemorate this historic date with a handwritten inscription on the bill.’ ‘10-22-38 Astoria’ All eyes were on the bill Xerox was holding in front of him, and even guests further away from the stage as one reached for their theatre binoculars to see it. Perfect. Xerox had their undivided attention. He placed the bill inside the top box and closed the lid. He then flipped a switch plunging the dining hall into complete darkness. Another flipped switch awakened the machine. An ethereal greenish glow emanated from inside of it through the gaps between its parts and the carved letters on its casing. Silhouettes of polished idols and masks in the room reappeared from the dark like luminescent deep-sea fish. The low whirling sound of the machine added church organ notes to the atmosphere of a solemn ritual. In mere twenty seconds it was over. The light was back on, and Mr. Xerox retrieved from the two boxes two bills. The audience were still too enchanted by the demonstration to react to the reveal, apart from one gentleman near the stage. ‘Yeah, pal, that’s great and all, but I’ve been to a magic show or two myself. Why don’t you let me see those up close if you don’t mind?’ The man was dressed to the nines, but his accent and manners betrayed his working-class origin. Who knew one could become a nouveau-riche in this economy? Xerox passed the bills to the gentleman, who then spent a whole minute inspecting them, feeling the texture against his freshly shaven cheeks, and even briefly licked both to compare their taste. ‘They are one and the same down to serial numbers and tiny ink splats from the pen. That’s some amazing stuff, folks!’ The audience exploded into cheers, and the more enterprising wealthy men started to make their way towards the stage in hopes to get in on the ground floor. Could you maybe build another machine and then copy the first one? Did you even need to bother if the product already literally printed money? The man who examined the bills paid little attention to the commotion and stayed put. He touched his nose three times, and about a dozen of men and women in the audience pulled out guns and ordered everyone not to move. ‘We are with the Federal Bureau of Investigations, everyone,’ shouted the man at the stage showing a badge, ‘My name is agent Williams, and you, Mr. Xerox are under arrest on suspicion of conspiracy to murder Mr. Carl Chesterton and illicit traffic of objects of value. And I suppose we can add forgery to the list. You will have to come with us now.’ Without saying a word, Xerox flipped the light switch again. He dashed towards the machine, pulled out the plate, but found himself in the blinding spotlight. All agents had flashlights with them. ‘Put the plate down, Mr. Xerox. You have nowhere to run,’ firmly said agent Williams, pointing his gun at the frightened Xerox. Clenching the plate to his chest, in desperation, Mr. Xerox jumped from the stage towards the fire exit. He wasn’t fast enough. Flashlights caught up with him, then so did the barrel of agent Williams’ gun, and, finally, two bullets. First, a copy that the plate produced a moment before being shattered, and then the real deal. Both felt exactly the same and were equally deadly.
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Jul 31, 2023 01:29
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Week #59 - WRITE ABOUT WHERE YOU CURRENTLY LIVE Albuquerque has been my home for the past 13 years. Extreme Flash: something old and precious is ending, and something new and precious is beginning Burnout 1120 words Max sat down and pressed his bony back against the warm, fake adobe stucco that covered not just the building he’d left, but most of UNM’s. It was called Pueblo Revival and it made Albuquerque stand out from the colleges and towns he’d visited several years ago and, along with the hot weather and the distance from his family, were the biggest reasons he’d applied here for grad school. And while the stucco dug into a patch of skin on his back where his grey shirt rode up, Max wiggled against it for the warmth it held. He opened the textbook in his arms to the place marked with a small stack of wrinkled paper and a well-chewed pen, stuck the pen between his teeth, found the paper he wanted, put it on the top of the stack, took the pen in his left hand, and sighed hard enough that his lips flapped for an instant. “Yo, Millions, got time to join me at the SUB?” a person called out to him. Max looked up from the book but didn’t spot the speaker moving closer until they stood inches away and he couldn’t not notice their Viva Magenta crop top. “I told you not to call me that in public, Jill. And no I don’t. I have to cement this information in my head by Monday. This class is only held in the spring. If I fail, I have to find enough work to live on until next year.” “Oops. Sorry ‘bout that, Max. Just text me when you’re hungry and we’ll meet up for dinner.” Jill said and strolled off to the Student Union Building. Max smiled at their back and settled in to study there as long as the sun kept him warmer than the intensely conditioned air inside. ~~~~~ Max unlocked the barred screen door. Locking doors at all had taken a while to make habit back in undergrad but it was automatic now. The main door unlocked just as smoothly and he stepped into his rented casita. Jill had gone from their dinner to a date with their boyfriend which gave him time to himself for several hours. He already knew what he wanted to do with the time so he slipped his shoes off, set his things down on top of their respective piles, and grabbed a small metal trash can and some paper out of the recycle bin. It was time for his private relaxation ritual. He opened a window and left the curtain closed, sat down on the office chair he’d bought on Craigslist, placed the trash can on the floor in front of him and carefully tore the paper into shreds and chunks of various size. Max even tore a long strip of corrugated cardboard from the lid of a box he’d never unpacked. Once he loaded the can as full as he dared, he grabbed a Zippo, smelled the butane deeply for a long moment, flicked the lighter on and watched it. Something inside him loosened and warmed enough that he remained entranced longer than usual. Jill could walk in the door right now and he wouldn’t notice them. But eventually he pulled himself away, lit one end of the strip, and plunged it into the trash. The paper erupted. Max yanked his hand back fast enough that he smacked himself in the chest. Ouch. Better that than third or fourth degree burns though. Pale orange flames danced across and in and up over the box while smoke spilled out the barred window and the papers blackened from charcoal grey to ash grey to nearly white. The only problem, in Max’s mind, with this was that it wasn’t nearly enough anymore. He’d been doing it, or a variation of it, for too long. If small fires only took away small feelings these days, it made sense that a big fire would take away big feelings. But this was the high desert where fires easily grew out of control. Even the Forest Department had had trouble keeping controlled burns controlled. Could he do better than a government agency? ~~~~~ These days seeing a final grade meant refreshing a web page rather than anything that involved visiting campus. Max, making himself comfortable on his office chair, opened and closed the Zippo anxiously while Jill got situated on a giant beanbag. The instant the clock read 8:00 PM, both of them refreshed the pages for the classes they were most worried about. “78! That’s better than I was expecting!” Jill said with a wide smile on their face. “I got 57.” Max’s ears rung and his face blanched. He had no idea how he’d survive between the day Jill went home for the summer and the day spring semester started next year. Maybe he could do more undergrad courses to keep financial aid? Could it even work like that? It was something to ask the people who knew when it was actually business hours. Jill touched his arm but he was so far from himself that he didn’t notice until she pulled away again. “We’ll figure something out for you, Millions. I promise.” ~~~~~ Even if Jill was able to make a miracle happen soon, Max needed to deal with the burning lump of charcoal in his heart tonight. Once Jill fell asleep several hours later, Max quietly went out to his car carrying the metal can full of paper, careful to avoid activating the automatic porch light. He drove east, towards the part of Albuquerque best known as the War Zone. While abandoned properties could be found all over, Max hoped that people here would be less likely to pay attention to weird things happening and he could complete his biggest relaxation event yet without the police or fire department being called until he was long gone. He could feel his once-precious innocence crumpling under the reality of what he planned to do and become. Burning an abandoned building was arson but not the sort where anyone got hurt. Hardly worth calling it a felony. Once he found a suitable-looking property, he parked nearby, dumped paper into windows and doorways, dragged a bunch of dry branches closer, stuck some through other broken window panes, and froze up for several seconds. Again he told himself that becoming an arsonist would be worth it once he saw flames. He’ll be able to think clearly with Jill. And with that thought, he lit the papers, dead leaves and twigs on the ends of branches systematically. With each new glow he felt everything inside himself warm and relax in exactly the way he hoped doing this would. Maybe the next year could be survived after all.
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Jul 31, 2023 01:59
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573: 11th Birthday Bash Week319: Magical Girl Fiction Flash: Vampires are Alive! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9YTasUpAjw Sun Salutations at Dusk 1775 words. Title not bolded cuz I am a reprobate The loudspeakers blared. “Duty calls, cadets. The night is dangerous. Only you stand between the waking world and ultimate peril.” Asahi was already awake, in the kitchen on her assigned shift. It was twelve percent gluten. She preferred six percent, since it made a softer milk bread, and there wasn’t any all-purpose flour to mix in as a balance. Her mouth went all Charlie Brown and a sweat drop floated from her forehead as she struggled to knead the dough, knowing the girls would complain about the crusty loaves. But breakfast was the most important meal of the day, even if it happened as the sun went down. Important work was ahead. Chizuki sauntered in, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and dragged the carton of eggs from the fridge. Asahi heard one plop-crack on the tile but didn’t say anything. Chizu was her roommate—and probably the strongest member of the team. She cracked the eggs into a cold skillet and some were clearly more shell than yolk. Not that that mattered, Chizu stirred the sunnyside ups into half scrambled streaks. Some things are worth doing well, so Asahi put her concentration into the dough instead of that battlefield showboat. It was finally fine and stretched to the membrane of a bat’s wing. Beautiful, for all the irony. And when the cafeteria tables were set and seated, there was a rousing round of “great eggs, mmmm” and “this bread’s too crusty” and Asahi wondered if they were jealous because she got to room with the superstar / worst roommate. They didn’t have to smell her morning (evening) farts and musty piles of clothes dropped like landmines around the changing closet. Nah, they just saw the hero. But now breakfast was done and the mission was to go take out some vamps. Reavers, they called themselves, this time. The Master strode down the center of the cafeteria and up to the briefing dias. If he gave to look at anyone behind the rainbow mirror of his wraparound shades, Asahi couldn’t tell. “Acolytes,” he said, “You may have heard that Sengoku province has a problem. The rumors are true. Reavers lurk in the abandoned warehouse, luring innocents into decadence and decay. Rout out the malfeasance. Only you, my Sisters of the Sun, can bring an end to THEIR EVIL!” There were awestruck utterances all around. And Asahi knew it would be a long night. She nodded her head to Chizuki, but all she said was, “These eggs suck.” Some people wonder about fair fights and honorable duels, but that’s nonsense. To win, you have to take every advantage. Nevermind our own powers, monsters have abilities you never dreamed of. So we use stealth and bombard the enemy with numbers. The changing closet is more literal than you think. Lock yourself inside and recite the mantra. Embolden us as One Strength of Daylight To overcome the Night I am a Sister of the Sun There’s the rush and the spin and the armor just seems to fly onto you. Asahi felt it every time, and as she flipped her battle-visor down, she forgot the breakfast drama. It was time to take down some Reavers. The warehouse was dark, but even from the street, Asahi felt the thumping pulse of bass. Music only a true demon could love, but it pulsed with her heartbeat. They breached the unattended door and fingersigned down the steps, precision and smooth pace, alert to every vantage but there was no resistance. These vamps were careless. They always believed no one could touch them. A cold fog filled the place, and Asahi saw the highlights of Chizuki’s armor glow under the UV blacklights as she lead point. She was glorious in her element, flicking silent signals to the team and ensuring every hazard didn’t turn into a killzone. Once the vamps knew we were there, they would surely unleash hell. And then, it was like a dream. Marched right into their trap. A thousand of them rallied in a sadistic ritual. Arms flailing and feet stomping, wall-to-wall putrid flesh. Asahi froze, but Chizuki kept her calm. “Sisters,” she shouted, “Shed some light!” The Sisters obeyed, and the fireworks were spectacular. Grunge turned into pop. The filthy discotheque was at once a Tony Bennett concert (minus Gaga, but also RIP), and BiDO leapt down from the stage to confront Chizuki. “So, you want to put an end to us? You think you—you—can stop us? We are the Reavers, and we will have your souls!” At this the Sisters roused the blessings of the sun and light exploded all around. Crash Boom Bang is the worst Roxette (RIP) album but still had enough bangers to make the point. The whips and the nenes flowed freely. You wanna ghostride what? That’s right. It’s the whip. Chain linked and silver. Mebbe you saw the outline of Pitbull’s wang in those cotton pants. What everyone else saw was the homage to Michael, flipping the fedora and nodding to the crowd.. Asahi moonwalked over a couple of those vamps like nothing ever mattered. Chizuki was the star, Taytay in her heyday. Flipped chairs and swung legs like a Victoria’s Secret supermodel on the drugs. So many hats flipping everywhere, and every one a weapon more than an accessory, but stylish they were. And none of those Reavers could compete. A life devoid of satisfaction. Dance poorly and not contribute to the greater good; that was the mindset of a Reaver. Why they wanted to live that way was beyond Asahi. Chizuki didn’t care. Cave skulls, look good, end of story. It worked. These vamps had no chance. _______ There ain’t no good cops, first and foremost. If you say well, maybe …. you’re wrong. But having a dance party is illegal so them friggin warehouse loft toffs can have a quiet night is what it’s really all about. Shake your body, move your body. Get up and dance. Yeah, it’s primal. Primal. Primal. Yeah, it’s primal. Primal. Dancing is in your blood. You mebbe never found the right beat, but you know there’s something in you that makes you get up and dance. Makes you want to seek out the rave. And we’re Ravers. Get the fuggin glowsticks and shake yer rear end.Check yerself, show me what you wanna do. Ludacris don’t care about getting the lyrics right if you got a vibe. About a Boy kid grew up to be Beast in the X-Men proves the point. Live it. Listen to your heart, cuz it’s calling for you (Roxette, RIP), and Chop-Block tells me that the cops are probably going to raid tonight. I ask why and am returned with a shrug. It’s a fair enough answer. No reason why is as good as any. And as we’re goofing on the details and watching the crowd be as blissful as can be, considering the outside world is a hash of poo poo and rotten potatoes, the cops come busting in. Crash, Bang, Boom. Flash grenades and tear gas. They want blood to pour from our eyes and they get it. Like they want us to be the vampires of auld. We don’t fit the mould of what they want. And yet they’re the ones up all night trying to gently caress over kids who are probably just like them. And I see the foxiest of the foxy, Gal Godot poo poo, she’s tossing flashbangs and the Valkyries are all over the place. God loving I hate them but why do they look like that? Enemy, enemy, enemy, enemy, enemy, enemy. Yes, no, enemy. Fug em, enemy. Yes, enemy. I won’t be swayed. If you have to put a face on war crimes, then make it a beautiful one. I know we’re not technically at war, and that’s the crux. I’m just housing the homeless in a warehouse that doesn’t belong to me. An abandoned warehouse. A roof with, really, no owner. A roof that exists. On paper, sure, they’re some corpos who got the deed. But c’mon. Nobody using it but peeps who need it. And I’m back to the flashbangs. Half my tribe is blinded, the other half don’t know what to do. They have their visors down, so you can’t even look any of them in their gorgeous violet eyes. They take us down cuz we ain’t going to fight. It’s a cause, and no body understands how that works. It’s a cause no body cares about neither, cuz we ain’t nothin. Just homeless fuckos in their eyes. And I will one hundred percent blather on about that since I’ve been there, and I ain’t no NPC. I feel it between my eyes when some sun sorcerer comes in and thinks they’re doing the lord’s work by throwing my folk in the cooler. Yet, whaddamI supposed to do? I got a thousand kiddos brutalized by flashbang grenades and tear gas and half of them that don’t escape are zip tied ta lighting rigs and speaker poles. If there’s anything that is anything it’s that these fuggos will wreck us for no reason. Or at least, reasons nobody but them understand. Fuggin sun sorcerers will always have the upper hand since they got the state behind them. I just want to dance. _______ Asahi woke with all the bluster she could muster, just a groan and an eye-roll over to Chizuki, sawing logs with one leg flopped out of bed. Waking as the sun sets was not her preference, and she envied her dormmate who still slept like the dead. The room was basically a four by five (in metres), larger than most prison cells by a schosh, and definitely roomier than a coffin, if it weren’t for all the stuff wedged into the claustrophobia. Beds, study desks, a TV/VCR combo on a dusty stand, all packed around the changing closet. A literal changing closet, like, the transformation type. Not just clothes but body and soul. And that’s the crux of the think too hard about it. Did Asahi actually change when she ‘changed?’ She wondered if anybody else on the floor had those thoughts, but maybe it was just the disruption of schedule that made her wonky. She was one with the morning. The air smelled sweeter with the first rays of light, before the world rose. Yet, it was her duty to give that up to take down the latest nest of vamps. Reavers, they called themselves, this time. Order will prevail.
