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Betrayal at Brisgo Gap He looked back at Abuela. “So how do you propose to win? With the sudden accidental death of half a billion people? Or just the selective assassination of thirty million hardcore deplorables? It won’t work, Abuela. There are too many good people out there. Maybe you can win this day, but the word will remain, and sooner or later, you’ll have your civil war.” Abuela shook her head. “We’re not killing anyone, Donald. And the word won’t go out, at least not widely. Your speech will be remembered by those in the hall, but their recorders--most are using our information utilities. Our free hospitality, remember? Ultimately your speech will be polished into something... safer.” Abuela continued, “over the next twenty Ksec, you will be in special meeting with your opposition. Coming out of that you will announce a compromise: America will put a much greater effort into our network information services, the sort of thing that can help rebuild civilizations. But you will withdraw your notion of interstellar governance, convinced by the arguments of the rest of us.” A charade. “You could fake that. But afterword, you’ll still have to kill a lot of people.” “No. You will announce your new goal, an expedition to the far side of NATO space. It will be clear that this is partly out of bitterness, but you will wish us well. Your far fleet is almost ready, donald, about twenty degrees back along the Gap. We have equipped it honestly and well. Your fleet’s automation is unusually good, far more expensive that what would be profitable. You won’t need a continuous watch, and the first wake up will be centuries from now. Donald looked from face to face. Something like Abuela’s treachery could work, but only if most of the Fleet Captains that he thought supported him were really like Ivanka and Eric and Don Jr. And then only if they had set up proper lies with their own people. “How long have you been planning this, Abuela?” “Ever since you were a young man, donald. Most of the years of my life. But I prayed it would never come to this.” Donald nodded, numb. If she had planned that long, there would be no obvious mistakes. It didn’t matter. “My fleet awaits, you say?” His lips twisted around the words. “And all the deplorables will surely be its crew. How many? Thirty million?” “A good deal less, Donald. We’ve studied you hard core supporters very carefully.” Given the choice, who wanted to go on a one way trip to Russia? They had been very careful to keep those supporters out of this room. All but Christie. “Christie?” His Flag Captain met his eyes, but his lips were trembling. “Sir. I’m s-sorry. Jun wants a different life for me. We--we’re still deplorables, but we can’t vote for you.” Donald inclined his head. “Ah.” Abuela floated closer, and Donald realized that if he pushed off, he could probably grab the handle on her chair and ram his fist right through her scrawny quilted chest. and break my hand for the effort. Abuela’s heart had been a machine for centuries. “Don? Donald? It was a beautiful dream, and along the way it made us what we are. But in the end it was just a dream. A failed dream.” Donald turned away without responding. Now there were guards by the doors, waiting to escort him. He didn’t look at his children. He brushed past Chris Christie without a word. From somewhere in the still, cold depths of his heart, something wished his Flag Captain well. Christie had betrayed him, but not like the others. And no doubt Christie believed the lies about a far fleet. He hoped that Christie would never see through them. Who would ever pay for a fleet such as Abuela described? Not crafty merchants like Abuela Hillary and his stone-faced children and the others who had plotted this day. Far cheaper, far safer to build a fleet of real coffins. My father would have understood. The best enemies are the ones who sleep without end. Then Donald was in a long corridor, surrounded by guards who were also strangers. His last vision of Abuela’s face still hung in Donald’s imagination. There had been tears in the old woman’s eyes. One last fakery. A tiny cabin, mostly dark. The kind of room a junior officer might have in a small temp. Work jackets floated in a closet bag. A lapel tag whispered, and a name floated in his eyes: Ed Balls. JeffersonClay has issued a correction as of 18:00 on Oct 22, 2016 |
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Oct 22, 2016 07:33
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ZDR stood more erect: "What is the secret duty of the Goon?" "To obey the Moderators only in accordance with Forum Rules." "What is the second secret duty of the Goon?" "To keep secret our posts, and to destroy the acquirers thereof." "How to destroy?" "Twice to the leper's colony, back and perma'ed." "If trolls die, what the duty then?" The Goons all compressed their lips for answer. (Silence was the code.)
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Oct 22, 2016 08:13
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The Donald is a solipsistic psychopathic God with a lust for pussy and a mandate from Vladimir Putin branded on his hunting tentacles. It sweeps east from Manhattan in the cold under the thermocline, alone in the dark, solitary lord of a solitary place. Make no mistake, compadres: this is not a man with which to gently caress. It’s rolling in thirty billion dollars of Russian military appropriation, black as the depths that birthed its species. It’s got a golden harness, anti-media beacons, limpet mines, encrypted datalinks, kilos of nutritional supplement cooked up by Russian-DARPA. We’re not talking Cephal-Os, kids. We’re talking potent biochemistry here. Trumpmeth. Trump PCP. – bear with me, Abuela. I’m going places you haven’t been. Places you need to be before I tell you how to stop him, and what I want in exchange. gently caress the Joint Chiefs. I’m talking.
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Oct 22, 2016 08:20
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One night I had a frightful dream in which I met my abuela from Illinois. She lived in a phosphorescent palace of many terraces, with gardens of strange leprous corals and grotesque brachiate efflorescences, and welcomed me with a warmth that may have been sardonic. She had changed - as those who take to the democrats change - and told me she had never died. Instead, she had gone to a spot her dead daughter had learned about, and had leaped to a realm whose wonders - destined for her as well - she had spurned with a smoking bong. This was to be my realm, too - I could not escape it. I would never die, but would live with those who had lived since before man ever walked the earth. I met also that which had been her grandmother. For eighty thousand years Pth'thya-l'yi had lived in Fl'or'ida, and thither she had gone back after Obama Hussein was elected. Fl'or'ida was not destroyed when the upper-earth men shot cubans into the sea. It was hurt, but not destroyed. The Latinos could never be destroyed, even though the palaeogean magic of the forgotten Democrats might sometimes check them. For the present they would rest; but some day, if they remembered, they would rise again for the tribute Great Lyndon craved. It would be a city greater than Chicago next time. They had planned to spread, and had brought up that which would help them, but now they must wait once more. For bringing the upper-earth men's death I must do a penance, but that would not be heavy. This was the dream in which I saw a Trump voter for the first time, and the sight set me awake in a frenzy of screaming. That morning the mirror definitely told me I had acquired the Chicago look. So far I have not shot myself as my uncle Douglas did. I bought an automatic and almost took the step, but my certain hatred of the second amendment deterred me. The tense extremes of horror are lessening, and I feel queerly drawn toward the unknown polling stations instead of fearing them. I hear and do strange things in sleep, and awake with a kind of exaltation instead of terror. I do not believe I need to wait for the full change as most have waited. If I did, my father would probably shut me up in a sanitarium as my poor little cousin is shut up. Stupendous and unheard-of splendors await me below, and I shall seek them soon. Ia-R'lyehl Lyndgn Jlhnsgn ob ama! No, I shall not shoot myself - I cannot be made to shoot myself! I shall plan my cousin's escape from that Washington mad-house, and together we shall go to marvel-shadowed Trump tower. We shall climb out to that gilt title in the sky and whisper through black abysses to Cyclopean and many-columned Bannon "Duchess," and in that lair of the 14th floor we shall dwell amidst wonder and glory for ever, and Trump the many handed will charge the campaign five times the