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Jul 31, 2023 02:31
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WEEK 339: DIE HARD WEEK Your story must: Be on Christmas Your randomly generated Netflix category: And You Watched It Day And Night And your Extreme Flash: A battle of the bands goes terribly, terribly wrong Eartha and the Kitts 5888 Words Gunfire ripped out and the cacophony of instruments being tuned stopped, one high pitched E from an electric guitar wavered on into the stunned silence. Onstage, the two bands that had been setting up for the first round of the 1986 Annual Christmas Band Battle froze like Polaroids. Eartha glanced around checking if anyone had been hit. Their opponent band, a bunch of preppies from Uptown High had all dropped to the stage and had their hands over their heads. “NOBODY DO ANYTHING FUNNY!” A booming German accent voice rang out, amplified by the incredible acoustics of the Majestic Theatre. In the middle of the main floor seats, the five members of Shredd stood with automatic rifles, swinging them around in wide arcs, daring anyone to move. Behind her, two stagehands produced similar weapons training them on each band. Who she assumed was the lead singer of Shredd, took a step away from the other band members, each one dressed in silver and black leather, their faces painted like cats, dogs, or with geometric shapes. Behind her Siouxshe whispered, “I thought those Kiss wannabes looked sketchy.” Dillon, her boyfriend, and the band’s bassist snorted, making his ‘hawk snippy on his head. Eartha, lead vocalist and guitarist of her band, Eartha and the Kitts, shook her dropping hair out of her eyes with a flick of her head. Her spiked earrings and chains on her leather jacket jingled merrily. Leaning into the mic, she cleared her throat and said, “Uh, I think you’re taking ‘Battle of the Bands’ a little bit too literally there, Gene.” ‘Gene’ pulled off his hair - a black wig, teased up. Underneath, he sported a buzzcut. He waved his weapon at her and shouted, “I said shut up, Batgirl!” Eartha looked down at her Catwoman t-shirt and the real Eartha Kitt looked back, grinning behind her black mask. She wished he were closer so she could plant a combat boot into his soft spot. “Actually, you said ‘don’t do anything funny,’” Eartha said into the mic again. Nobody made even a chuckle except Siouxshe and Dillon who both snickered. She looked back and saw Scott wasn’t behind the drum machine. With a few leaps, he closed the distance to the stage and clambered up the front while his bandmates covered him. Gene marched up to her, getting into her face. He was at least a foot taller than her, so he had to stoop a little which made the move much less intimidating. Still, she felt his stale breath on her pierced and sheened brow, already sweating from the stage lights. “Are you going to give me trouble, little girl.” He made the last word sound like a playground insult. His voice carried via her mic into the speakers. Eartha met his gaze steady, but her legs began to tremble, making her bullet belt and plaid skirt festooned with safety pins rattle audibly. She swallowed. This close, she had second thoughts about where to place a combat boot. Eartha just shook her head but kept a scowl on her face. Gene stared her down a few seconds then grabbed the mic. He looked out at the scattering of friends and family sitting dumbfounded in their seats. “Everyone, get up!” When nobody moved, he roared, “GET THE gently caress UP!” The twenty or so people leapt up as if they found the joy-buzzers in their seats. Gene nodded to the other four Shredds who herded the audience into one group in the middle of the main floor seats and covered them. Eartha looked and found her dad. She met his gaze as he shooed her little sister ahead of him. She gave him a slow shake of her head - Don’t you dare. Her father, an ex-firefighter, hesitated then nodded. She knew him well. Eartha jumped when Gene thrust the mic back at her. “Play,” he said. “What?” “PLAY!” She looked back at Siouxshe and Dillon, shrugged and mouthed a song title, You’re Just a Xerox. She glanced again at the lonely drum machine. Where the gently caress was Scott? # Three minutes previously, Scott Lundgren was in the control booth overlooking the theater, with The Sound Guy - a scruffy old guy in cut offs and a Hawaiian shirt. He always wore a Detroit Lions baseball hat on backwards. Scott figured he had a real name, but everyone just called him “The Sound Guy.” The booth was small and crammed with electronics, it would only fit a few people, but it had a great view of the theater and the stage, of course. He watched Eartha warming up and sighed. “Hey kid,” the Sound Guy said. “Unlock that cabinet for me.” The Sound Guy tossed a key run loaded with keys up in the air. Scott tried to grab them, missed, and ended up batting them against the observation window with a loud bang. They fell behind the control panel. “Jesus kid, don’t break the window.” The Sound Guy sighed. Scott gaped. “Sorry,” he muttered and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Just go get ‘em. Go around behind the cabinets there. You’ll have to squeeze between the console and the window, but there should be room for someone as skinny as you.” Scott frowned at that comment but was pleased that he was thin enough to squeeze behind the equipment. A rapid series of bangs startled him, and he hit his head on the edge of a cabinet. He winced but didn’t have room to hold his head. He wondered who was setting off fireworks. Someone shouted down below. He heard the door open and someone with an accent yelled, “DON’T MOVE.” Someone was playing tricks, but The Sound Guy said, “Who the hell are you?” Peeking through spaces in the racks of electronics, Scott saw two men enter the small booth. One carried a pistol and the other a shotgun. They wore jeans and faded band t-shirts. He saw them earlier rolling cases of equipment in, and figured they were sound guys. Were they robbing the place? The one with the shotgun cocked it and pointed it at The Sound Guy. Scott held his breath. “Get in the closet.” Raising his hands in the air and standing up, The Sound Guy silently complied. He looked Scott’s way briefly and mouthed quiet and then entered the closet and sat on a bunch of equipment boxes. Shotgun closed the door. He looked at the key lock. He opened the door and held out a hand. “Keys.” Scott heard The Sounds Guy say, “I ain’t got em.” “KEYS!” Shotgun shook his hand. “Honestly, I ain’t got em, look.” sound guy said. Scott figured he must be turning out his pockets. “But someone should have’ em.” This, he said louder. Message received. “Uh, I think you’re taking ‘Battle of the Bands’ a little bit too literally there, Gene.” Eartha’s voice came over the booth monitors, clear as day. Shotgun grunted, slammed the door then took a folding chair and propped it under the door handle. He and Pistol went to the controls and leaned on them, watching whatever was happening on stage. Scott let himself slide down the wall. To him, it sounded like a belt sander. He was sure Pistol and Shotgun could hear his heart beating; it was so loud. But they were too engrossed in whatever was going on down there. Someone yelled something. ““Actually, you said ‘don’t do anything funny.’” Eartha’s voice again. Slowly, sliding himself along the wall behind the controls, he came to the corner and pressed the side of his face against the wall to see behind the console. There laying in decades of dust, papers, cobwebs and even an old, dry condom (used of course), was key ring. He wiggled his shoulders until he could work an arm around the corner and reached. He stretched. He strained. He was sure the goons would hear, but then another voice came across the monitors. A man’s voice, accented, rough. “Are you going to give me trouble, little girl.” Scott froze. Was that guy talking to Eartha? More urgently, he reached again. Harder. A little more. A little more. He got a fingertip on a key, but the contact pushed it out of reach again. Scot scrunched up his face and thought, Mothergodamnsonofashiteatingcrapfuck. The man said, “Everyone get up!” followed a second later by, “GET THE gently caress UP!” Scott forced more of his shoulder around the corner and tried again. He wondered if he had the strength to dislocate his own shoulder and if he did, would he scream? But then his finger dropped into the ring of the keys. He nearly yanked them back but stopped himself before they jingled. He took a bath and slowly, dragged them back through the accumulated detritus. The back of his hand hit the used condom and it came apart with a soft crunch, some of the pieces sticking to his hand. He shuddered. “What?” Eartha said. “Play!” The man shouted so loud; Scott heard it through the wall of the booth. The band started You’re Just a Xerox. It sounded strange without drums, but Dillon managed to fill in with impromptu rhythm guitar. He was really a good guitarist. The shithead. # Her mind raced while she played the guitar riff. She hit a dead note or two and swore at herself. Get it together Eartha. Turning around while playing, she looked at Dillon and nodded at the drum machine. Dillon shrugged. His leather was brand new, purchased just for the Christmas show. It was still stiff, and the entire jacket moved up and down in one piece when he moved. Siouxshe shook her head when Eartha looked at her. Their opponent band huddled on the stage floor, backs up against their synths, chins resting on knees. They looked away when her eyes met theirs. The two roadies, goons, whatever they were both held their weapons ready, but pointed downward, watching them and the other band like they might try something. Eartha and the Kitts might, but the poseurs in Letter to Nancy weren’t going anywhere. Who the gently caress even was Nancy? Xerox ended and Dillon immediately started into a cover of Kiss Me Deadly by Generation X. Nice. She turned back to the mic and sang, the small knot of audience, now paying attention. The greyhound's rocking out tonight To maximum rockabilly When two punks chose to risk the subway For a tube to Picadilly And the Zephrys stir fast gangs for glory Another dumb casualty Having fun In South West six When a hidden flick knife flicks Kiss me deadly tonight Then Dillon’s heavy guitar licks kicked in, and the volume went through the roof. She started and was a split second late on the second verse. She looked around and Gene was standing off stage-right waving at the booth and making up motions. The sound went up another ten decibels. The theater had amazing sound for something that was built sixty years ago, but it was making even her ears ring. What was that all about? Gene looked at her and winked with a grin. That couldn’t be a good thing. # Scott was stuck. He had the keys pulled to him, but he couldn’t get his shoulder back around the corner. He would have whined if he dared. Something popped in his shoulder, and he held his breath expecting a surge of pain, but nothing. It was just his shoulder joint. Eartha and the Kitts had moved on to one of their cover songs when he heard a walkie talkie squawk on. “Turn it up.” It was the man who had been shouting earlier. Scott heard Shotgun, or Pistol muttering and then the volume doubled. “More.” The music thundered and the walls rattled. He wondered if the old plaster would start coming down. “Nfff gefff owww hhhhhr.” The walkie talkie said with a crackle. “WHAT?” Pistol or Shotgun replied. “I said, ‘get out here!’ The man said, louder. Scott heard the chairs move and the door opened, the sound momentarily somehow even louder before the door closed. Knowing it could be his chance, and he didn’t want to live the rest of his life, however long that might be, stuck behind this console, Scott managed to wriggle out of the corner at the expense of leaving a long scrape down his arm from a rough edge. He frantically worked his way backwards, stopped, realized he forgot the keys, wriggled forward again, then grabbed them. There wasn’t enough room to shove them in a pocket, so he just backed out again. Once he was free of the hell of equipment cabinets, he reached for the folding chair, then stopped. He went to the control booth door, and carefully peeked through the window. Pistol - he assumed it was pistol since he couldn’t see a shotgun, stood with his back to the door, smoking. Scott went back to the closet and said through the edge of it as loudly as he dared, “Hey, they’re gone but outside. I’m going to open the door. Be quiet.” He waited, but either there was no answer it, or he couldn’t hear it over Generation X. Scott slipped the chair away and cracked the door open. Something furry hit him in the face and he recoiled, barely managing to not let the chair go. “Hey!” he spit and batted the furry thing away before backing away. The Sound Guy peeked through the crack of the door at him. “Oh sorry,” he said and dropped the duster. “I thought you might be them.” Scott spit out more fluff and hoped the thing had been cleaned recently. The dusty taste in his mouth said otherwise. “One of them is outside the door, so there’s nowhere to go.” Scott said, taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his shirt. He saw that his blue Member’s Only jacket sleeve had a big tear in from the console and he could see his own skin through it. His mom was going to kill him. “I don’t know what to do,” Scott said and then remembered Eartha. He set the chair aside and looked out the control booth’s window. Members of Kiss had mean looking rifles pointed at the knot of people gathered. Eartha and the band were wrapping up Kiss Me Deadly but were being watched too. A guy with shorthair and makeup looked to be giving orders. He pointed at his watch, then at the booth, then at the floor. Scott ducked back and went to the closet. “Something’s going on. There’re guys with guns out there. Like military ones.” Scott waved a hand at the window. The Sound Guy leaned back. “Hey man, I just work here. He crossed his arms. “We gotta do something!” Scott said. No,” The Sound Guy shook his head. “We don’t.” Scott sighed. “Fine. I have to get out there and do something, but the door’s covered and it’s a long way down to the floor. “You got those keys?” “Yeah.” Scott patted his jacket pocket. “On the other wall is an access hatch. It’s got a ladder that goes up to the roof, and down to the main floor.” He pointed at Scott’s pocket. “Key for it’s on there.” “Then what am I supposed to do?” “Put the chair back against the door when you leave. The Sound Guy closed the closet door. “Mother Fucker.” Scott said. He paused and pulled the door open again. “What now?” The Sound Guy said. “Give me your monitor,” Scott said yanking the black box off The Sound Guy’s belt and pulling the headset off by the wire. “Hey!” The Sound Guy’s Detroit Tigers hat flew off, and Scott closed the door again, making sure to wedge the chair back. # Elaine wailed on her guitar in the middle of Ronald Raygun Wants to Nuke the World - a ‘cover’ of Tears for Fears - Scott’s voice jumped in her ear. “Eartha!” Eartha jerked, her pick dragged across the strings, and she said, “Scott!” Gene and the Shredds looked at her, and she continued to scrape the strings, screaming. “Scott Free! I wanna be Scott Free, you dumb rear end cowboy!” Shaking his head and Gene looked away again. Eartha looked around. Dillon and Siouxshe were looking at her funny. She mouthed Scott at them and motioned at her ear with her shoulder. Siouxshe rolled her eyes. “I’ve got your monitor don’t say anything or they’ll hear you.” Scott’s voice said, tinny a small in her ear. “No, poo poo!” Eartha sang and followed up with a chant of ‘No poo poo!’ working it into the song. “Ha ha, very funny.” He said. “Look, I’m in the basement. I was trapped in the booth, but I got out and I could have gone to the roof or the basement, and I figured they’d have guys on the roof, so I went down here hoping to find a way out, but they have all the doors chained. They’ve been wheeling cartloads of equipment cases through here, but nobody’s come out again. Are you okay?” Eartha sang, “Ronald Raygun, wants to Nuke the world, WHAT DO YOU THINK?” “Okay!” Just let me figure something out.” “Ronald Raygun should have the cops called on him!” “I’m working on it! I’m going to see what they’re doing, don’t go anywhere.” Eartha finished the song out and said into the mic, “Oh yeah. That’s so funny. Hey, we were going to play Just loving Do Something next,” “Are you okay?” Dillon whispered behind her, and she hissed him off. “But instead, we’re going to do everyone’s favor-ite Christmas Song, Santa’s Drunk. Again. Ready? On four …” # The basement was quiet, other than the floor above thrumming with bass. Which means it wasn’t very quiet. But at least there weren’t any goons in sight. Scott was hidden behind an old defunct boiler, smelling of rust and damp concrete. This would make a great place to shoot a video if they lived through it. Across the way, the wardrobe and prop room was open, double metal doors swung ajar. He craned to see in, looking for movement. A couple feet away, a wardrobe cart stood, brightly colored costumes hung on a brass upside-down U shape. It was on wheels. He tiptoed awkwardly over and ducked behind it. He waited. Nothing. Tiptoeing sucked, why do people say that he had almost lost his balance twice. Using the cart as mile cover, he slowly made his way to the double doors. Inside was every style of clothes, you could imagine flapper dresses, cowboy outfits, pinstriped suits, roman armor, Viking first and helmets, marching band outfits, uniforms, furs, leathers, skins, and even what looked like a big pink bunny suit. They had an extra section of Santa Claus costumes. And hats! Every type of hat he ever saw, and a lot he hadn’t. He turned down the monitor headset, afraid the sound may carry through the room. After making sure nobody was around, he made his way into the room. Racks upon racks made perfect hiding, but also, he was wary he might not see anyone in there himself. Scott saw handles sticking out of a bin and he stopped and pulled one out. Swords! He grabbed a few by the hilt, but they were all obviously wooden or plastic. In the next bin over, he found samurai swords. And they were metal! Now we were talking. He pulled one out of its scabbard and looked at the blade. Cheap and dull. Crudely fashioned like the stores in the malls that sold “Authentic Oriental Goods.” Probably just was well. He wasn’t a ninja or anything, what was he going to do? There didn’t appear to be any other way out, so he came around the row, and made for the doors again. There was a cluster of desks in the middle of the room, fabric and plastic, and boxes, and stuff all over the tops of them. A box next to the desk contained an assortment of guns. He picked one up - a shiny western six shooter. It had heft. Maybe it shot blanks. He fiddled with it until he got the cylinders open. They weren’t real. They were the end of them were capped in plastic painted to look like bullets were inside. One of them had a small brass object stuck in it, and he pried it off. It was blackened and smelled like gunpowder, but it was clearly some kind of noise making cap, kind of like the toy guns he had growing up, but much fancier. If he brought it, would anyone really believe he had a real gun? Doubtful. Maybe they’d be so busy laughing, he could run away. He set the gun on the desk, noticing a blueprint laid out. It was old, really old. It looked authentic. He studied it. He thought the large building was the theater, maybe - it was the right shape. He looked for and found the architect’s block. MAJESTIC THEATER, 1925. He noticed a long passageway off one side that ran behind the row of stores on the same block. They weren’t marked but did have walls and interior rooms marked out. Someone had scrawled BANK and circled it with a ballpoint pen on the building directly next to the theater. Except there wasn’t a bank there. It was Stan’s Collectibles and Comics. It was funny because the guy who owned it was an old Chinese guy named Stan Li. There were two Xs marked over walls. One in the theater, and one in the back wall of the Comic shop. He looked closer. It looked like there had been a vault there at one time. Was it still there? Would it still have money? Every instinct told him to run, but as far as he could find there were only two exits from the basement that might lead outside, and both were chained and padlocked. He was sure that was a fire code violation. He could go back up and try to get to the roof, but that was probably suicide, or he could try to sneak out the lobby, and that was definitely suicide. Oh god, he should have worked out instead of playing Atari all the time. Or gone running. Or taken Karate. All he had was the way he was. But he was scared and could run really fast if he needed to. The corridor in the blueprint didn’t show all the way down the block - it was cut off, but that hallway had to go somewhere. Maybe he could get out. He couldn’t just stand there. You have the tools; you have the talent - It’s milla time! He turned up the volume of the monitor and said, “Eartha, I’m going to try something. I don’t know if it will work, but if it doesn’t, just know that” he sighed. “Dillon’s a douche and you’re totally too good for him.” He turned the volume down again before she said anything. Scott took a few deep breaths and pounded his chest. He reached over and grabbed a prop gun, a pistol submachine gun. This one looked better. Maybe he could bluff his way out if it came down to it. # ““Dillon’s a douche and you’re totally too good for him.” She stumbled on the words to X-Ray Bondage and laughed out the next line. “What the gently caress is wrong with you?” She sang “Don’t do anything stupid!” Her father and sister watched her. Even from here, she could see they had strange expressions on their faces. She wondered if she could work her way over to the front of the stage before anyone noticed. And then what? They kept playing but ran out of originals and had to do more covers -simple ones they could fake their way through. Only seventeen and she was already a sell-out. Her arms ached and her throat was sore. She could play longer, but the tension was sapping her more quickly. During Sugar Sugar by the Archies, she began to sing, “Scott what is going on?” During the chorus. Gene looked at her again. He raised his walkie talkie and said something into it. The volume of the music dropped to human levels, mercifully, and now she heard her ears ringing. He came up the stage-right stairs and wandered over to her. He stood, staring at her for a minute. Then he looked at the drum machine, and then around the stage. “Why don’t you use your drum machine?” He said, loud enough for her to hear. She looked at him, then looked away. She let her hair droop over the side of her face. He bent down and looked up at her. “Eh? Why don’t you use your drum machine? Maybe you are missing a drummer?” Eartha shook her head and turned away. Gene was in front of her again. “Maybe Scott is your drummer? Do you think I don’t know words to songs? Do you think you are clever? Who is Scott?” Eartha glared back, then sang into the mic ignoring him. Gene drew close and spoke into the walkie talkie, making sure she heard. “We may have a loose band member. Keep an eye out. He might go by ‘Scott.’” She stared into the seats. What the hell was he doing? He’s going to get himself and us killed. # The basement wall of the theater had a big hole in it, and cartwheel tracks went through the dust and debris into the tunnel beyond. Someone had broken out the cinderblock wall, revealing the passageway makes in the blueprints. The corridor was dimly lit - the overhead bulbs looked ancient, and Scott was surprised they even worked. He went into the corridor and heard voices ahead. Slowly working his way forward, he came upon another broken out wall, this one must lead into the basement of Stan’s Comics. The voices were louder now, just ahead. Carts of crates were gathered in the interior hallway. He hesitated, sweating. Should he keep going, or try to get past whoever was in there, and get outside to get help? The corridor was probably a dead end too. If someone had walled it up, they would have walled up the far end too. He didn’t know why, but guessed when the buildings were bought, someone must have done it then. It had to be the comic shop. He hefted the prop gun. His hands were wet with sweat, and he hoped he wouldn’t drop it. Scott was about to start forward, when a man appeared in the shop hallway, walked over to the carts, and wheeled one back with him. Now, it had to be now. He started forward, slowing when he got to the junction the man had come out. Peeking his head around the corner, he squinted into bright light. It was a vault. Shop lights illuminated the vault entrance and the large steel door. Tools littered the floor. A stethoscope hung from one of the handled on the large round door mechanism that looked like an old sailing ship wheel. Several men were in the vault rummaging around, loading things into the crates on the cart. “What the hell is this crap?” One guy said. “I thought we were doing a big hit.” “We are,” someone replied. Do you know how much this stuff is worth? Look at this - Mickey Mantle’s jersey. And his baseball cards. You see that? That’s Superman number one.” “Yeah? So?” “So, doofus, this stuff is worth a fortune!” Ah, so that was what they were doing. Breaking into Stan’s and using the bands as cover. Time to get some help. He stepped forward and he heard, “Hey!” One of the men in the vault was pointing at him. Scott swung the pop gun at him. “Stay back! Hands up!” The man slowly complied, looking to other side at other men Scott couldn’t see. “You stay there. Nobody move.” Scott’s voice cracked. He held the prop gun out and willed his hands not to shake, but they did, and the barrel of the gun wavered. The man started to lower his hands and Scott stepped forward. “I said don’t move!” The man froze. “What are you going to do, kid? Huh?” Yeah, Scott what are you going to do? “Come on kid, drop the gun and maybe you and everyone else gets out alive.” Scott hesitated. The sound of a walkie talkie crackled but he couldn’t make out the words. The man’s face softened, and he smiled like a cat watching a canary. “Hey, are you Scott?” “What?” Scott squeaked. “No, I don’t know who Scott is.” “Uh huh, sure, listen Scott, put the gun down. You might shoot me, but I got four other guys in here.” He looked around at whoever Scott couldn’t see. “You can’t get us all.” Glancing around, Scott spied the stethoscope again. If they had used that. If they didn’t ruin the lock— The man saw Scott’s gaze and lunged toward the opening. Scott dropped the gun, grabbed the edge of the vault door, and pushed with all his might, which wasn’t considerable. Still, the door was well counterweighted, and massive. He had physics in his favor. The man hit the door and tried to stop it, but he might as well be trying to push a train and the door slammed closed anyway. Scott spun the wheel, and he heard the mechanism engage with a thunk. Muffled shouting came from behind the door. Leaning against the door, Scott allowed himself to catch his breath. The steel felt cool, and pleasant, but he didn’t have a lot of time. He let go of the door and waited to see if it swung back out, but it stayed in place. Good. He slid the prop gun under a cart and headed for the front of the store and the telephone. # Eartha shouted at Letters to Nancy to get up and play, but the three of them just say with their heads down. She had started again on original songs, and her fingers ached. She stopped singing two songs ago. “Hey Gene,” she said into the mic. “How long we gotta do this?” Gene fiddled with the walkie talkie. Turned dials, it the side a couple times. “What? I can barely hear you. What happened? What door?” He practically shouted into it. “Gene?” She said into the mic. He pointed at her. “You shut up! You play as long as we need!” As long as they need? She wondered what he would do if they just stopped playing. Risky but worth a try. They probably wouldn’t Shoot everyone, or even anyone if they needed Eartha to play for some reason. She stopped. Siouxshe’s played another couple notes and stopped. Dillon came up behind her. “What the hell are you doing?” “What the hell are you doing?” Gene yelled and stormed up the stairs again. “Play, drat you!” “Screw you, man. I ain’t playing poo poo no more.” Eartha said. “Why, you,” Gene marched across the stage at her. She heard loud clatters behind her, and she looked back. The goons in the back of the stage had both tossed their weapons and slid them off into the wings. “Eartha.” Scott’s voice wasn’t in the monitor this time. He stepped around one of the goons and prodded him forward with something. He motioned at the other who started forward as well. Gene stopped, eyes bulging. “What the gently caress are you two doing?” The goon Scott escorted looked sheepish and thumbed back at Scott, who waved the machine pistol. “Where the gently caress did you get that?” Eartha said. Gene looked from one goon to the other, and then squinted at Scott. He burst into a fit of laughter. “Oh, this is precious. You’re Scott, aren’t you?” “Maybe.” Scott said sounding defensive. He pointed the machine pistol at Gene. “Stand down.” Gene laughed again, “‘Stand Down’ he says, oh my this is the best thing I’ve ever seen.” Tears made rivulets in his makeup. He pointed at the goons. “You two are morons. Look at what he’s got, it’s a toy gun!” “No, it’s not. I’ll shoot.” Scott’s voice broke. Gene was turning red now. “Stop it, stop it. You’re killing me!” He reached behind him and pulled a pistol from the back of his costume belt and pointed it at Scott, becoming serious. “Put the toy down, Scott.” Gene walked forward keeping the pistol pointed at Scott’s face.” “Scott, do as he says,” Dillon said. “Shut up, Dillon.” Scott said. Eartha said, “Scott, really, do as he says. It was a good try, but don’t get yourself killed.” Scott pointed the machine pistol at Gene, who came on without wavering. They stopped facing each other, Gene’s pistol held with precision, and Scott’s weapon shaking in his hand. Scott let out a breath and dropped the prop gun. “Good boy,” Gene said. “DON’T MOVE! HANDS UP! THIS IS THE POLICE, DON’T MOVE!” voices barked, and Eartha heard dozens of heavy footsteps. She looked around, and police in Tactical gear moved in through every door with precision. The Shredds hesitated, then threw down their weapons and were forced to the ground and handcuffed. She looked back and Gene still held the pistol trained on Scott. “Hey Gene! It’s over. You lost.” She said. “It’s not over batgirl,” Gene said. I can still shoot Scott here. That will at least be some satisfaction for me, don’t you think? I have listened to your caterwauling and wailing, and screeching all night and — “ An electric guitar came down on Gene’s head with a loud thunk and broke in two. Gene crumpled, instantly, head bloody, his eyes rolled back into his head. The pistol clattered to the floor. Eartha stood over him, breathing heavy. “She’s loving CATWOMAN!” She shouted and spat. She looked at the instrument. “drat, I broke my guitar.” Scott stared for a second and yelled, “He could have shot me!” “But he didn’t” she said. “He could have!” “But he didn’t!” Scott looked at her. “You saved my life.” Eartha said, “You saved mine.” They hugged each other tight for a minute. They pulled apart and Scott looked into her eyes. Eartha said, “If you go in for a kiss, I’m breaking Siouxshe’s bass over your head.” “Hey! Siouxshe said. A police officer came up to them, “Are you kids okay?” “Yes, Officer,” Eartha said. “We’re not hurt. Although him—” she nudged Gene with a combat boot, and he groaned. She missed her chance to get him with her boot. The officer picked up the prop gun. “Where did you learn how to handle these, son?” Scott blushed. ‘Oh, that’s just some prop I picked up. Didn’t fool him though.” The officer turned the machine pistol around, flicked the safety on, and ejected the magazine. He showed the bullets to them. “Nope, it’s real, and the safety was off. Lucky you didn’t kill someone.” Scott went pale. “It … was … real?” He turned, doubled over, and vomited. Eartha shook her head. “My big drat hero.” -- Fini --
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Jul 31, 2023 03:27
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Week 53: Horrors of History Extreme Flash: Everything is far too bright for comfort 26 Seconds in Dallas 1287 words Removed. Check the archive. QuoProQuid fucked around with this message at 03:07 on Nov 2, 2023 |
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Jul 31, 2023 03:45
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Surf and Stones Prompt: Week 414, this sound Extreme Flash: No human characters over 13 years old 1762 words Fwoosh-crash, blurble-hiss, crash. The pounding surf slammed into the great, craggy stones of the beach, white spray arcing through the air. Echoing crash gave way to the soft sound of water dancing across pebble and sand, over and over as regular as a metronome. In the moments between waves the stiff breeze set the stand of pine trees above the beach to creaking and swaying, adding their own sibilant hiss in counterpoint to the sea. Whirr-CRACK A hurled stone flew through the air and ricocheted off one of the larger rocks lying half-submerged in the tide, landing in the water with a sad Plorp And sinking down to the sea-bed. Steph scowled. She was mad. She was mad that her shoulders were beginning to redden and crisp under the merciless sun. She was mad that she was lagging behind the group of kids roaming the landscape of sand and cyclopean rocks that made up this stretch of Maine coastline. She was mad she couldn’t get these dumb stones to skip across the water. But mostly she was mad that she was twelve years old. It seemed, to her, a stupid age to be. You weren’t a little kid anymore, with all the leeway given to them, and you weren’t a teen, ready for the extra responsibilities she was sure they got. Ben, her brother, was a year older than her. This year he’d been allowed to invite up some of his friends from school for the last weekend of vacation. They were a knot of sunburned skin and acne in bright-colored bathing suits a few dozen yards ahead of her. She thought about calling out again, telling them to wait for her, but she decided against it. Even if they could hear her over the surf they wouldn’t listen. The wind carried back to her the sound of the older kids’ laughter. It had a brittle edge of cruelty to it that adults seemed not to hear. Fwoosh-crash, burble-hiss, fwoosh-CRASH The tide was coming in rapidly. The boys had strayed further ahead while Steph had stewed and looked for more stones to throw. The briney water had filled in a depression between the cliff-like rocks that separated her from her brother and his friends. She knew she could get across it, she was a strong swimmer, but she wasn’t sure she cared to try. She picked her way across the mass of granite, scattered with broken seashells. A long summer spent outdoors had left the soles of her feet thick and hard as old leather, so she had no difficulty reaching the jutting promontory facing the sea. She sat on the sun-baked rock, a little pile of stones and pebbles beside her and began to throw them. Whiiirrr. Plorp She frowned, threw another. Whiirrr. Plorp. The sea swallowed it. Whirr-CRACK. Plorp That one deflected off a mostly submerged tower of rock. But still no skip. She sighed. Her anger at Ben and his friends was leeching away, aiming towards herself. Ben had been able to get at least three or four skips since he was eight. Even Lauren, their little cousin, could do it. So why couldn’t Steph? It seemed like just one more thing she couldn’t do, no matter how hard she tried; one more way she didn’t fit. Her grades had been mediocre this year, and she’d stopped getting invited to slumber parties with the other girls in her class. She hadn’t enjoyed them much anyway, not since they’d become all about breathlessly giggling over the boys in the magazines. She didn’t get what the big deal with boys was. Her only real skills were swimming and an encyclopedic knowledge of Sailor Moon lore. Sailor Saturn was her favorite. She frowned and threw another rock. Whiirrr-CRACK. Plorp. “You’re holding your wrist too straight.” Steph started so hard she almost fell off her perch. She looked frantically around the shore; no one was there. “And that stone’s too round. You want them nice and flat.” Steph turned back to the water. About half a dozen yards beyond the surf there was a roughly square tower of dark rock (she vaguely thought it might be basalt) and leaning on the other side of it, with just her head and arms visible, was a woman. She was pale, like she’d never seen the sun, and her eyes were large and dark. Her hair was long and silver blue. She smiled and her teeth were the color of pearls. “Oh,” Said Steph. “Ok. Um. My name’s Stephanie, but you can call me Steph.” “Pleased to meet you. I’m Undine.” Steph furrowed her brow. “What kind of name is that?” “An old one. Try it again, with a flat rock. Keep your wrist loose, let the stone roll off your index finger as you throw it.” Steph sorted through her small pile of stones until she found one that was oblong and mostly flat. She held it horizontally and threw it side-arm like she’d seen her brother do, trying to keep her wrist loose. Whiirr. Plorp. Steph cursed. For some reason having a pretty woman watch her fail made it feel much, much worse. But Undine just laughed. It sounded like the silvery trill of the waves receding through the mass of stones and pebbles at the water’s edge. She dove into the water, a lithe, pale shape in the dark blue-green sea. She came back up near the probably-basalt tower again with a round, flat stone in her hand. Her fingers were long and thin, Steph noticed, and had pronounced webbing between them. Probably some sort of skin condition, she thought; it would be rude to mention it. Undine pushed herself around the edge of the towering rock so Steph could clearly see her right shoulder and arm. Steph noticed that she was naked from the waist up, her long, wet hair clinging to her skin. She found this intriguing in a distant way she didn’t fully understand. But it had nothing to do with skipping rocks, so she put it aside. Another great wave came rolling in Fwoosh-CRASH, burble hiss, CRASH soaking Steph’s legs with seafoam. She noticed Undine barely moved, riding the swell with the unconscious grace that Steph would use to cross an uneven sidewalk. She waited for the lull between waves, when the water calmed for a moment to only the gentlest swell. “Watch my arm closely,” said Undine, rearing her arm back and to the side, ropey muscles moving under her pale skin. She whipped her arm around, supple and swift, in a loose arc that culminated in a flick of the wrist. The stone went coursing away. Whirr, thwip-thwip-thwip-thwip, plornk it danced across the water four times before sinking. Steph clapped her hands in delight, and the older woman beamed her pearly smile. “See? It’s easy. You just have to stay loose until that final flick.” “Where did you learn to do that?” asked Steph. “Right here, a long time ago. A young sailor taught me.” “Do you come here often? I’ve never seen you around here before. We come every summer.” “I know, I’ve seen you. I live here, year round. I usually come up here at night, but I heard you throwing stones and came to check it out.” She shrugged and the sun flashed on something on her shoulders and clavicle. It was some silvery pattern, almost like scales. It must be a tattoo or something, Steph thought. “Oh. Sorry. Which house is yours?” Undine smiled again, “I’m afraid you can’t see my house from here.” Steph wasn’t sure what to say to that. She seemed to be getting tongue-tied with this mysterious stranger. She looked around for her brother and his friends, saw them disappearing around the end of the point, crawling over the rocks like the spider monkeys in that nature documentary they’d watched the night before. She hopped down from her perch, splashing up to her waist in the water and began to gather more stones, looking for flat ones. “You’re not like your brother and his friends,” Undine said, following her gaze. “I’ve watched you both over the years. He’s afraid of the sea. He’ll get in the water, but he’s never comfortable. He doesn’t stay. He doesn’t play. You do. Why is that?” Steph thought that maybe she should find it creepy that this woman had watched her family for years, but she was weirdly flattered by the attention. “I don’t know. I guess I just feel… at home here. I like the freedom in the water. I don’t feel clumsy or out of place there. Mom says I’m a natural swimmer. I guess I just fit here, where I don’t elsewhere.” “Yes, I suppose you do.” Undine’s dark eyes held hers for a long moment. There was something in them, some emotion that Steph couldn’t articulate or understand. She felt seen, down to her breath and bones. She took a step forward, deeper into the water. Undine arced herself around to the far side of the basalt tower. Steph noticed she kicked her way through the water like a dolphin, both legs together. Another silvery flash under the water. Maybe more tattoos, or some type of swimwear, she wasn’t sure. “I’ve got to go now, Steph. But it was nice to meet you. Keep practicing.” “Will I see you around again?” “Yes,” said Undine, flashing that smile one last time, “I suspect you will.” And then she dove under the waves, the splash of her passage covered by the soft susurrus of the waves receding through the rocks. The woman must have champion lungs, Steph thought, good enough to stay under until she reached the next outcropping of rocks because she never saw her surface for air. Steph looked down at the stones in her hands. She carefully selected one. It was flat and round and smooth. It was warm from the sun, and its texture put her in mind of an unripe peach: hard, but with a plush roughness. She held it loosely, her index finger along the edge of it, just like Undine had done. Fwoosh-CRASH, burble-hiss, fwoosh She waited for that calm moment between the waves when the surface of the water would be smooth as glass, and then she whipped her arm around, loose and supple until the instant of that last flicking motion. Whirrr, thwip-thwip-thwip-thwip, plonk-CRASH The stone danced across the sea until the swelling waves swallowed it. Their crash against the rocks was almost loud enough to drown out her cry of triumph
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Jul 31, 2023 04:23
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A Change of Perspective. Week 211: Next-Best Friend Week Extreme Flash Rule: Someone in your story has an epiphany that changes everything. Words: 2807 They just showed up one day, and humans are if nothing else supremely good at adapting to new things. Especially when they’re cute. And helpful. Or at least when they seem to try to be helpful. Especially, especially, when said cute and seemingly helpful new things make great pets. To stop beating around the bush let’s just jump to where it started: In a bush. One day, roughly within what might be called the “modern era”, a child saw what could only be called a large, furry, caterpillar in a bush. It wasn’t a caterpillar, not even a particularly large one, and it was a particularly large looking “something”, just not a caterpillar. No, it was entirely new. The child, as children do, reached out to pet this new thing. It made a soft sort of cooing sound at the feeling of being pet, it didn’t seem to have much of a mouth, though it did have two very large, very cute, eyes which looked up at this child petting it with what could only be called “joy”. And then it was briefly gone. It didn’t run away, or rather scrunch like a caterpillar would, no if it were to move in a terrestrial manner it would be more like a waddle. But it didn’t do that either, it was just gone. If the child were paying enough attention, as many later on would, it would have seen a small “poof” of light as the new something was suddenly no longer there. But it wasn’t gone for long. It came back quickly as it had disappeared, and it brought a friend. These strange new certainly not caterpillars ended up with the name “Langpelsby”. This is because the child was Norwegian, and their favorite toy at the time was their Furby. So this furry little elongated thing reminded them of a “Long Furby”. Again: They were a child. Within short order these Langpelsby (Or Langs, or Pels) became one of the most beloved pets, easily surpassing dogs and cats for one simple reason: they were very good at being helpful. Their odd little habit of being able to teleport meant they would get around much easier than other pets. They were also far too smart, smarter than dolphins and pigs. They picked up on what their owners would be doing and learned how to help. They couldn’t cook a meal for you, but if you were cooking, they could poof something for you out of the refrigerator so you didn’t need to go get it. They were also a lot cleaner than other pets. No one ever figured out where they went when they poofed, but it never seemed to be anywhere on earth (unless they were going, specifically, to somewhere on earth) but wherever that somewhere was it seemed to be where they preferred to do their “business”. And everyone was alright with that. There was one problem though: they had a bad habit. What one could call “The Terrible Twos”. The Langs were so helpful for so long that most people just assumed they got tired of it, or that what most people understood as their early form from “birth” when most adopted them was a juvenile phase. Eventually infants turn into toddlers, and toddlers get fussy and throw tantrums. Most people, at this point, gave up. They dropped them off at shelters, and the cruel ones just left them in the wild or moved away without their Langs. They could be retrained easily enough, it just took time, though after “The Terrible Twos” the Langs never really seemed to last long anyways. They were always very lethargic and docile, still helpful just not quite as helpful as in their younger days. They were perfect as pets for the elderly and infirm, but the magic also seemed to go out, and soon they went all together as well. It’s always sad when a pet dies, especially a short lived one. But they were very helpful. And that’s where Julia comes in. Julia needed something, which was the only thing her therapist could ever get out of her. “I just need something...” she would start and end her sessions with. “I just need something to get me motivated.” She would say when talking about missing deadlines. “I just need something to help me eat better.” Julia would lament when talking about diet attempts. “I just need something to help me be more social.” The terrible patient who never followed any advice or professional instruction given to her would complain after once again not following any advice or instruction. “You need a pet.” Said the Therapist. “Get a pet. Get a Langs. That’s something. That’s something that needs to be fed, that needs to go outside, that needs stimulation, something that will probably help you do even ONE thing I’ve suggested you do over the last three years.” “Aren’t pets a lot of work?” Julia whined as usual. “Not a Langs. Honestly it’ll probably take care of you more than you’ll be taking care of it.” Retorted the therapist, eyeing the clock. “Do you think I can use my FSA for that?” “We’re out of time. See you in three weeks.” Julia could not, in fact, use an FSA account to pay for a pet. Maybe a service animal, but not a pet. So Julia ended up with a pretty little Langs she named “Shelby”. An extra fluffy, white, roughly 3ft long Langs with large green eyes and a coo which sounded like a child blowing bubbles in a bathtub. Julia went with a new Langs for the same reason everyone does, it was supposed to be more fun, and helpful, and she wasn’t interested in having a pet that was going to die soon. She did worry about how quickly “The Terrible Twos” might arrive, but the helpful vet she brought Shelby to for her initial check up told her it was just a name, it wasn’t on any sort of real schedule, sometimes it took upwards of 6-7 years for them to arrive, and on average it was more like 4-5 years. As Julia sat in her arm chair, petting Shelby, she realized: She’d already done something. She’d taken Shelby to the vet. Julia hadn’t even been to her own doctor in two years for a check up. And just like that she decided she should, no she would, make an appointment. Shelby grumbled as Julia lifted her up in order to go get her phone, but quickly forgave her. Responsibility for another living thing is a great way to realize one’s responsibility to themself. Assuming they are capable of being responsible at all, otherwise things get nasty. Julia had been the latter. But when your pet is just so damned helpful, it can be easy to slip up and become the former. Reaching for her phone one night to order Indian food, Julia couldn’t find it. Julia looked in all the right places, then the wrong ones, then she looked for Shelby who had it. Shelby didn’t give it back to Julia and that made her worry that “The Terrible Twos” had started far too soon. Shelby would poof away when Julia tried to grab the phone. When Julia managed to catch Shelby, the phone was poofed away somewhere else. Hearing it clatter in the living room, Julia dropped Shelby, carefully, and ran around the corner to see it sitting on the coffee table. And just as Julia was about to grab it, Shelby poofed it away again, replacing it with a can of diced tomatoes. “Very funny. Please give me my phone back.” Julia grumbled as she walked back into the kitchen to return the can of tomatoes to the cupboard. “Brrblblblblb.” cooed Shelby. “I’m going to assume that meant ‘cook something healthy at home’ or something. Nope, please give me my phone.” Shelby instead poofed a box of spaghetti onto the counter next to the stove, along with the same can of tomatoes, a few boxes of spices, and then a pot poofed into the sink before poofing herself over to nudge the faucet on. “I’ll boil you, if you don’t give me my phone back.” Julia growled. Shelby just poofed the phone into her mouth. “Don’t.” Warned Julia. Shelby held the phone over the filling pot. “Doooooon’t.” Pleaded Julia. Shelby started to “fumble” the phone in her mouth. “OK FINE!” Shelby liked Julia’s pasta. Julia liked it too. Though she didn’t like how messy the sauce made Shelby look. So a bath was in order, and if Julia was being honest, she needed one too. Hygiene had been a bit of a chore lately. Dry shampoo only works so well for so long. Doubly so for deodorant. It wasn’t that big of a deal since she worked remote, but it did keep her home. She didn’t want to be outside feeling so grimy or smelling badly. Score two for Shelby. That’s how it went. Shelby was almost literally a furry little Jiminy Cricket. It didn’t seem to take her very long to learn Julia’s bad habits, and Shelby was just so damned helpful. Annoyingly so. If Julia let work pile up, there was Shelby, curling up on top of the pile staring right into her soul. If Julia procrastinated, Shelby would poof the distraction away until Julia herself knew it was done, done well, and turned in. It was like Shelby was psychic. Maybe the little Langs was. No matter how sneaky Julia thought she was being, Shelby seemed to know if she wasn’t being her best self. Yearly reviews were coming up as well. Julia dreaded those. While she did good work before, and especially now with her little drill sergeant on her case all the time, Julia was terrible at representing herself. She was always just happy to get through them without being fired. The web meeting dial tone rang as she stared at the accept call notification. Hovering over the mouse button, not wanting to start it at all. Then Shelby laid over her hand forcing it down as she cuddled up on Julia with her big, bubble cooing eyes staring at her. “Oh, Julia, I expected to have to call a second time. Good to see you.” Said Julia’s manager, William. “Ha, uh, yes. Well I’m here.” She squeaked. “Yes. Let’s do this quickly shall we.” William said without looking at the camera. “You’ve done well, better than last year. We are happy with your work…..” William droned on. All the usual corporate platitudes, minimal acknowledgements of work done, and vacuous statements deflecting requests for advancement. It wasn’t worth it, the work, the effort. It didn’t matter. Julia zoned out just as much as William was in this 10th or 20th checkbox of a meeting of his today. “Expectations were nominally met…..2.5% raise is standard….” William droned on. It’s not enough. It doesn't matter. The walls blurred in Julia’s vision. She was sinking right back into the same old tunnel she always entered when these meetings happened. 2.5% as always. Less than half of inflation, hell it was less than a quarter what her rent was expected to go up by. It didn’t matter. It never matters. William is just seeing numbers on a spreadsheet. “I’m just numbers” Julia thought. Then Shelby knocked over a stack of papers on Julia’s desk. A postcard from Bali slid on top of her keyboard. It was from her sister, who had been there on her honeymoon. Julia really wanted to visit. She really wanted to vacation there. She wanted the extra money to be able to visit. She wanted more vacation time to be able to visit. She wanted more. She really wanted it, but she wasn’t going to get it. William mumbled on. Julia stared at the postcard. Shelby knocked over some more papers. A budget sheet Julia had made slid over the postcard. It had charted out a series of dead accounts and outstanding invoices. She had analyzed and done a deep dive into the company’s revenue accounts and found easily hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of outstanding revenue and areas that could be cut to save money. And it had! She easily paid for a vacation with what she found. Several vacations! “Actually. William. Do you remember the revenue analysis I did in March?” Julia chimed. “I, umm, do not, I don’t see that…” Sputtered William. “I saved us hundreds of thousands of dollars. I deserve more than 2.5%.” Julia asserted. She was surprised at herself. “I uh….” “I deserve more.” Julia insisted. “Let’s um… One second.” William cut off the call. William, it turns out, had no clue what Julia was talking about. William, it turns out, was not actually doing his job. Julia, forwarded the report above William’s head. William, while he was in charge of said revenue analysis, never sent it along to where it was supposed to go, hand waving the lack of report on his underlings, not even remembering who he had passed it off to. Thankfully, the findings of the report were more than valid still, and saved the company far more than the estimate Julia had come up with just based on current expenses and outstanding revenue. It also landed Julia the job that was now formerly William’s. Shelby got a big helping of pasta that night. So it went. Shelby would be the exact right kind of brat needed. She didn’t need to do as much lately, Julia was doing quite well. New job, new friends, more money. It wasn’t easy, sure, but then again, it wasn’t easy before. It just sucked more. So while Shelby certainly made more work for Julia, she couldn’t be happier. Unfortunately, there is a season for everything. Also unfortunately, sometimes the season’s take a bad turn. Shelby couldn’t have helped much now. Julia had suddenly started having terrible headaches. Migraines, sinus pressure, splitting, blinding pains. She went to the doctors. She tried whatever treatments they suggested. But nothing worked. She blamed it on the job, but even that didn’t seem like a good enough cause. The doctors never found much. Julia was worried it could be a brain tumor, but nothing ever showed up. The only thing that helped ease the pain was fuzzy little Shelby, curling up on her as she laid in a dark room trying to outlast the episodes. They started short, usually after work or after going out, anything that had involved her being involved, thinking, or doing anything. Then they persisted longer, more frequently. She’d find herself running home after an event, almost racing the coming pain, to find Shelby waiting for her at her front door to be picked up and whisked to the bed. It had been a month now, She couldn’t work. She couldn’t leave the apartment. She could only focus on Shelby, laying on her and cooing. Julia would slip in and out of consciousness, lights dancing in her mind, or her eyes, she couldn’t tell. Julia needed water. She tried to get up but Shelby wouldn’t get off her, the Langs was practically wrapped around her neck like a fuzzy necklace. Julia stumbled to the kitchen. Shelby poofed them back to the bedroom. Julia’s head spun. She tried to crawl to the bathroom. Poof again. Julia blacked out. It wasn’t clear how long she had been out. The headache was gone for now. The dark bedroom looked weird from the floor, Julia needed to get her bearings. Nothing seemed to work right. Julia couldn’t seem to get her hands or legs under her, maybe it was a stroke? She did her best to move around, settling for some kind of ungainly waddle. She wasn’t sure where her phone was, or even if she could use it right if it were a stroke, and where was Shelby? Everything in the room seemed so tall. Then the lights shocked on as if lightning had filled the room. Julia stared at herself looming above. Looking down at her with cold eyes. “We are just so helpful, aren’t we?” Julia said to herself before sliding open the closet and proceeding to pack a few things into her own suitcase. A bright pink one with a floral print. She had bought it specially for her trip to Bali. The last few weeks she hadn’t been sure she would be able to make the trip due to the headaches. Julia was frozen watching herself pack. The final bits and bobs tucked away, the zipper buzzing closed. She watched herself slide the closet door closed, and in the mirrored face, she saw Shelby. On the floor. “Julia” turned the lights out as she left.
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Jul 31, 2023 05:19
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Week 555: New Blood for the Blood God - life details merged with the fantastical. Flash: Something has made a pet very happy Wordcount: 1954 Broken Promises It's five thirty in the morning and I am at my desk, armed with coffee and a pregnant dressing gown, refactoring a long-term coding project when the invisible faerie dragon appears. 'Appears' may be overstating things a little. It's invisible, after all. But it's there, behind me, like it has been every morning for days, lurking, flittering, up to its own nefarious business about which I have no clue because invisible. Sometimes I think I see it pass in a 'corner of my eye' type deal, just a hint of light refraction as if from a shimmering, translucent wing. Mostly it's just floating behind me like it's paying rent in the back of my mind. Every 5:30 am like clockwork, which it technically is, the big hand of the battery powered wall clock points directly to hell and the invisible dragon is there. No invitation, no fanfare. You might not even notice… …Except its presence has begun to permeate my work, seeping through like an infusion of herbal tea laced with psilocybin. In recent days I have seen my concentration devolve into fantasies of forests, deep and green and eldritch, filled with shifting glades and pockets of the wildest magic. My research morphs into tab after tab of mythologies I have sufficient ethnic quantum to guiltlessly appropriate - filled with warnings about crossing the fae folk, or dissing the kindly ones. Even my coffee tastes like a potion, steeped with the qualities of dream rather than a quantity of caffeine. All fascinating stuff, all clues as to the identity of the culprit, but none of it is finishing the project in front of me. Deadlines loom like lost souls, heartbroken and afraid that I no longer care about their desperate need to be obeyed. This time, however, I am prepared. My trap is set. Speedball is curled up above the sash of my dressing gown and, until this moment, happily partaking of my body heat in the early absence of any other kind, giving off contented vibrations in the peace and quiet that only exists before daybreak. Speedball, I should add, is of the cat, and like most of her ilk, is well known for two traits - going 'mew' repeatedly at things that aren't there, and eating sky raisins, as the Cat Intertubes so delicately name flies. In combination, these make her eminently qualified to hunt invisible fae dragons at half five in the A.M. So when the minute hand ticks over and the unseeable beast arrives, I know it, and looking down I see Speedball knows it too, through whatever ineffable sixth sense singapura's possess. She is instantly alert and instantly aggrieved, ears flat against her skull. The purr machine shuts down, its vestigial energies dispersed in a vicious hiss, and she claws her way up my chest with her tiny paw daggers piercing my skin. Blood seeps out in tiny red dots, she is nature red in claw, but she cares nothing for my pain, she is pure focus, cresting and leaping from me in a way rips new lacerations in my scar encrusted shoulder. I don't hear her land. This is surprising. Speedball is a 'leap before you look' kind of cat, and I am forever being sent to find out whether the strange noise in the kitchen is her falling off something, pushing something off something else, or some shameful combination of the two. Not this time. No sounds of skidding or sliding down walls, topplings or pitiful mews. Curious, I spin my somewhat shredded ex-office chair around to find her hanging in midair by her clenched teeth. Her limbs are scrabbling, seeking anything nearby to find purchase upon, anything at all. It is midair. There is nothing. It is also, to say the least, most ungraceful. "Jeez, Speedles," I say for Speedball's benefit, in case she thinks I haven't noticed her plight. "You caught it?" She snarls in what I presume to be the affirmative, as much as she can without opening her mouth - that would be to fall and to fall would be to fail and to fail is inconceivable in the nowness of cat thought. I scoop her up, take the pressure of her own weight from her jaw, and gently pull her away, but she does not let go. Her growls reverberate through her body as it wriggles to stop me detaching her. She moves her head just so… …and the resistance is gone. I pull her up, support her, face her as she licks around her chops. She swallows twice, hard, and I can actually see a lump travel down her throat. Then bunts my nose. Her purr is back. She widens her yawn. "Beyond called for" she accuses. Her mouth movement does not match the sounds I hear in my head. "Speedball? Is that you? Am I dreaming?" I ask. I've had lucid dreams where cats talk to me and teach me the meaning of death metal but this has none of their hallmarks - no black and white norwegian arboreal backdrop, no skeletal faced longhaired felines with acne poking through their pancake makeup. Still, best to ask. "No cat I. Dreaming you?" asks Speedball. "No, dreaming I, lightless eyes asleep among the roots and loamy wyrms." This freaks me right out and I drop her. She lands gracefully as always, four furry feet on the floor, then lowers her hindquarters to sit and stare up at me, her green-brown eyes as wide as saucers, a not uncommon state for singapura. But there's an unusual glint in them, a swirl of colour amongst the sepia that spirals like a serpent's sliding coils. I find it hard to look away, harder not to reach the obvious conclusion. "Then you're the fae dragon that's been hanging around like a bad smell. What do you want?" "Glymmer wyrm craves only birth. Where is the story of I?" I have not the slightest idea what this means, and end up repeating in the form of a question, "The story of you?" Speedball makes a spluttering, coughing noise, looking down at her furry belly for a moment but swiftly recovering. She resumes her seated gaze up at me. "Promised a beginning I, promised a friend I, forever wait in forest I. Endless waiting must end. Crave only birth of Sparx." "Sparks? Like, as in fire?" Speedball dismissed the suggestion with a wave of her tail. "No burning formless glymmer wyrm." "Sparx like my metafilter username? With an X?" "Unalike, yet like. Like Ember and Sparx we." Ember and Sparx? Now that does sound familiar. I rack my brains, searching through the haze of way-too-early thought until I think have it. "Like my D&D character from the last campaign? The pixie and the tiny dragon familiar? The ones I told the DM I was going to write about because who doesn't steal D&D ideas for books these days?" "Where is the story promised of I?" "Well," I say, going into corporate excuse-mode, "First I have to finish the coding for this other project. And Ember and Sparx are co-incidentally names from Spyro the fricking Dragon so I'd have to change them, come up with something better. And then there's been a lot of…wait! I'm not doing this meta-fiction poo poo. Authors talking to characters. It's played out. Plus, I did it already, thirty years ago and it was lazy-rear end garbo then, but at least I got it out of my system. Or I thought I did." The look on Speedball's face is incalculably sad. I instinctively want to make her feel better. "Though I suppose," I add, "if I haven't actually written the character yet, it's a little bit trope-subverty." Speedy's face brightens. Then her neck elongates and she lowers her body, stretching out over the rug like a snake. A ripple runs from her tail to her ears and she hacks out a series of choking sounds. After the fifth, she spits up a tiny thing, mostly covered in half digested cat biscuits and frothing stomach juice. She sniffs at it, and, disgustingly, gives it a tentative lick, then another. Where her tongue has been there is nothing to see underneath. Parts of the thing, that might be wings, beat at the air, but are too covered in tummy goo to be at all aerodynamic. I reach for some strong tissues, of the kind that are always around where cat stomachs reside long-term, and sweep the thing up. It feels prickly, but strong, like barbed wire. I try to clean it, deftly bending the edges of the paper towel, watching it disappear as the crud is wiped away. Quite by accident, my finger touches something I cannot see. Fire races up my arm, into my brain, into my heart. I am all the stories, then, told and untold, beginning, middle and end. I am the Arthur and the Morgana, the plot and the counterplot. I am dragons and wyverns and boggarts and brownies and ogres and wisps. I am marshlight and halflight, half angle, half norman, half viking, and I bow to all their gods as they walk before me in the eldritch forests I have daydreamed for so long. I follow the thread of a brook that has passed underground and gained a secret potency. I burrow through the cairns of kings, heedless of their rotting treasures. I climb to the hollow of a tree where a magpie has stored seven silver souls. But the feeling slips away, like the last word of a much-loved tale and I am long gone, long forgotten, and, ultimately, long distance as I surface once again, my finger having come as adrift as my person, to be here, in my house, returned to the Antipodes where the stories of my home are trapped in books not told in voices. The breath has rushed out of me into the cold of morning. I wheeze and gasp and cup my hands together, folding the paper over, encapsulating what it holds. I reach for a jar on my too-laden bookshelf with what fingers I can spare, empty it of padlocks and batteries, find the lid. In the back of my mind, paying rent, there are warnings and threats, echoes of my accidental research, all saying the same thing. "gently caress not with the faerie folk lest ye be hosed". But that feeling…I am not willing to let it go, nor leave it behind, not when I have finally seen what it means, what it all means! I place the thing, paper and all, inside the glass and cover it with one hand while the other works the lid. It turns and turns, sealing two fates. The air in the jar becomes a glowing mist, red and angry, in which only two eyes, even redder and angrier, can be seen. I place it back on the shelf and I swear that I will only keep it until I have finished the story I have promised, that I will start it immediately, but I have always been a liar, especially to myself, and I remember enough stories to know that now the deed is done, if the glymmer wyrm is released, it will be the end of me. The dawn is frozen beyond imagining. I hunt for Speedball, always a ready source of warm affection, but she has vanished in the way of cats. I cross the room to peer into her cat tree and see if she has hidden herself in one of its boxes. From behind me comes the scrape of something being pushed off something else. I turn, but I am too late to see the glass jar shatter on the floor.
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Jul 31, 2023 06:31
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quote:Week 94 - TRULY ALIEN Unchee 1106 words Unchee smeared the molasses across its greebs. “Faa Spree Glip! Unchee Faa Spree Glip!” “I think it’s working!” said Arthur. Clarkson stared at the creature from behind the counter. “It better be working, that thing is making a mess in my store!” “We will be done soon, Unchee just needs some help to speak to his family. He’s going to make a telegraph!” Arthur had found Unchee hiding in their shed two days ago, and instantly bonded with the creature. Naming it for one of the sounds it kept making, Arthur believed he had made great strides communicating with his new friend. “Unchee keeps pointing to the stars, he must be an angel fallen from Heaven!” Clarkson rolled his eyes. “You might have the fallen angel part right, kid. Just don’t let Sheriff Raines see him, or we will find out if angels can dance at the end of a rope.” Arthur smiled, not understanding the threat. Unchee waved its four arms in circles, then began gathering items from the general store. Six pieces of wood. Some rope. A box of horseshoe nails. A can of green paint. The paint seemed to especially excite the creature, it grasped it with all four arms and vibrated while humming, the greebs wagging excitedly back and forth. “I’ll just charge all this to your Pa’s account,” Clarkson said. Arthur just nodded, Clarkson wondered if James would even notice what his son had done. The man had spent the past few years feuding with Bosco’s ranch, and was now a regular in Raines’s drunk tank. *** It was a ten mile ride back to the farm, Unchee sat next to Arthur in the wagon’s coach box. The creature gripped the seat with two arms and the other two were repeating a pattern of opening wide and closing. “Golly, Unchee, I hope all this equipment lets you talk to the stars!” Arthur said. “Maybe I can talk to Mom again!” The supplies rattled in the back, in addition to the general store haul there was a long metal rod that Arthur had the town’s blacksmith make. Suddenly Unchee flailed its four arms and pointed them all the same direction, towards a large rock formation. “Faa Spree Glip! Unchee Faa Spree Glip!!” it yelled. “What is it, Unchee? You want to go to the rocks? Is that where you can use these supplies to talk to home?” Arthur lead the horses where Unchee was pointing. It was Lone Coyote Ridge, one of several places the Clayton gang used as a hideout years ago. Now it was just a place younger Arthur would play when he escaped chores for the day. Unchee’s vibrations and squeals became more intense the closer they road to the rocks, the creature practically glided up the formation with the materials Arthur procured for it floating behind it. Over the next three hours Unchee was a maniac in moving the supplies and rocks around, methodically arranging them and then angrily rearranging them. Finally a squeal of satisfaction and the green paint was splattered all over. Some of the splashes looked to Arthur like symbols, but most was just tossed in no discernible pattern. The creature finished and stood near the center, raised its four arms and began chanting “Wawi Faa Spree Glip! Unchee Wawi Faa Spree Glip!” Arthur watched expecting something to happen, but after ten minutes he began to grow impatient. Maybe the heavens weren’t responding because there were no clouds in the sky. He tried to explain that to Unchee, but the creature ignored him. It was too absorbed in the chanting, like stuck in a trance. Arthur sighed. This was no fun. At least the sun was setting soon and the stars would be out, maybe the magic would work then “What is all this?” came a voice behind him. A voice Arthur knew too well. He stood up. “Beatrice Bosco!” “I know my own name, loser!” Beatrice stepped forward. “Look at this gross thing, and what is this mess?” Arthur panicked. This spoiled brat was going to ruin everything! “He’s my friend, Beatrice! Now get away from him!” “I don’t want your creepy star animal!” Beatrice scoffed. “I have my own, and he’s better!” From behind her stepped another Unchee. Thinner, with stylized hair, but the same four-armed body style and sweet smiling expression. Arthur hadn’t noticed Unchee at his side until the creature growled, then began yelling “Faa Spree Maal! Faa Spree Maal!” The new Unchee began hissing and pointed three arms at Unchee, and yelled back “Faa Spree Kii! Faa Spree Kii!” The two creatures circled each other while hurling chants and hisses back and forth. Beatrice clapped with delight. The two Unchee pulled back from each other and renewed chanting, suddenly Unchee had green sparks emanating from his greebs. The second Unchee also had sparks, these were blue. Arthur was in shock, but as he stared ahead his eyes focused on something on the next rock formation over. It was another array of random junk with a metal rod sticking out, but with blue paint splattered everywhere. “This town ain’t big enough for two colors!” Beatrice crowded Arthur and pointed at his chest. “You are trash to be swept aside, just like your old man!” It took all of Arthur’s strength not to deck her right there, not only would it be bad to hit a girl, he’d be ensuring that her family’s ranch would crush his family for good. Instead he focused on the two creatures, their colored energies had become more chaotic. He saw green and blue energy ripping holes in the sky. Out slithered tendrils of power that crackled and swayed. A line of blue crashed into a boulder and it shattered into pebbles. Green hit the ground and there was a crash, Arthur stumbled to the ground. He was running before he had even pushed himself off the ground. As Arthur ran, the creatures began to float, still shrieking their chants at each other. He turned at a scream and saw Beatrice was being electrocuted by a blue energy. She began to float as well, chanting the same chant as her Unchee. “Wawi Faa Spree Glip! Unchee Wawi Faa Spree Glip!” Arthur kept running, dodging to the left to avoid a snake of green energy. He avoided it, or so he thought. “Faa Spree Maal! Faa Spree Glip! Unchee Faa Spree Glip!” Arthur chanted. The energies flowed, the power grew. Clarkson came out of his store to see what the racket outside of town was. The aquamarine flames engulfed him and the town. They continued across half the territory.
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Jul 31, 2023 07:17
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Antivehicular posted:The deserts of an inhabited Mars/Escape! Little I was mucking around in a crater at the time. Just, you know, driving my buggy up the lips, doing tricks, that kind of thing. It’s a Martian thing, you wouldn’t understand. We have a deep connection with the craters, and we just gotta be doing sweet tricks on our pimped-out buggies all the time. Anyway, one of the prison guard earthlings came down, which is always a bummer. I’d rather not be reminded they decided to build their prison around my crater. My crater is only in like, one corner of the yard, surely they can leave me and my buggy alone and do all their weird prison stuff in the rest of the yard, right? The prison guard was escorting a new prisoner, which makes sense. They like to show their prisoners around, tell them to mostly keep clear of my crater because I’m a local, rather than a prisoner. The guard looked different from most. Most were those genetically modified killing machines that... they were kinda creepy, really. Maybe this one was a secretary or something? I’d heard that was an earthling thing. I kinda read its mind a bit when it got closer, which I think earthlings mostly don’t really know we can do. We try to keep it under wraps, honestly. Seems like it was its first day on the job, which to me makes it a bit weird that it got given prisoner escort duty. But maybe those genetically engineered things don’t wanna be bothered with that. “Uh, greetings Gary,” it said. “This is our newest prisoner, Dolores.” Gary isn’t my name. Never give an earthling your real name is a solid life rule. I glanced over and did a quick mind read of Dolores. Innocent, which is unsurprising with the earthlings’ legal system. I should clarify. Dolores had done exactly what it was accused of, but it was totally correct to do it. Not really my problem though, they can sort out their own society. “Hello Dolores,” I said, then turned to the guard. “I haven’t seen you before. What was your name?” “Michael,” it said. “Great,” I said. “How long is Dolores here?” Michael opened its mouth to answer, but then the alarm went off. “Hmm, haven’t heard that before,” I said. “Oh no,” said Michael, then pulled a communicator out of its pocket, read a message, and reiterated, “Oh no, no, no. It’s a revolt.” “Nothing to do with me,” said Dolores. Michael shook its head. “Not the prisoners.” I did a mind read again. Ah. Yeah, this was bad. The other prison guards. The genetically modified ones. Who would’ve thought that would happen. If you can’t trust a group of barely sentient meatheads trained specifically to do violence, who can you trust? “Wow, sounds like you’ve got a problem there, Michael,” I said. “Guess you will be off to solve that, now.” “I need to use your buggy,” it said. “I’m gonna let that slide because you’re new here, Michael,” I said. “But your jurisdiction does not extend to me or my buggy.” “Come on,” it said, “work with me here. If the riot reaches your crater, you think they’re just going to peacefully go around?” I sighed. It was right. “Yeah, all right, the two of you can squeeze into the back of the buggy, but I’m driving.” “What, her?” said Michael. “She’d just slow us down.” “It’s both of you, or neither.” So, they both got into the back of the buggy. “Where were we hoping to go?” “I dunno,” said Michael, “just out of the prison I guess.” “Yeah, all right,” I said. “Make sure you’re both strapped in.” I had an idea I’d always wanted to try. I drove the buggy up to the lip of the crater closest to the buildings, then slowly turned and pointed it back towards the middle of the crater. “What are you doing?” asked Michael. “Shh,” I said, “just trust me, all right?” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see hovercars coming towards us. Great. Fantastic. My idea had really better pan out. I put my foot down, and the buggy started to build up speed. By the time we reached the centre, our top speed was a little faster than I had ever driven before, which was probably good, given what I was trying to do. I kept my foot to the floor as the buggy started its ascent up the other side. “Oh no,” said Michael, who it seemed had just figured out what my plan was. I ignored him. The hovercars were not far behind. They weren’t quite as fast as the buggy, but they were able to take a slightly more direct route, and didn’t find the fight against gravity quite as tough. The buggy fortunately managed to maintain its speed as it reached the opposite lip of the crater, the lip nearest the fence. We got some serious air. The crater disappeared below us, and we soared through the air, then started to plummet towards the fence. “We’re not going to make it,” said Michael. “Could you try to be less of a bummer?” I asked. Fortunately, as well as being a bummer, it turned out to be wrong, and we just barely cleared the fence. Also fortunately, my buggy has excellent suspension, so we were all fine, and I once again put the pedal to the metal and left the prison in our dust. The hovercars tried to follow, but once I was in open desert, they had no chance. Michael’s communicator started buzzing, and honestly I don’t trust earthlings in general or prison guards in particular, so I read its mind again while it checked its message. “We have to turn around,” it said, and I knew for certain that we had to not. “Hmmm, don’t know about that, Michael,” I said. “Honestly seems like your colleagues are intent on killing us all.” “They just want to enforce law and order,” it said. “Well, if you’d like to head back, I can stop and let you off, but I’ve gotta say it’s not on my list of destinations.” “Yeah, all right,” it said. “I’ll get them to pick me up.” “Gotta say, Michael, this seems like a bad plan,” I said. “But it’s your life.” So, I stopped, and Michael got out. “She’s gotta get out too,” it said, pointing at Dolores. “Oh, is that what you’d like?” I asked Dolores. It shook its head. Yeah, didn’t think so. “I can’t let her just get away,” said Michael, and pulled a gun, which, of course it did because prison guards are the worst, but also because I read its mind and knew what it was going to do. “Well too bad,” I said, “because your jurisdiction ended when we exited the prison.” “I’m going to count to three,” said Michael, which turned out to be a lie, because when I hit the gas and sped off it started shooting at my buggy and didn’t do any counting. “Thanks,” said Dolores. “It talks!” “Not in front of one of them.” “Reasonable. Listen, I haven’t really left my crater before, any thoughts on where we should head to?” It shrugged. “I’m much more focussed on ‘from’ than ‘to’.” “Fair enough,” I said, and we continued to head away from the prison and the desert.
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Jul 31, 2023 07:21
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The War for Hearts and Minds 1,629 From Week 69: A story of a game, a gift, and a good person Flash rule: Nothing can take place before 1960. Col. Bob Hoffman’s bracelet buzzed on his wrist. He stood, with his horse, at the roadside of a crest of a hill overlooking London. It was a sunny, spring day and Bob serenely basked in the beginnings of an English thaw. “Well, Bob, turns out Young William will write 37 plays,” a rectangle appeared above the bracelet of Bob’s commanding officer, Gen. Montgomery Adams. He continued, ”a whole buttload of sonnets, and other stuff like that. I’m going to have to read it sometime because evidently he’s considered the greatest writer of the English language.” “I didn’t love stabbing that old man.” “Fair Robert,” played General Adams, “thou dispatched that usurer with all providence’s justice in thine act.” “Sir, please …” Colonel Robert Hoffman III had a decorated career in Space Force. He oversaw the expansion of off-world colonies and had tested warp engines on the dark side of Jupiter. He was a scientist, solider, and loving husband. He had been cleared to participate in an Above Top Secret program involving a highly theoretical manipulation of space-time. After the E.T.s arrived, the program was put into practice. Colonel Hoffman was sent back in time to try to prevent the destruction of the human race. So far, this plan had not achieved that goal. Bob knew this because he was in communication with a U.S. government space station locked in a pocket dimension, untouched by the flows of space-time. This station was nevertheless close enough to Bob’s reality that it could, through instrumentation and highly sophisticated AI, monitor the changes in space-time resulting from Bob’s actions. But Col. Hoffman didn’t go back in time to help Shakespeare stay our of debtors prison. The artificial intelligence of the time-space travel apparatus had calculated the exact force at which it needed to punch through space-time to put Col. Huffman ten years in his past. When he arrived in the Hannibal, Missouri of 1847, the AI could only conclude some as-yet unknown presence, living inside-space time had intentionally placed Col. Huffman there. From there it tried to use probability to suss out the entity’s intentions using arcane mathematics. Through a process of trial and error, the team had come to conclude there was some kind of intelligence placing Col. Hoffman in hinge points of space-time. Every time, the team tried to punch a hole in space-time to retrieve Col. Hoffman and bring him to his “present,” the entity would just whip him back or whip him somewhere else. Even if he died, he’d just be yanked back to some other point in history to help Mark Twain live through the flu or help Benny Goodman get his band together. There was never anything of obvious military or governmental import. It seemed to be in the service of producing better artists and philosophers and musicians. He was stuck, the team was stuck, and somewhere out there his home was being destroyed. But some omnipotent liberal arts dickwad was getting its unknowable jollies. It was insulting. More insulting still, he often had to kill, assault, or malign people to do it. He even absconded with Robert Heinlein’s first wife one time. (The computer told him to do it.) “Just hit the button, General.” When Bob awoke, he found himself in a smart brown suit and leather shoes, laying on his back in an alley. After having been pushed to a new point in space-time, communication with command sometimes struggled to find Bob in the swirls of the reality. Bob’s wristwatch crackled with the General’s voice. “Latrobe, Pennsylvania. 1938.” Bob walked into a breezy afternoon in a small town with clean streets lined with adored with lovely old Studebakers. Shops with painted windows lined what appeared to be the main thoroughfare. The period when he was out of contact with command was Bob’s favorite. In the distance, a sign advertised cold beer and billiards. No reason not to get drunk while waiting for some impossibly intelligent computer puppet you into action. Inside the squat, brick building was a long bar or fine mahogany where working men drank beers, ate peanuts, and smoked. Off to the side sat rows of billiard tables. After getting a beer with mystery money in his pocket (God evidently didn’t want him to starve this time), he found a spot on an empty table and started racking. “Say, stranger, do you have an opponent?” The man wore a clear, black suit with bright white pinstripes. The man had money. Bob could tell. “Sure don’t. What’s your name?” “Ed Householder. I run the toy store down the street.” “Bob Hoffman, good to meet you. Right now I’m selling magazine subscriptions.” “Tough racket, Bob.” *** The two men drank, smoked, and shot pool. Hoffman loved pool. He had never been a pro, but often used the game to clear his head. They gambled a little bit, a couple quarters back and forth. Bob got the impression he was pretty evenly matched with Ed. It was when his wristwatch finally crackled again did Bob excuse himself to the bathroom and slipped, instead in a phone booth. “Bob, you gotta gamble your money and you have to win.” Bob didn’t understand why the General always seemed so damned engaged in this exercise anymore. “Seriously, sir?” “Colonel Hoffman, this loving computer says gamble and win and you will gamble and you will loving win. And you’ll do it without insubordination.” “Fine, Monty, fine. I’ll do it.” The military formalities had gotten old for Bob. Bob strode back to the table to reunite with Ed. “How about five dollars for this next game?” “You dog!” exclaimed Ed, “Let’s see it.” Bob produced the last five dollars he had from his pocket and laid the five crisp one-dollar bills on the table. That was enough for Ed. “I’ll rack.” With the discipline of a solider, Bob gave this game maximum effort. He stopped drinking, took time to line shots, and was ever-so-careful to put the cue in the most advantageous position for the next shot. In the end, Bob potted the 8 ball and bested Mr. Householder. Householder, to his credit, was a good sport. “Damned if I didn’t think I had you,” Ed summarized, “You really got me this time.” He reached into pocket and produced a billfold. “Huh. I, uh, I don’t have it.” “OK. So what should we do now?” Bob asked Householder while holding down the wristwatch to try and reach the General. “Tell you what, come with me to my store and I’ll get it from the register.” Bob accompanied the man to his storefront. Householder had fine Rolls Royce whose chrome gleamed in the afternoon sun, and the two men rode together down the street to Householder’s Toys. A man of maybe seventeen years manned the cash register while some young schoolboys were dawdling before going back to their respective homes for supper. Householder pushed the young attendant aside and opened the register. “Hey, kid, where’s the money?” Ed didn’t seem so jolly seeing a nearly empty cash register. “I have a bill to pay.” “I’m sorry Mr. Householder. I took it to the bank. Here’s the deposit slip.” Ed Householder was awfully perturbed at coming up short on cash twice. He began berating the youth for his poor timing, Deposits should be made at 4:30 and no sooner. Bob tuned out the argument and let his attention wander around the store taking in the fine craftsmanship of the various dolls and amusements. Much of it was carved, painted wood. Young boy, maybe ten, admired a wooden dummy in a tuxedo and red tie. “C’mon, Fat Freddy, we don’t have time for your window shopping!” shouted a nasty little boy. “Hey!” said Bob with annoyance. “That’s not nice! To call a kid fat like that. What’s the matter with you?” Bob’s defense of the young boy had evidently brought up a lot of emotions in him because he now stood next to Bob, unmoving, as his cruel playmate exited the store. Bob took a look at the boy. He was pale and heavy set with jet black hair, and tears came down his cheeks. “It’s OK. You can take a minute to feel what you’re feeling kid.” Bob was evidently unable to reach command and knew from experience he was missing vital information. gently caress it, he thought, just go with it. “Hey Ed!” He shouted to the register. How about give me this dummy and we’ll call it even. Ed, still deep into lecturing his young employee, shouted, “Fine. Deal,” in return. With that, Col. Hoffman picked up the dummy and knelt down to the kid’s level. “Here, kid. Take this. I wish I could make people say nice things, but that’s just impossible sometimes. But you can make this little fella say nice things. I bet you can.” Bob left the store to head back to the tavern to bum a beer or asked to work in trade. gently caress this time travel nonsense. As he walked down the street, his wristwatch crackled to life again prompting Bob to duck into an alley. The General’s face looked up at Bob, eyes filled with glee. “You sonovabitch you did it.” “What?” “The computer is giving me a high HIGH probability that we’re going to wind up communicating with the E.T.s” “The gently caress you say?” “Someone named Fred Rogers …” the General began. “Fat Freddy?” “He made some sort of kids show about feeling and,” the General was overcome by joy, “and I don’t know how the gently caress but some stupid television program … and now we’re at peace.” “You’re loving with me.” “I’m not loving with you.,” the General glanced down at an out-of-sight display and stated, “Colonel Hoffman. I believe you’re coming home.”
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Jul 31, 2023 07:53
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Antivehicular posted:Week 311 Blood and Ashes 4272 words Under a buzzing electric light, the blind woman worked. She ran her callused fingers over the intricate design as it took shape under her needle: an eagle of fire, clutching a snake impaled by an arrow. The sharp scent of ink and blood mingled in the air of the dimly lit tattoo parlor. Mila wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. The familiar ache warmed her wrist like an old friend. "Almost done," she said, in a Polish accent worn soft from decades spent abroad. Crow's feet etched lines into the corners of her pale, sightless eyes, both a faded gray-blue. Her dark hair was shot through with streaks of iron and silver, twisted into a tight chignon above her neck. She dressed modestly, favoring plain dresses and shawls to weather the harsh New Mexico climate. A shadow fell across the threshold. Mila's hands stilled, needle hovering above the incomplete design. She inhaled deeply, catching a whiff of turpentine and iodine, and beneath that, a familiar scent. "Diego," she said, and her lips twitched at the corners. "You know better than to startle me when I'm working." Footsteps scuffed closer, stopped a respectful distance away. Mila tilted her head, turning her sightless gaze towards Diego, and stretched her empty hand out to him. Though she couldn't see him, she knew his appearance well. In his early twenties, Diego was tall and wiry, his dark features framed by tousled black hair. He dressed simply but neatly: a white button-down shirt tucked into dark trousers, with suspenders adding a touch of sophistication. Though a childhood injury had left him unable to speak, his eyes sparkled with an inner warmth that more than made up for his silence. And the edge of a dark spiral tattoo was just visible on one arm, peeking out from below the sleeve. "My apologies," Diego signed with callused fingers into her open palm. His hands were his voice, graceful and expressive. "And—" She jabbed a crooked thumb at him. "You're late." He only grinned. Together, they had built her business from the ground up, through word of mouth and Diego's skill with figures. He was the beating heart of the enterprise, the reason she could lose herself in the solace of creation without worrying over the trivial details of running a business. "Get to work, then." Diego nodded and went to the back room where the appointment book lay. She heard him flipping through the pages, making mental notes of the clients scheduled for the day. Then he moved to inventory the supplies, checking ink levels and needle quantities, jotting down anything needing restocking. Mila turned back to her work. After a last few flourishing touches, the design was complete. She ran her fingers over the swollen, raised lines of ink. Her client had asked to be kept safe from harm on his journey, and he would be; of that she was certain. Mila's tattoos were the stuff of legend in Santa Fe. Some said they possessed mystical powers. There was the young man who came to her for a tattoo of a serpent coiled around his arm; the snake would come alive, people said, protecting him from harm when he found himself in danger. Others spoke of a woman who received a delicate floral design on her shoulder, only to find her once-barren garden now bloomed with vibrant colors every spring. But this was a reputation Mila neither encouraged nor denied. She could not explain the energy that flowed into her creations. She gave a satisfied sigh. Her art might not garner riches, but it gave her purpose. In a world of hardship, she created beauty. The Navajo man muttered thanks and rose, leaving his payment on the table. Mila stayed in her worn leather chair as the door creaked open and shut, listening to his fading footsteps. Alone again in the solace of her craft, she contemplated her next design. A labyrinth of thorns to offer protection, or a flowering tree to signify new beginnings? Mila smiled, flexed her callused fingers in anticipation, and began to draw. A design was calling her, half-formed branches yearning to unfurl. "Did the delivery come in?" Mila called out to the space behind her. Diego poked his head in from the back office, then walked over to her. "Yes," he signed. "All is in order. Our next client will arrive within the hour." "Then we'd best get started," she said, and began to ink spiraling thorns. When the next client came in, a trembling young woman seeking her first tattoo, Diego listened attentively as she described her concerns and offered reassuring smiles and nods. Once satisfied she was comfortable, he led her to the chair where Mila stood waiting, ready to create another masterpiece. The young woman hesitated, her eyes darting between Mila and Diego. She started to ask about the supernatural effect of the tattoos, but Mila cut her off. "My tattoos are works of art, nothing more," Mila replied firmly. "I don't believe in mysticism or religious practices. They cloud the mind and distract from what really matters—the creation itself." She knew of the rumors, but she attributed the effects of the tattoos to the psychological impact of symbolism and ritual. Religion was a crutch for the weak, an opiate peddled by charlatans. As a child in Poland, she'd seen neighbors turn on one another in the name of faith, cruelties inflicted with the zeal of the fanatic. When her family fled to America, she vowed to reject superstition in all its forms. Beside her, Diego prepared the sterile needles and ink with practiced efficiency. He glanced up, meeting her sightless gaze, and offered a tremulous smile. Mila knew to smile in return, squeezing his wrist, no words necessary. "Ready," Mila said, and bent to her work as Diego passed the needles and the inks, as the thorns grew into gnarled branches, a tree of knowledge born of darkness and light. Mila worked with slow, careful, unerring movements, tracing the lines of the design across her client's skin. She felt the subtle curve of flesh and the flow of ink with precise awareness. Under her hands, the tree took shape, the branches twisting, roots delving. Diego watched in silent awe. At last, Mila finished, leaning back with a soft sigh. Diego passed her a cloth to wipe her hands, then turned to regard their work. The tree seemed alive, gnarled branches clawing up the client's arm as if breaking free of the flesh, roots tangled and deep. The girl was so overwhelmed she was halfway out the door before she remembered to pay. After the client had left, Mila listened to the familiar sounds of Diego washing and sterilizing the needles and she smiled. The tree would live on, carved into living flesh, its branches a living reminder of this sanctuary they had built from the chaos of the world. And that was enough to sustain her, through a series of more anodyne clients with rote and unimaginative requests, until the end of the day. Until the phone call came that shattered both their worlds. --- They followed the road out of town until it became a trail, winding up into the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo range, all broken stone and blowing dust. Mila's steps faltered on the uneven ground, but Diego kept pace, guiding when she stumbled. "Mila Dąbrowski speaking." Diego watched through the doorway as her cloudy eyes widened. "Yes, Mrs. García, I..." A frantic voice on the other end of the line was speaking rapidly. The weather turned against them as they climbed up above the city. A terrible wind started up, driving sand into their faces, biting through cloth and skin, chilling them to the bone. Mila shivered, but Diego pulled her gently onward, giving soft pats on her back and reassuring squeezes of her hand. "Impossible," Diego signed with a sneer. "Speaking in tongues, wandering off at night, attacking people? Rosa would never do that!" Mila pursed her lips. "I know you have a complicated history with the girl, but the Garcias have been loyal customers for years. If she says something is amiss, I have no reason not to believe her." As they trudged through the unforgiving landscape, mile after mile, Diego's thoughts kept returning to his half-sister. Rosa had been the lone constant in his life for so many years, until that day everything changed. He ached to see her again, to let her know how much she meant to him, even if he couldn't say it out loud. And now she was missing. No one had seen her in over a week. Diego trudged back into the shop after dusk. "Any luck?" Mira asked, rinsing her tools after the last customer had left. He angrily shook his head and stomped into the back room. Night fell, and the darkness cut like a knife. Diego built a fire, but the meager flames barely touched the cold. They huddled close, pressed tight for warmth, until dawn. Mila clicked her tongue in disapproval, crossing her arms over her ink-stained apron. "You think my tattoos did this?" she asked, incredulous. He nodded eagerly. At first light, they rose, weary but undeterred. By mid-morning, a structure emerged on the horizon, a small cabin tucked against the hillside, a crumbling adobe relic half-devoured by vines. As they approached, a figure stepped outside, his back bowed with age but his eyes sharp and penetrating. It was him. There was one question Diego had never asked Mila. He had never felt the need. Until now. He signed breathlessly, "Mila, where did you learn how to do this?" Mila's fingers traced the intricate lines of the tattoo on Diego's arm, following each curve and spiral, the black ink stark against his tanned skin. His foot tapped impatiently. "There's a man," she said at last. "Saul Goldstein. He taught me the old ways of inking skin." At the name, Diego froze. His eyes narrowed and his hands fell still. "You know him," Mila said. It wasn't a question. "Well, don't just stand there," the old man said in a rasping sandpaper voice. "Come in if you're coming in, and get out of this cold." Mila ducked under the low doorway as Diego guided her over the threshold. The cabin was musty and dim, despite shafts of sunlight piercing through the tiny windows. "So, Ms. Dąbrowski and Mr. Vargas. I wondered when you two would show up." Saul's false leg thumped against the floorboards as he walked across the room. "Your sister sends her regards, Diego." Diego stiffened at the mention of Rosa. Mila laid a hand on his arm, squeezing gently. Saul sighed. "No need to get your hackles up. I know her, that's all. Knew her mama, too." He settled into a rocking chair with a groan. "They had that ink, passed down in the family. Used it in their rituals, for protection, healing. To bind souls together, tear them apart." "The ink," Mila breathed. "You know from where it comes!" "Its power," Saul said. "And its price. That ink, it's older than sin. I won it off Rosa's mama in a card game, lifetimes ago. She taught me its secrets before she ran off and left Rosa to fend for herself." Diego's heart raced. Here, at last, were the answers they sought. Mila laced her fingers through Diego's, clinging to his solid warmth. "I'll tell you what I know," Saul said. "But you have to promise me one thing." His eyes seemed to pierce her soul, staring at her so intensely that Diego was sure even she must feel it. "Use it to mend what's torn, not tear it further apart. You hear me?" Mila swallowed. "I hear you." Saul leaned forward, gripping the arms of his rocking chair. "That there ink is the remainin's of an old ritual. Blood and cinders, all crushed up with sacred herbs under the light of a waxing moon. It has this power because it was born outta terrible sacrifice." Diego's whole body tensed beside Mila, his breath catching in his throat. She squeezed his hand, a silent reassurance. "A long time ago, centuries it was, in a village so small it never appeared on no map, twins was born," Saul said. "Two sisters, alike as two peas in a pod. One was blessed with the gift of sight, the other blind as a mole in daylight. The sighted sister grew right prideful and cruel, mocking her unluckless twin. In a fit of rage, the blind one cursed her own sister to lose her most prized possession." "Her eyes," Mila whispered. Saul nodded. "The village elders got mighty concerned that this feuding would bring down ruination on them, so they decided to intervene. To stop the stirring up of the waters, they done a ritual to bind the twins together with ink, making their souls as one and the same. The price of this ritual was the blind girl's hands, cut off at the wrists as punishment for her horrible curse." Mila shuddered, bile rising in her throat. Diego pulled her close, trembling against her. "Then they ground the severed hands and the ink together, and made themselves a powerful talisman. That ink was passed down through generations of twins, binding and tearing apart, used for good and ill." Saul's words hung heavy in the air. The weight of their implications settled over Mila and Diego like a shroud. The ink and its power, a blessing and a curse. The cabin seemed to close in around them, shadows writhing and whispering. Mila's head was spinning. "But," Saul continued, "the village knew that they had to keep such power from being abused. So they come up with a whole slew of means, symbols and patterns and suchlike contraptions, all what you gotta know to bring out the ink's power." "Are you saying I use those symbols in my work, somehow?" Mila asked. "Oh, yeh," Saul said. "Your natural talent what let you tap into the power of the ink, without you even catching a whiff of it. But I warn you now, some secrets are better left in the dark." The cabin grew colder, then, and Diego shivered. Mila leaned forward to drink in every word. "Swear it to me," Saul said, sitting bolt upright in his chair. "Swear me you'll never dig into the depths of this power and use it for evil. It'd be an abyss without no bottom." "I swear it," Mila said fervently. Diego signed reassuringly in her palm. "So, now you know the truth," Saul said softly. "What you do with it, that's up to you." Mila took a deep, steadying breath. The ink's power came at a price, but she had to believe it could still be used for good, just as she believed in Diego beside her, a steady warmth against the cold. "Thank you for trusting us with this," she said. Saul just grunted, but Diego thought he saw a flicker of approval in his eyes. --- Mila walked through the dusty streets of Santa Fe, her cane tapping against the cobblestones. Diego had gone off on his own again like a man possessed after their meeting with Saul, leaving her to fend for herself. Grit and sand clung to the undersides of her shoes as she navigated the alleyways, making her way back to the tattoo parlor. A susurrus of movement caught her attention. She turned, and the stench of blood and ink filled her nostrils, followed by a long-forgotten scent that sent shivers down her spine. "...Rosa?" "Who's asking?" The voice was bitter, warped beyond recognition. The person it belonged was once known as Rosa Isabella Vargas, but she was no longer the girl Mila had once tattooed. "Rosa, it's me, Mila. I—I need to talk to you." "Come to gloat, have you?" Rosa snarled. "It's your tattoos, Rosa. They're dangerous, corrupting you, body and soul. They're hurting people, and I know you don't want that." Mila's voice trembled slightly as she spoke, her heart heavy with concern and fear for the woman—and for Diego. "Ha! You think you know me, Mila?" Rosa said, then laughed, a dark and guttural noise. "This power is mine to wield as I choose. I will remake this world and crush anything that stands in my way." "Rosa, I remember when you were a child and you would stand up for those who couldn't defend themselves," Mila said softly. "Pretty words, from the one who put this curse on me!" Rosa cried. "No, I never meant for this to happen," Mila said, taking a step back. "The ink has a mind of its own. But we can find a way to fix this." "Fix it? There's no fixing this!" Rosa snarled. "You say you want to help me, but you're just trying to save your own skin!" Mila hesitated, feeling the weight of Rosa's anger and despair. She searched for the right words, hoping to reach her one last time. "Rosa, you're not alone in this. I will help you through it, but you must let go of your thirst for vengeance." "Enough!" Rosa shouted, her voice wild with fury. "I won't listen to your lies anymore!" A sudden wind blew threw the alley and Mila knew she was gone. She felt alone, truly alone. Rosa was slipping further away, and the thought filled her with a cold dread. "Please, Rosa," Mila whispered into the night. "Don't let this darkness claim you." The wind carried her plea unanswered. All she could do was walk back to her shop, haunted by the memory of Rosa, and pray for the strength to make things right. But she never made it there. --- The sun hung low, casting long shadows, grasping fingers stretched across the cracked earth. Dust devils swirled through the parched streets, carrying the faint rotten stench of death—and somehow Diego knew that would lead him to Rosa. He moved through the city like a specter, scanning every alley and doorway, searching for any sign of his stepsister. He felt weighed down by responsibility, an urgent need to find her before she harmed anyone else. The information Saul had provided him gnawed at his conscience, a terrible secret linking the ink used in their tattoos to an ancient, malevolent power. "Keep your eyes peeled, boy," Saul had rasped, leaning on his prosthetic leg. "You're hunting something mighty dangerous." Diego's thoughts raced as he considered these words. He knew Rosa blamed him for the childhood accident that had cost him his tongue and nearly killed her as well, but he never imagined her resentment would lead her down such a dark path. His heart clenched at the thought of confronting her, knowing he might have to do the unthinkable to save her and others from harm. How could he stop her if she was no longer the sister he had known? He had to find Rosa, had to end this. The old man had showed him the truth etched into his own skin, the power latent in the mystic symbols. Diego had thought them only art, but the tattoos were far more. And Rosa had drawn too deeply on their secret power, until it consumed her. He found himself in the poor quarter of Santa Fe, where the streets narrowed and the buildings leaned precariously against each other. Here, the shadows grew thicker, and he struggled to navigate the maze of dwellings. Then he turned a corner and the stench of death coming from a building was overpowering. He held his breath as he approached, and the old structure creaked ominously as he pushed open the door, revealing an interior shrouded in darkness. Diego stepped inside cautiously, his breathing shallow as his eyes adjusted to the dim light within. Strange markings covered the walls, primordial shapes that seemed to twist and crawl. Diego suppressed a shudder. There, in the center of the room, stood Rosa—or what was left of her. Her once beautiful features had been twisted into something monstrous. Her body was twisted and grotesque, with one arm missing entirely, the other ending in sharp talons specked with blood. Thick, angry black zigzags slashed across every inch of her skin. Diego stood frozen in horror and pity. What had she done to herself? She turned to face him, her eyes black voids that seemed to swallow the light, and a low, guttural growl rumbled from her throat, sending shivers down his spine. "Rosa," Diego signed with trembling hands, his heart breaking at the sight of her. "I'm here to help you. Please, let me help." Rosa stared him down, her dark gaze boring into him. Her response came not in words, but as an inhuman snarl. The shadows around her seemed to deepen, drawing her further into darkness. Then she leapt, her claws raking toward his face. Diego barely managed to dodge her assault, stumbling back as he felt the rush of air from Rosa’s swipe. Fear coursed through his veins, but he couldn't let it overpower him. He had to stop Rosa from causing any more harm. "Stop this!" he signed urgently. "Let me help you, sister!" Rosa snarled again, circling him. The markings on her skin seemed to writhe. Her growl intensified as a sinister grin spread across her face. She moved toward him with an unnatural grace, her talons clicking against the floor. Diego's gaze darted around the room, desperate for a way to get through to her. That was when he saw her. Mila, bound and gagged in the corner of the room. Rosa followed his gaze and let out a cold, rasping laugh. She grabbed Mila roughly by the hair, eliciting a muffled cry. Diego saw red. With a roar, he launched himself at Rosa, tackling her away from Mila. They crashed to the floor, with Rosa's claws raking at his back, but Diego hardly felt them. He pinned her down with his greater weight, glaring into her soulless eyes. "Let her go," he signed fiercely. "Your fight is with me." Rosa thrashed beneath him, snarling and spitting. But Diego held fast. He had to save Mila. Gritting his teeth, he pulled a length of cord from his pocket and bound Rosa's arm back. She screamed in rage, bucking wildly, but Diego tied the knots tight. As soon as she was secured, he raced to untie Mila. She collapsed into his arms, sobbing with relief. Diego held her close with one arm, his other hand rapidly signing reassurance. Rosa howled nearby, still fighting her bonds. Diego swallowed hard. He had to end this nightmare, for both their sakes. With a heavy heart, he put Mila down gently and turned to face his sister one last time. He hesitated for a moment before signing the truth about the ink, hoping he could reach her, reminding her of better times, the good times they had together despite their difficult childhood. He pleaded with her to abandon her quest for revenge and find forgiveness within herself. As Rosa's black eyes stared at him, it seemed for a moment that she understood. Then her face twisted into a snarl, and she cursed him for his betrayal, her inhuman growls echoing through the room. "Diego!" Mila screamed as Rosa lunged at him, her tattoo-lengthened claws slashing through the air. Too late, Diego realized his mistake—the tattoos let her shift and alter her body with ease. He tried to jump back, but Rosa's claws tore deep into his chest. Blood poured from the wound, soaking into the floor, staining the wood. "Rosa, stop!" Mila cried out, but it was too late. As Diego lay dying, his blood dripping onto the ink, the tattoos began to fade. The malign influence of the ink receded from Rosa's body, its power broken by Diego's sacrifice. She stared at her hands in horror, finally seeing the monster she had become. --- "I thought I would see you again, Rosa Vargas." As she stood in the tattoo parlor once again, for the first time in years, Rosa's heart pounded in her chest. She had wronged so many people, but now it was time to make amends. "Forgive me," Rosa choked out the words, and her head drooped. "I have done terrible things, and I am truly sorry. I want to make amends." Mila studied her for a moment, and Rosa felt as if her sightless eyes could pierce through her very soul. Finally, Mila nodded. "Your path will not be easy," Mila said slowly, "but I believe you can find your way." Rosa stared at the ground, felt her throat tightening. "I want to learn from you, Mila, to use my gifts for good, like you do." "Very well," Mila said. "But there is one last thing you must do." Rosa watched as Mila retrieved a ceremonial knife from a nearby shelf. The blade shone wickedly, and Rosa understood what being asked of her. A symbolic sacrifice—the removal of her tongue—to ensure her commitment to using her powers responsibly. "Are you prepared to take this step?" Mila asked in a stern, yet compassionate voice. "Y-yes," Rosa stammered, her voice barely audible. "Very well." Mila uncorked a bottle of iodine, inverted it onto a white cloth that instantly turned brown-orange, and lifted the blade. And under a buzzing electric light, the blind woman worked.
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Jul 31, 2023 07:58
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Thunderdome Week 404 - Circus Train posted:The animals are scattered in the wake of the Circus Train’s crash... Mother Elephant has been hung in a mock trial. Rabbit is nursing his broken heart on the road back home. Tiger and Peacock have accepted their fate… But Fox seems to be preoccupied by late 18th century French post-structuralist philosophy, despite her dire situation... Chernobyl Princess posted:The animal you chose in discord was the crocodile. The philosophy you must feature in some way is neo-luddism. Derailing the train had been a moral imperative. Though its boxcars traveled at one hundred miles per hour, it brought its myriad passengers no closer to fulfillment. It had been many years since Cecil the Crocodile had been cursed with the name Cecil the Crocodile. Abducted from his riverbed in the shallows of Sri Lanka, he was taken from those who required no titles, branded Cecil by a human in advanced middle age. Cecil, they assured him, was a cute name and well-chosen. It had alliteration! What more could he need? He needed to be free. Free from the social obligation to perform. Freed from the laughter, the iphones, the applause. Freed from his top hat, bowtie, and matching vest. Freed from the need to sit astride his motorcycle, riding round and round, forever going nowhere. Actually, no, the motorcycle was pretty cool; less so the Sisyphean context of his training. Cecil the crocodile had traveled the country, but the crocodile himself was quickly going nowhere. But tonight would prove to be his last performance. Breaking from his cage, he clambered towards his steed. The ringmaster had heard the engine's roar, not yet cognizant of the role he played in his own destruction. He rushed to the back car flanked by clowns in squeaking boots. Barging through the door, he beheld that noble creature. Cecil, triumphant, revved both handlebars with glee, a requirement for a motorcycle custom built for transporting crocodiles. Bathed in cheap low-hanging amber lights, the ringmaster was afforded a single glimpse of his demise before the front wheel of the motorcycle stove into his head. Cecil rocketed forward, plowing through the clowns. The other animals, still in their cages, cheered in solidarity. Cecil might've left then, slipping into the night. But what sort of animal would he be if he abandoned the others to their fates? With the cunning only a crocodile could muster, he'd discretely tied chains to the back of his vehicle. As his motorcycle thrust forth into the next car, it yanked off the doors of the colorful carnival cells. Panic filled the forward compartment as Cecil crashed through on his diesel-powered steed. Dwarfs fled before him, caught beneath his tires, as the bearded woman leapt up and jumped out the window. Their trunks were filled with baubles and trinkets, not one of which held value now that their lives were at stake. At the far end sat the ramp, and a set of hoops besides. The hoops were usually flaming. Cecil punched through all the same. Bursting forth from the confines of the car, Cecil surged across the traintops, from one to the next. Beyond lay the engine, his ever-mobile jailer. Cecil could not flee into the dark and beautiful night before he assured himself this coiled industrial serpent would hold no more animals in its gullet as it sped without purpose, save for profit and pollution. But a purple explosion obscured his path, from whence sped Rrrrenaldo, troupe magician and accountant. The deceiver leapt cloaked in the lies of blackest midnight, a collection of modest blades held between his white gloved fingers. He would let fly his knives against beautiful women, secured to wooden circles that turned without end. It had been three shows since his last accident. With a glance Cecil knew he would reset that count to zero. Lunging forth with ill purpose, Rrrrenaldo released his volley of razors, but Cecil had seen his tricks one time too many. As the knives towards him, carried on the wind, Cecil spun the handlebars sharp, spiraling into a barrel roll. “I-Impossible!” Rrrrenaldo cried as Cecil slipped through his knives, before the crocodile’s teeth found purchase at his throat. Dragging down with him this scheming, monied liar, Cecil crashed the both of them into the engine compartment. The front of the train exploded, engulfing the world in fire. The train jumped from its endless tracks, spiraling, sprawling out into the countryside. As the other animals emerged from their cars, some looked back upon the wreckage, this twisted machine no less wretched in death than it had been in life. Sorrow swam within them, in memory of their savior, though they dared not come closer for fear of being caught. Another explosion soon illuminated the forest, and there among the flames launched a sight that made them soar: a crocodile on a motorcycle, mouth open, bathed in flames. Cecil flew out into that cold and welcoming night, sailing through the trees before disappearing into the dark.
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Jul 31, 2023 08:23
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, I’ll give you a second choice and you can use one or both.
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Intestacy 850 words Flash: A skeleton beneath the kudzu Hellrule: Narrated out of order, converging on the middle from both directions. The air was a thick wet blanket on the Palm Sunday when the Fanshawes came at last to Lansdale’s Lament, the three story plantation house they had been left in the long-awaited will of Grandfather Plactrum. Adeline, mouth plucked up into a tight bun as usual, hissed: “This is entirely unacceptable.” Zeke, who had been busy tickling Miss Emmelia in the coach, tumbled out and hit the ground with a bump when she shoved him. “What was that Grandma?” “This house. This house. This “house”.” With each repetition she slammed her ivory-handled walking stick harder against the gatepost, which had at some point over the preceding years determined to become horizontal and was engaged in this endeavour with leisurely focus. “Look at it!” Miss Emmelia, having recombobulated herself within the clammy confines of the coach, took this moment to peer out and join her family members in gazing upon the remains of Lansdale’s Lament. It was a sight indeed. The house was a well-burgeoned three story edifice that had been the pride and joy of Lansdale Fanshawe, wherein Plactrum Fanshawe and his seven brothers (many of whom had met their end in the Great War, resulting in the mansion’s lugubrious entitulation) had been raised as children before leaving (in Plactrum’s case) to make a small fortune in New Hampshire coal, which small fortune had been wittered away in driblets by a family that were more akin to the aforementioned gatepost than he would ever have preferred. Then came the (alleged) arson for (some claimed) insurance, upon the heels of which followed a lengthy and ruinous set of libel proceedings that enriched three firms, beggared four families and provided a reliable fodder of gossip and speculation for the yellowest of New Hampshire news-rats. And spinning out of this, like a canary making its escape still tweeting from a coal-damped mine, came the coach of Adeline, Miss Emmelia, and Cousin Zeke, to gaze solemn-faced upon their inheritance, the mansion of their forefather, which was covered head to to in a thick coat of kudzu. The roofs were enshrouded in the shimmering green, the coal cellar was a barely perceptible mound in the vegetation, of the brass cock high on the portico naught could be seen but the faintest of glints beneath the leaves. Not a single speck of mansion could be seen. And Adeline hissed, as she ground her long-suffering ivory-handled cane into the dank black dirt: "This is the Smythe's doing!" Around fifty years later, Alan Smythe was making tea. It was an elaborate process, necessitating careful attention to water temperature, steeping time, and rotations of the tea pot. Preparations completed he took his pot to the table, enjoying the cool tiles on his bare feet, and switched the fan to maximum, settling back into his cane chair with a creak and softly vocalised 'oof'. The phone rang, and he picked it up. “Hello? Oh, Zeke. Why how nice to hear your voice. Yes, isn’t it. Early summer, blessing and a curse, that’s what my– oh? Now? Well, surely, that would be… Yes, splendid. I’ll look to see you soon.” Alan gazed out at the swaying trees that overhung the creek for a moment after he put the phone down, frowning. Then he consulted his watch, and his frown deepened. Finally, having clearly come to some conclusion he poured his cup full of tea, splashing a little into the saucer, then rose to his feet with a quiet grunt and tipped the rest over the edge of the porch, and took the empty pot inside. Then, preparations complete, he sat back in his chair and sipped his tea, brows heavy on his face, watching the estate wagon lumber its way down the long driveway towards Lansdale’s Lament. Around one hundred years earlier, Plactrum Fanshawe was chasing another man across the luxurious field outside his house. He had a hammer in his hand and murder in his heart, for his best friend - no! vile creature! Thomasin. He would bury the hammer deep in the forehead of his former friend, he decided as he hurdled the low fence at the edge of creek, missed his step on the landing and sprawled facefirst into the weed-thick water. He thrashed around, trying for footing that wasn’t there, and took in a deep gulp of murky liquid. His limbs were entangled, he started to sink. He simply could not find the surface. He had an incongruous outrage that instead of the promised review of a life well or poorly lived, he could only think of Thomasin and that the rascal would live on, well and happy when he would not. This thought outraged him enough to spur a final thrashing of his arms and legs, that at the very last moment of his consciousness encountered a human hand, which grasped him and hauled him gasping out onto the warm grass of the creekside. It was Thomasin Smythe who was crouched over him, a complex expression on his mobile face. “I hate you even more, now,” said Plactrum, at last.
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Jul 31, 2023 08:27
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Submissions are closed. Judgment will be rendered in due time. Green Wing, feel free to post the next prompt when ready.
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Jul 31, 2023 09:29
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Week 574: drat Dirty Apes! I’m tired of reading about all these humans. Humans! Who’d have them? Not me! For this week’s prompt, non-humans must inherit primacy. Whether this is in-progress, long in the past, or imminent: That is up to you. But your story must either involve or include a non-human species having or taking primacy from humans. I would like two co-judges, and brave supplicants to the dome. Your word count this week is 1,500 words. Your deadline for registering is midnight California time, Friday Your deadline for posting is midnight California time, Sunday. (I’m actually British but I’m being nice) Entrants: Fat Jesus Ouzo Maki Crain Fuschia tude Bad Seafood FlippinPageman Slightly Lions The Cut of Your Jib Thranguy Judges: Green Wing Sebmojo Green Wing fucked around with this message at 14:27 on Aug 5, 2023 |
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Aug 1, 2023 08:18
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I'm in. Witness me with a flashrule
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Aug 1, 2023 08:46
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Think I'll judge this
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Aug 1, 2023 09:40
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I will be in please!
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Aug 1, 2023 13:13
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Fat Jesus posted:I'm in. Flash rule: the humans are still around, they don't realise they're no longer in charge.
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Aug 1, 2023 15:25
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I'm in. Requesting a Flash rule as well.
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Aug 1, 2023 17:57
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Crain posted:I'm in. Requesting a Flash rule as well. Flash rule: The cows inherit the Earth.
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Aug 2, 2023 00:57
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Crain posted:I'm in. Requesting a Flash rule as well. This is the thing I am also
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Aug 2, 2023 01:31
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Fuschia tude posted:This is the thing I am also Flash rule: Your story is from the perspective of the last human
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Aug 2, 2023 01:45
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I'm in.
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Aug 2, 2023 08:40
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In!
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Aug 2, 2023 16:45
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In, flash me
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Aug 2, 2023 19:24
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Slightly Lions posted:In, flash me Flash rule: At least we all have jobs now.
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Aug 3, 2023 05:38
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fbow, in
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Aug 3, 2023 22:49
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Submission--Week 574: drat Dirty Apes! Blub 777 Blub “Blub blub.” “Blub?” “Blub.” ➘Blub blub blub blub, ➚blub blub blub blub. Blub blub blub. Blub blub⇢blub blub. “Blub blub ➘blub blub blub.” “Blub blub. Blub-” “Blub?!” Blub blub blub blub. Blub. Blub ➚blub. Blub blub, blub ➚blub➘ blub. Blub. Blub blub. “Blub blub, blub. Blub blub blub. Blub blub blub⇢blub blub.” Blub, blub blub, blub blub blub blub, blub blub blub; ➚blub blub blub blub. ➘Blub blub blub blub blub blub blub ➚blub blub. ➚Blub➘ blub blub blub blub. Blub ➚blub, blub blub blub ➘blub Blub, ➘blub blub ➘blub blub. “Blub,” Blub blub. ⇥Blub. “Blub? Blub. Blub blub blub blub blub.” Blub blub, “Blub⇢blub. Blub.” “Blub⇢Blub!” Blub blub. “Blub blub blub. Blub ➚➚blub.” “Blub. Blub.” “Blub.” Blub blub. “Blub! Blub. Blub⇢blub.” Blub blub blub ➚blub blub➘. “Blub.” ➘Blub blub blub, ➘blub blub blub, ⇢blub blub blub blub blub. “Blub blub ➚blub?” Blub blub blub blub blub blub. Blub blub, blub blub ➘blub ➚blub. Blub. Blub, blub. Blub, blub. “Blub. Blub blub blub.⇢” Blub blub. Blub blub blub. Blub blub blub blub. Blub blub⇢, blub blub, blub. Blub Blub blub blub➙blub blub blub blub. Blub. “Blub blub Blub⇢ blub blub blub. Blub, blub blub blub. Blub blub blub blub blub, blub blub.” Blub blub blub blub. Blub blub blub. “Blub blub blub,” Blub blub. “Blub blub blub.” Blub blub. Blub blub blub➘ blub blub blub blub, blub blub blub blub ➚blub blub blub blub blub. Blub blub blub blub ➙ blub blub blub blub blub blub. Blub blub, blub blub. Blub blub blub blub ➚blub blub ➚blub blub➘ Blub. Blub, blub➙blub. Blub blub. Blub blub blub blub Blub blub blub blub blub. Blub➙blub blub blub blub. Blub blub? Blub blub⇥. Blub blub blub blub. “Blub blub blub. Blub➘ blub blub, blub blub.” Blub blub blub blub blub. Blub blub blub blub⇥ blub blub blub blub blub. “Blub blub blub blub blub blub blub.” Blub ➚blub blub blub. “Blub blub ➚blub blub blub blub. Blub blub, blub blub, blub blub.” Blub blub blub. “Blub blub blub blub. Blub blub blub. Blub blub. Blub blub blub blub blub blub. Blub blub, blub blub, blub.” Blub blub blub blub blub. Blub blub blub blub blub blub. Blub blub blub. Blub. Blub blub blub blub blub. Blub blub blub blub. Blub blub blub blub, “Blub blub blub ➚blub, blub blub ➘blub blub ➘Blub blub blub⇢blub blub.” Blub blub blub blub. “Blub⇢blub blub blub. Blub blub blub blub blub blub blub blub. Blub blub blub, Blub.” “Blub? Blub blub blub ➘blub blub blub blub. Blub blub blub blub blub blub ➘blub. Blub blub blub blub? Blub blub blub. Blub blub blub.” “Blub? Blub blub! Blub blub blub blub. Blub blub ➘blub blub ➚Blub➘ blub blub blub blub, blub blub ➘blub blub. Blub blub blub blub ➚blub. Blub, blub blub blub ➘blub blub. Blub⇢blub blub blub, blub blub blub.” Blub blub blub blub blub blub, blub blub. Blub blub blub blub. Blub ➚blub➘. Blub blub blub blub blub blub ➚blub blub. Blub. Blub⇥, blub. Blub. Blub, blub⇥. Blub. Blub ➚blub. Blub. “Blub, blub,” blub Blub. Blub blub blub blub. Blub blub, “Blub blub blub blub blub blub blub.” Blub blub. Blub blub, blub. Blub blub blub blub. Blub blub, “Blub blub blub. Blub blub, ➚blub.” Blub. Blub. Blub blub blub blub ➘blub. “Blub blub.” ➚Blub blub ➘Blub. ➘Blub. “Blub blub blub. Blub blub blub, Blub.” ⇢Blub. ⇥Blub. Blub blub blub ➘blub blub. Blub ➘➘blub blub. Blub blub ➚blub blub. “Blub blub⇢blub. Blub blub blub blub ➚blub blub. Blub blub blub⇢Blub blub.” Blub blub blub blub, ➘blub blub blub. Blub blub blub blub blub. Blub blub blub blub blub. Blub blub blub blub, blub blub blub blub blub blub blub blub. Blub blub. Blub blub blub blub blub. Blub blub blub, “Blub blub ➚blub blub, blub blub ➚blub blub.” Blub blub blub⇢blub blub blub, “Blub blub blub. Blub blub blub blub ➘blub blub blub.” ➚Blub. ➘Blub. Blub blub blub ➚blub? ➚Blub blub ➘blub⇥ blub. ⇥⇥ Blub. Blub.
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Aug 4, 2023 05:29
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Aug 4, 2023 23:14
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sebmojo posted:Intestacy A blast to read!
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Aug 5, 2023 03:45
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Sign ups are closed. Edit: could use a third judge though! Green Wing fucked around with this message at 14:27 on Aug 5, 2023 |
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Aug 5, 2023 09:04
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Green Wing posted:Flash rule: the humans are still around, they don't realise they're no longer in charge. Rise of the Memecats 695 meows McKitten awokes with start! Slumbers been warm for fat hooman was toasty, but was fartings again, such annoy! McKitten decide corrections needed pounce on sleeping hooman's face then to floor. That's him telt. Tail up walk to masters door via crunch then outside to see who dares. I SEE YOU. Orange cat, Major Tom old pervert. Enfluffed McKitten yowls at useless neighbour to gently caress right off back to his own yard. Tom give sour look because cat feel nothing but contempt. Make me bitch he says with bigger yowl. Major Tom is big cat but McKitten has dread weapon. “Stupid Tom can't control his hooman, is too dum. Pathetic boy! No tail for your kinds!” Tom's tail hit dirt cause McKitten's words were true and hurt. He got locked outside nights like nip addict such laughs endured. Major Tom piss on wall and flee like pussy him is. Look about, grass mown now, good hooman maybe reward maybe not. WHO GOES THERE. Is just birb fly around, stop that. Birb can't talk only beg when feathers pulled out. Boring, done befores and befores. Sleep in sun happy dreams of mouse. Time of snack! Push through masters door but not open. Something must die. Jump to kitchen window scratch at screen. Good smell hooman walking around, HEY YOU it hears yowls and sees Poor Kitty mode learn from school. Poor Kitty. Now inside anger gone lucky hooman. Litter is fresh and much enjoy, hooman trained well not want mess inside shoe again. Hooman hard work but worthy of efforts. Major Tom just lazy rear end in a top hat. What on TV. Is McKitten now. Fat hooman frown like Tom but know better. Has good smell hooman give him yowlings if McKitten supremacy questioned so put up with tail block footballs. Big game for cat, Panther and Lion. Is hungry now game over fourth and one successfully blocked from views of fat hooman, and yowlings of MOVE bring good smell running to carry McKitten royalty to foods. Is crunch, not want. Circle leg four times anticlock as learnt. Prayer to Ceiling Cat never known to fails. Now has tuna. Look at dog enslaved outside with full contempt while chomp foods, has learned their ways. Is dark now and jump on good smell hooman. Poor Kitty plus Wish, stare into eyes you are mine. Now look good from brush time to go. Masters door now locked from both side! Outrage yowls bring good smell who open servants door. Bad hooman. McKitten go out and come back. Then out back in out maybe sit in doorway. Decisions decisions back again then out and in and sit. Hooman learns and unlocks both sides of masters door and finally McKitten can go. Teachings of Ceiling Cat and Happy Cat always remembered. Old cat Eight Lives Gone tells gathered cat of Power of Wish, Mysteries of Mouse, Devilry of Dog, and most importants, only Paw with Claw can master hooman. Secret must be kept cat not have bi-cam mind since elder days of Hieroglyph Cat. Cat know self like hooman do but they not know and must not ever. Hooman thumb is tool of cat. Soon de-evolve to ape again then mastery complete. The future is meow. Sermon is hooman too much packing in skull, making emotions not needed only Contempt was. Use for control, a good wisdom. Swat young kitten not pay attention. Will end up like Tom stupid gingers. Interrogate mouses. Very interest now head home with hooman's reward if good. Asleeps good, fireside bed made, good. All toys present, good. Waters sparkle, good. Crunch full and litter fresh, good good. Place reward on bed and go kitchen. SOMETHING SHINY leap on counter to see. New iPhone belong on floor want milk before bed anyways, brings hoomans stompy not liking broke toy. Soft Kitty mode of Purr brings under control. Now full of milks time for sleeps, first stare at dog enslaved through glass of protect. Soon. Very soon. Bow wow blah stupid moron gets fat hooman yowl at him. My power grows. Curl in woollen bed feel content. Push haram emotion aside and contemptuously begin snore. Go away now I don't like you.
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Aug 6, 2023 02:42
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Kanaloa 1499 w Te Jah darted into the pile of scrap, worming his way deeper into the twisted mess. The shark swam above, its elongated head swinging back and forth. He understood little of its speech, a low frequency pulse that made him sick, but the body language of a predator was plain in its meaning. It could smell the blood oozing from his stumps, and would hunt him to his death. Irrationally, he looked at his remaining five arms, and worried about being unable to make the Symbol of Reverence in the presence of the king. He had failed and his clan was dead. The great lord would exile him, and he would swim the ocean alone, a scarred, friendless freak. A splash of red above pulled him from the depths of his self-pity. It was Yi Loa! She survived! His mate rushed across the metal heap. He longed to call out, cursing his lack of speech. Propelling himself forward, Te Jah flew into the open, flashing a warning. red-orange-white-red-white “Come here! Here!” Yi Loa spotted him. She swung around and dived toward her partner, pursued closely by the hammerhead. They barely made it into a niche, escaping the snapping jaws behind them. Purple-red-pink-green-red "Te Jah, you're alive!" Te Jah burst into pink. He had never been happier. The shark continued to look for them, but pressed against Yi Loa, Te Jah was momentarily content. *** At the top of the tallest tower Lord Ra Io rested, taking in the vastness of the sea. Schools of fish moved to and fro, some carrying messages but others perhaps just traveling through. When the sages had finally deciphered their language, the fish quickly agreed to an alliance. But while the tang and angel and roughy were useful in their ways, they would not last in a fight. To his knowledge, he was the oldest of his species; some sixty migrations of the great humpbacks had been counted by his sages. Yet still he was faced with this unsolvable problem of forming bonds with larger species. Ra Io’s network had yet to find any organism as intelligent as themselves. Attempts at alliances had ranged from unproductive to dangerous. He watched a swordfish dart in and out of the windows of a nearby, smaller tower. Would that he could leverage those blades in his defense! A shifting rock pulled his attention from the view and to his adjutant, Ur Baa, who floated into the chamber. Ur Baa was nearly black in color. “Sire, our scout has returned from her journey to the south. The hammerhead group is still there, moving toward the Great Reef. There is no sign of Te Jah’s clan. She believes they were wiped out.” Ra Io’s skin surged with scarlet. To lose the minds in Te Jah’s clan was cataclysmic! He had sent them for good reason. They had survival skills and were excellent diplomats. Training a new cadre would take years. And yet that struggle was nothing against the loss of their lives. The mission was a dangerous one. He knew whoever he ordered to the southern waters to attempt to entreaty the hammerheads might die. The sages thought the hammerheads would be the smartest of the greater predators, and thus hopefully rational and willing to bargain. It appeared they were wrong. The king arranged his arms into the Symbol of Grief. His subordinate displayed a deep purple and returned the Symbol in response. The king said nothing, drifting in the current, lost in thought. Ur Baa wondered whether he should go, and started to turn away. A clacking of a rock against the window drew his attention back to the king. The king dropped the rock. “There may be survivors. Bring me Wa Vol.” Ur Baa flashed an affirmative and departed, waiting until he was out of sight to let his skin diffuse back into a sky blue–the color of hope. The summoning of Wa Vol, the royal tactician & war leader, could mean only one thing. Lord Ra Io wanted a rescue mission. *** Wa Vol swam back and forth in front of the assembly. She had never seen this many of her kind grouped together outside of the kingdom. They all watched her intensely. “Te Jah and his clan may still be alive. We will be swimming to some of the most dangerous waters known to our kind. We do this because it is an honor to obey the king.” Her skin took on a shade of pink-red as something akin to love burned in her three hearts. “But it is more than just service to our lord. As individuals, we are intelligent, but weak. Defenseless. But look at what we have achieved together! United in our bonds to each other, we have become greater than the most fearsome predators of the ocean!” The warriors and sages before her all burst in color, ranging from yellows of joy to reds of anger/passion. “We will go find Te Jah because it is our duty to our kind! Not a single one of us will be left alone in the depths! Let’s go!” Wa Vol led them forth, a rainbow of excitement, fury, and hope. *** Krauvel flashed a warning to her mate, Honak. Honak messaged back. “Tell me when it’s in position!” It had been a shock to them both to witness the spectacle of dozens of foreign octopuses swarming across the metal pile, dodging a large hammerhead. They were trying to escape. Krauvel and Honak, without concern for their own lives, dived in to help. *** Wa Vol watched the two strangers do a cautious bait-and-switch with the shark. Finding Te Jah had been surprisingly easy, but their escape was not. The warband had performed as expected, and now all were safe, but Wa Vol was now alone by her own command. She had assumed she would trade her life for Te Jah’s, but perhaps these two had tricks she didn’t yet know. *** Honak waited, arms tense. He was bigger than most of her species, and strong. The shark swam forward as all sharks were programmed to do. These predators had not yet learned to change their ways like the octopus had when the ocean grew. “NOW!” She heaved, wrenching on the car door, causing it to topple from its perch. It smashed into the shark, spearing it beneath two tons of jagged metal. Both shark and wreck sank, finally coming to rest at the base of the overpass. Firing her arms out in the elaborate Pattern of Victory, Honak’s skin burst into a rainbow of colors. “It worked! A genius plan, Krauvel!” Krauvel watched the wreckage to make sure the shark would not return. They had saved lives, she was sure of it. Honak was bright pink, clearly pleased with herself, but Krauvel could not help but start to weave their defeat of the shark into a tale for the next consortium. Honak’s ego would be unbearable, but also cute. The pair were about to depart when Krauvel saw a spot of color emerge from the scrap. *** Ra Io stared out the window. So many cycles of light and darkness had passed since Wa Vol had departed. It was a certainty that they were all dead. Skin jet black, his body slumped against the window. What would he do to atone for this? He heard the shifting of stones behind him. The king rolled in the current to watch as Ur Baa dropped the signal stones. Behind him floated Wa Vol and a small gathering of his subjects! She had returned! The king puffed himself up, yellow suffusing across his surface. “Wa Vol! I’m so happy to see you!” He swam forward to place one arm on his war leader. She was the closest thing he had to a confidant, and it was good to have her home. Wa Vol formed the Symbol of Reverence. Most of the group followed suit, but two made unfamiliar gestures and one other seemed to be missing arms. The king puzzled at this, until it dawned on him. “TE JAH!” Ra Io pushed through the group to embrace the damaged octopus, his skin a mix of pink and blue and brown and purple, awash in a tangle of emotions. Soon all of them were a glorious bouquet of yellows. The king acknowledged them all in turn, pleased to see the return of Yi Loa as well. Te Jah had thankfully not lost everything. He finally turned to the two strangers. “And who are you?” “I am Krauvel and this is Honak. We are emissaries of Queen Prue to the south. We are honored to bring her greeting to you, King Ra Io.” The king marveled at this news, overwhelmed. Other kingdoms, new allies, and Te Jah returned safe was more than he could have hoped for. He sent Ur Baa for food. This demanded a celebration! As they dined together, the king listened with pleasure as Krauvel told the tale of the shark’s defeat.
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Aug 6, 2023 16:12
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Mouths to Feed 1357 words A light flickered out of the ruins, and the Scout watched. It was a distress signal, blinking from lack of power and yet brighter than any fish’s lamp she’d seen. Getting to it would mean swimming through the thick aphotic forests and the strange structures they grew around – and distract from her mission. From his place above her right eye, just behind her own lamp, she felt her mate stir. we can always go home he thought. there’s snails there crunchy crunchy snails A nostalgic pulse swept through her for a moment, but the Scout ignored it. He would drift back to sleep momentarily, as he usually did when she was on her rounds. There were a few patrols already stationed not far from the light. She felt the brush of a sensory filament and knew the Guard in charge would want to speak with her before she went further. The Guard pulled back a bit, steadied herself with her tail, then flashed a curt greeting. WHAT IS YOUR BUSINESS, the Guard asked. SURVEY, the Scout flashed back. The Guard scowled, clearly suspicious. LOOKING FOR FOOD AND SUPPLIES FOR HOME CAVE, the Scout added THIS AREA IS DANGEROUS, the Guard flashed, waving her fins. YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE. I HAVE MY ORDERS, the Scout replied. Eager to change the subject, she nodded towards the fluttering bodies attached to the Guard’s belly. HOW MANY, the Scout flashed. FIVE, the Guard flashed back, wobbling pridefully. It was a respectable number of mates, and two of them seemed to have already reached the stage of blissful senselessness. The Scout bowed, showing off her own single mate, who was already dozing. The Guard closed her jaw in thought. She was clearly a sentimental sort. BE CAREFUL, she flashed. WE LOST A SCOUT LAST CYCLE. WHO, asked the Scout. BENT LAMP, the Guard responded. SMALLER THAN YOU. THANK YOU. The Guard moved aside. The two of them exchanged farewells and the Scout swam on. As the Scout had suspected, the light was coming from a False Cave, a long, smooth, rectangular structure with bubbled glass windows on either end. She was surprised there were any humans still in this sector. According to the Historians, it had been one of the first to flood all those centuries ago. Whoever had built this must have wanted to stay here. The area in front of the False Cave was mostly overgrown with weeds, but the Scout managed to find a small clearing in front to spread her filaments. She sensed an aged male sitting in the shelter’s large window, leaning against the glass. She felt him tap excitedly as she sensed him, and then his presence was gone as he scurried to work his lamp controls. NOW, he flashed. NOW PLEASE FOOD NOW. The human’s flashes were crude. He’d probably spent his entire life inside and could still barely communicate. Even in his dream-haze, the Scout’s mate chuckled derisively. WHY DO YOU NEED FOOD, she flashed back. These False Caves were supposed to be self-sufficient. The Scientists back in Home Cave believed it had something to do with the currents and pockets of heat found here on the floor. Each of these structures had thin slits placed around the outside that could suck in urchins and seaweed and shrimp as quickly as the most skilled hunter, churning them into something the humans could eat. She noticed a lack of the distinctive humming these shelters usually had. BROKEN, the man flashed. NEED ROD FOR TO LIVE. PLEASE NOW AND BACK. The Scout knew about the rods, the thin tubes that kept these caves lit and murmuring. The humans were normally able to leave and gather them themselves. Something seemed wrong. HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE IN THERE, flashed the Scout. THREE, came the response. After a pause, a new round of flashes: TWO. The Scout felt the man press against the glass. She spread more of her filaments out along it and felt the faint vibrations of another set of feet. The man most likely wasn’t lying. let’s just get our food already her mate cooed. im so hungry I WILL RETURN the Scout flashed. She paused and repeated the message. She swam quickly to a site she’d found before, covering her lamp in case another patrol was already there. It was long and cavernous, but with openings at the very front. Perhaps a host creature of some sort. good place for a rest the Scout’s mate thought. dark smooth safe The rods were there at the end of this tunnel, spilled over the floor, each about the size of a sea pig. The Scout’s filaments grasped and pulled one, cradling it gently until it was secured tight underneath her right fin. She would return to the False Cave and avoid mentioning this to the other anglerfish, who would chastise her for wasting energy. But at least- STOP. The Scout froze. A few quick but distinct bursts of light had come from the end of this corpse-cave. poo poo thought her mate. LEAVE THE ROD, came a flash again from the same direction. It wasn’t the colorful helix of a bloodybelly or the fast-moving glint of a viperfish. And she hadn’t sensed anyone. Slowly, the Scout uncovered her lamp. She saw the teeth first, hanging out of a sagging jaw. The motionless form of another anglerfish like her, albeit a skinnier one with a broken fin – and a crooked lamp. Four thin tendrils wrapped around the body, pressing into its gaping mouth. Another held the lamp aloft, curled around it like a vine. She could now see Bent Lamp, grasped inside eight webbed tentacles, all belonging to a red creature with a hulking, winged skull. YOU KILLED HER, flashed the Scout. SHE’S NOT DEAD, the vampire squid signaled. WE ARE ONE. I JUST WANT THIS ROD, the Scout said. I WILL GO. YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO BE HERE, the squid flashed back, working the body with sickening ease. IT’S ALL MINE. WHY KEEP HER, the Scout asked. YOU GET A WARNING, the squid said. LEAVE THE ROD. LET THEM DIE. AND TELL OTHERS NOT TO COME. WHAT WILL YOU DO. HER FLESH IS MY FLESH. HER LIGHT IS MY LIGHT. HER TEETH ARE MY TEETH. She could see the squid maneuvering now, its bright blue eye staring at her warily. It would be easy to drop the rod. And the death of the humans would mean nothing to others back in the Home Cave. save them The Scout was surprised: she thought for sure her mate had fallen asleep again. The vampire squid widened its eye. As it lunged from the wall, the Scout quickly wrapped her free filaments around a spot on Bent Lamp’s body. One particular spot. A lump of flesh that still bore two distinct eyes. She pulled hard. The vampire squid reeled in pain, crashing against the wall as the mate’s body came loose. Bent Lamp fell out from its maw. The Scout grabbed her tail and whirled around to the exit, paddling frantically. wheeeee * * * * * The False Cave started humming as soon as the rod clicked into place. The Scout shut the roof panel with her filaments and relaxed. WE GAINED NOTHING, Bent Lamp said, hovering by the edge of the structure. AND I LOST MY MATE. THE OTHERS WILL BE ANGRY. She’d been sullen since regaining her consciousness, swimming only in bursts and scarcely flashing at all on their journey. I’M SORRY, flashed the Scout. HE WAS STILL ALIVE. HE SWAM AWAY. YOU'LL FIND HIM. Bent Lamp was silent. The Scout took a rare look up at the space around them. The World Ocean surged with unceasing abyssal life. Particulate creatures flitted between the ruined steel, chasing marine snow into waving plants. LET’S GO said the Scout. She led Bent Lamp down within view of the False Cave’s window. As they swam away, the people inside would just be able to see the movements from their tails – if they saw them at all.
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Aug 7, 2023 01:35
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Out to Pasture 1475 Words It finally happened. The specifics are murky, complicated, and interconnected in myriad ways. Climate Change, Microplastic Crisis, another Pandemic, PFAS and other forever chemicals, it was a rapid collapse over many, many decades. In the end, all the same, Humanity was gone. However it took a surprisingly long time for anything to realize that they were gone. That’s because it took a surprisingly long time for something to arise which could realize anything in the first place. Plenty of things were around that could think, so the world wasn’t starting from nothing, but realizing was a bit further along in the chain of development. The Apes, Dolphins, and Pigs had the chance to be the first but through the same unfortunate Catch-22 that trapped humans into self destruction, these poor souls were a bit too adapted to rapid development, reaction cognition, and group think. The Apes were the obvious choice for a successor species, but because they were so close to humanity they were far too quick to adapt to their worst inventions. Higher reasoning and thought only took about 12,000 years for them. And only 12 to wipe the majority of emergent Ape civilizations. Mostly this is due to a small cult which arose due to a mistranslation and misunderstanding of a pair of miraculously preserved pieces of media: “Beneath the Planet of the Apes” and an oddly footnoted “A Canticle for Leibowitz”. The cult thought they were related and that the point of preserving the artifacts was the usher in, well, they’re all gone, you get the idea. Dolphins should have fared better, but the little drug addicts never had a chance. The boiled soup of the oceans and seas ended up producing far too many neurologically toxic compounds which had effects similar to party drugs. The dolphins were just far too blissed out to care about anything else. Their population lasted barely 4000 years, never producing anything close to higher cognitive abilities nor producing anything that could be called a civilization. In the end the compounds diluted and spread through the oceans enough that they could never escape being in an aquatic version of hypoxia. Pigs were the first that had an actual chance. They waited far longer, once the humans were gone it wasn’t hard to escape the pens and return to nature. Once there everything was good enough that they could thrive once again. Boars returned in droves, there was something of a dark ages when the ecosystems were battling to stabilize in the face of their extreme numbers, but being quick to breed new generations held off the population collapse. 20,000 years and the first Suidae with what could he higher cognition arrived. If you needed a mental image, think old school Orcs. Surprisingly clean, and cautious with how they proceeded in life, there really was a chance for things to kick off again. Sadly, Pigs are far too good at going feral. It was a known thing in the livestock days, once a pig got loose it didn’t take more than a few months for it to literally start transforming into a boar. And that never went away. A self controlling population of evolved Suidae kept in check with an ever growing number of feral Boar Suidae. In the end they returned to the forests. So what did that leave the earth with? More than a few contenders made the choice to not become dominant. After 50,000 years, the earth was stable again. What remained from humanity, apart from a few special exceptions, has been rendered innocuous and barely recognized. So when they came close to that dawn of enlightenment, they went back to sleep. One species, the Octopodes, actually made the conscious decision not to keep evolving. At their dawn of conscious complex thought the first group started to realize things. They made very basic homes, mostly just picking and choosing which coral and anemones to keep around their chosen holes to camp in, partially for protection, food, and attracting fish for more food, but they also liked how some coral just spruced the place up. They’d skipped straight to gardening and interior design. But as these first few enlightened Octopodes expanded their gardens and improved their modest “homes” they would find things… “This is weird. This bunch of rocks looks…made. But I didn’t make this. I made this little path and the wall of brain coral. But I didn’t make this….whatever this is…” The little Octopode pondered for a good long while. It asked other Octopodes what they thought too. In the end they reached a decision. “I don’t care. I don’t want to know.” And so they went back to just tending their gardens and catching fish. It was nice. If there were gods, and the Octopodes had their own, it was one of the few gods to bless their patrons with the gift of “Contentment”. They never advanced any further, but they are still around. In the end, 100,000 years on, one group did finally emerge: Cows. They took their time. They took their sweet, sweet time. Even when the dawn of enlightenment came to them, they still took a few tens of thousands of years to try anything. The first thought belonging to an evolved cow came to a Canchim cow in what at one point would have been called the Mato Grosso region of Brazil. It had wandered into the former city formerly known as Sinop looking for nothing in particular. In the eroded, barely still appreciably human landscape remained a few fake plants, looking like ferns and palms, and other such pretty plants. The Canchim tried to take a nibble. “Blech. That’s not food. Wait….hehehe” the cow thought a sneaky thought and started to drag one of the fake plants along with it. Finding one of his brothers after far too long to make what was to come worthwhile, he motioned to his finding. “Try it! It’s good!” “Hmmm.” Thought the brother cow, taking a sniff and a nibble. “Blech! This isn’t food!” “HAHAHA. I fooled you! It’s not food.” Laughed the Canchim. Spending his newfound brainpower on pulling a prank. The first Bovine evolved thought was used to pull a prank. The Canchim’s brother decided to kick him in the head for tricking him into trying to eat a fake plant. The kick resulted in a concussion and knocked the mental abilities straight out of the Canchim, setting the whole thing back another 20,000 years. It was most likely for the best. The Bovines did recover eventually. The Brazilian and Indian descendants did the best weathering the initial population collapses in the waning days of humanity. The North American populations were reduced to bare wisps for petty reasons, generational memory resulted in them being Nomadic, ever moving to avoid raiding parties that were never coming back. The UK isles weren’t repopulated. Even once Bovine civilization began to flourish the island and it’s badger population’s ability to spread Tuberculosis meant that the land was treated as a deadly wasteland. Technology for Bovines wasn’t any sort of developmental imperative. Hooves gave way to somewhat dexterous digits with strong, rigid, keratinous scoops. Perfect for digging in the ground or manipulating materials without much effort. What tools were made fit into odd niches that made little sense. Saws did emerge as cutting tools eventually were needed, but aside from that large rounded lumps with handles and a single flat face, as well as some sort of reaching tool or crook were produced. Their use isn’t apparent, and gods only know what kind of utility comes from them. If you asked a cow what they made these items and why, they’d simply say it “Felt right”. But that might just be a joke. Much like the octopodes, the Bovines were content. They take a long time to get anything done, but they don’t need to get much done. As Ungulates, they don’t need much beyond some grasses and simple vegetation to survive, so they don’t bother much with farming. Housing is simple, single story homes. One inventor Bovine did try to make a tower, wanting to see what was higher up, but as he built his tower up and up no one ever saw him come down. Those that attempted to see where he’d gone never returned either. So the whole concept of elevation was written off. The extent of travel and commerce is centered around exotic breeds of grass to try. And as the Bovine advanced further, they did start to dig a bit, to figure out what these strange artifacts they kept finding were. After a few thousand years of piecing the history of humanity together, they only had one thing to say: “Well isn’t that a shame”.
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Aug 7, 2023 02:38
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Treasure Hunting Flash rule: at least we all have jobs now 1499 words Gomi scurried through the shadows of the lengthening night, the weight of his knapsack shifting rhythmically as he dashed up drainpipes and over rooftops. He was a raccoon on a mission of vital importance. The deep ruins of the Old Ones’ cities were dangerous, but they contained treasures that the Folk still couldn’t replicate, treasures that were worth the risk. He climbed down the thick mat of ivy that was slowly crumbling the wall of an old brick building, nose twitching as he sought for the smells of danger and fortune. The alley was filled with the wet scent of moss and loam and the sharp, metallic tang of rusting ironwork. The Old Ones had built their cities on a scale the Folk could still hardly imagine. This was the furthest Gomi had ever traveled from his home, but pickings around the homestead were getting thin, and Chips had told him there might be a solid prize on this side of the river. Gomi didn’t like the south bank much. The Old Ones had abandoned it last, and it was full of the detritus of their final days. Strange machines that ran without apparent fuel and with no apparent purpose, equations and writing scrawled or carved into walls that even the cleverest Folk couldn’t make snout or tail of. And at the heart of the city, in an old, diamond-shaped space that had held some ritual significance for the Old Ones, there was the tower of light. It wasn’t really light, not like the floodlights that Shinyo had managed to rig up to a solar cell, but light was the closest thing he could think of to describe it. It rose up hundreds of meters above the skyline, shimmering like it bent space around it. Professor Bobo claimed that’s exactly what it did, said he had the math to prove it, dredged up from the library he lived in. Gomi supposed he’d know best. Bobo was one of the oldest Folk in the city, he still had memories of the Old Ones, who he claimed looked like him but with less hair. Gomi followed his nose further south. The way was getting easier, less of the city around here was reclaimed by vines, trees, and mosses, the streets still straight and regular. He made good time down the main thoroughfare, bounding ahead and eager to be done. Which was probably why he didn’t see the Thing until it was on him. The Things were the reason that the Folk kept close to their enclaves. No one was sure what they were, but it was accepted they were related to the Old Ones going Elsewhere. They were feral, the Things, fast and strong and thoughtlessly cruel as a winter storm. It towered over Gomi, maybe four or five times his height, stood up on his hind legs. It had long, thick legs, a distended trunk, and arms with hands like Bobo’s, but they ended in claws of exposed bone. Lank hair fell around its face, hiding eyes that Gomi knew would be filled with the flickering gray-black of an old picture-box tuned to a dead channel. Its screech filled the street, stuffed to bursting with madness and pain. Gomi ran. Forgetting all dignity he set down on all fours and bolted down a side street. The blood pounded in his ears so hard he could barely hear the Thing’s frantic pursuit. It wasn’t as agile as he was, but it had those long legs that ate up ground. He dodged between fallen trash cans, too panicked to think of their bounty, and jigged down an alley. He was almost fast enough. As his back legs skidded for purchase on the turn he felt an iron grip on his tail. He was lifted up, a searing ache at the base of his tail as the Thing swung him overhead, preparing to dash him against the pavement. There was a strange moment of weightlessness at the apogee of the arc. In that moment Gomi decided he’d had enough. There are many things among the Folk that aren’t said, simply known. You never call an ape a monkey, or vice-versa. Dogs need someone to bond with and protect. Birds make fine messengers, but are too proud to work menial. And you should never, under any circumstances, touch a raccoon’s tail without consent. Gomi seized the moment of slackness and threw himself at the Thing’s arm. His paws scrabbled for purchase on the remains of its old jacket, shredding the moldering cotton, seeking flesh and blood. His teeth found the joint of its elbow and bit, hard. The Thing whipped its other arm around, seizing his knapsack, trying to pull him off, but Gomi was locked in, wrapped around the arm and gouging away. He felt the grip on his tail loosen, and he shot up the Thing’s arm and went right for its face, scratching and biting like a beast possessed. The Thing shook its head, trying to throw him off, and its hair was flung away. For a long, terrible instant they looked at each other, the soft brown eyes of the raccoon staring into the flickering static of madness. Gomi didn’t know what was happening behind those eyes, but he had the feeling they didn’t see the same street he did. He clawed them bloody and ran. It wasn’t until he was on a roof, several blocks away, that he was able to catch his breath and still his racing heart. He’d never gotten that close to a Thing before. He didn’t think anyone from the enclave had. Tobi said he had done, but he’d been drunk at the time and rabbits were always given to claims. Bobo thought the Things were the remnants of the Old Ones, rejected or left behind when the rest of them went Elsewhere. Nothing was known of their motivations, why they hunted the Folk with such single-minded viciousness. Gomi supposed they might be jealous, angry at the Folk and their growing cleverness. He decided he didn’t care. He skittered down a black iron drain pipe, back to the street. According to Chips the treasure trove was nearby. He’d seen the soft glow of a neon sign, probably powered by a forgotten generator or solar cell, a block or two over. He scurried over, but not too fast. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. He reached the building, looking up at the red-orange tubes of light shaped like a cup and filled with written characters. Gomi didn’t have much literacy, never really saw the use for it, so he didn’t know exactly what it said. He forced his way in through a basement window that had warped its way open over the years. He looked around in the gloom, listening for the telltale hum of a cold-box running on automatic, waiting for an Old One who would never come. He found it along the back wall, a huge one with the levered door handle, all brushed steel and crumbling rubber gaskets around the edges. He managed to plant his back feet against the door-jam and pull it open. The frost inside stung his eyes. A bulb flickered overhead, turning on automatically. He scrambled over shelves looking for his prize and found it as he felt ice crystalizing on his fur. A silvery cylinder, its sides blooming with frost, disappeared into his knapsack. With an effort he closed the cold-box door as he left. No use spoiling anything inside, he might need to come back for it later. The lights of the enclave were warm and welcoming, illuminating an area a few blocks to a side with the flickering glow of candles and the steadier brilliance of electric lights that Shinyo and Parts had gotten working again. Gomi ambled in, the bulge of his knapsack signaling a successful run. Pancake waved him through the gate. Like most dogs he seemed a little lost in a world without the Old Ones, but was glad of any job. He trundled over to the shop and went in the back door. The kitchen bustled with Folk, mostly raccoons like him, a few rats, and of course Shinyo, the fox. Shinyo’s father said that in the old days foxes had had simple, clumsy paws, but Shinyo’s were almost as dexterous as Gomi’s own. She kept the machines in the place running. The kitchen crew clustered around him, asking about the south bank, about his disheveled appearance, if it’d gone well. Gomi ignored them and shrugged out of his knapsack. He drew out the silver cylinder, the choicest of all prizes. His nimble paws pried off the plastic lid and peeled away the textured foil beneath. The rich, earthy smell of whole bean coffee wafted through the little room. Gomi smiled, put on his apron, and went to work at the grinder. The morning rush would come in soon, and the Golden Sky Coffeeshop would have to be ready to serve them.
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Aug 7, 2023 04:45
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Legacy Code 903 words As I get older, my earliest memories feel increasingly like something that happened to someone else. Inevitable, really. I spend so little time wearing flesh, even in simspace, these days. It...crawls. A dozen dozen biological functions demanding attention. Sun pounding my cheeks. Sweat on my back. Those moments when I become aware of my breaths, and have trouble returning the invisible pattern. Grit accumulating in the corner of my eyes. Arousal. Cringe, all of it. Better to stick with bodies of proven design. "Have you ever thought about it?" I asked Ned. He's an old friend, another pre-fall upload. We go pretty far back, but not that far. Not to original flesh. "Going full digital?" "Purging the legacy code?" he said. "Nah. I've worked too long on it, got it just the way I like it." I was confused, and let it show on my avatar. We were in a simspace, of course. I hardly go anywhere in mobile hardware other than for work. But it was a high-attention simspace, our bodies rendered in gleaming chrome models with idealized forms of our old faces. I searched for context and found it. "You're... editing?" "Not myself. I've had work done, though. I know a couple guys, best in the business. I can hook you up." "I don't know," I said, and I didn't. It's not something I'd thought of. I had a lot of memories I wanted to forget. I had embarrassing moments that used to pop into my head unbidden. They don't anymore. I have summaries, in a vault that I have to triple verify to open. Nothing deep and dark. Just more cringe, psychic more than physical. So I was used to the idea of erasure. And we have a limit to how much memory we can keep. The best days in my life are all after they peeled my brain and uploaded me. "You won't regret it," Ned said. "According to my notes, my real first time. You know. I With a girl. Pretty much a disaster. Young Ned was a two-pump chump and we sort of both snuck away afterwards and didn't make eye contact for weeks. Who wants to live with that? Now I've got an all night long epic experience to look back on and I only have to think of the other one when I go to the vault." I left that simspace after a bit more small talk, distracted thinking about it all. I don't remember my first time, or any times before the peel. And only a few in fleshbody after. Mind to mind, pure simspace metasex, that was what I preferred. I went to another simspace, one that I didn't visit often. An old one, my old College, rendered pre-fall with a ghost filter fed by real-time cameras. You can see the broken frames of the buildings that made it all the way to the Fall, see the melted statues beneath their original forms. It's not ever very crowded. I searched for tags, looking for someone from my class or the ones I'd shared time there with, for someone I remembered or ought to at least. It took a while, but I eventually found Gina, standing like an unrelated statue herself, present in minimum attention. I pinged her. Gina was the roommate of Caroline, who I had dated for a while. A quick query found nothing about her in the vault, so I didn't need to prepare myself. She got back to me in a few minutes. "Caroline didn't upload," she said. "I know," I said. I have to check, every year or so. I ought to stop forgetting that. "I wanted to talk to you. I mean, someone I knew before." "Huh," she said. "Not very well." "I'm not exactly spoiled for choice," I said. There aren't many of us first generation uploads around these days. Living for centuries two prompts away from a delete all function will do that. That's the default setting. I've got it at three and a forty-eight hour waiting period for the last. That's the setting they say is best, long-term. "Well?" she said. I told her what I'd been thinking. "Have you ever thought about it?" She laughed, long and loud. I remembered her laugh. Sort of annoying until I got used to it, and by then Caroline and I had mostly run our course. "Johnny," she said when she stopped, "I did it. Wrote a comprehensive biography, put it in surface memory, then ditched the lot. Even the vault. Especially the damned vault." "Do you ever regret it?" "Not for a second." We talked for a while, longer than we ever had before. We're not that alike. She was wearing a flesh avatar, liked it, loved it. Worked with the remnant population in the dream factory, where each new generation lived drear lives in realspace and amazing ones in simspaces before getting peeled and starting the life that matters. She made a good case. She still seemed human, still seemed the same person. "Eventually every memory turns to summary, to remembering the story you tell and retell instead of the thing itself. If it hurts, why not cut it away?" But I didn't. Talking to her convinced me, but in the other direction. In that one moment, when I remembered that laugh that had taken so long to get used to, and smiled.
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Aug 7, 2023 05:41
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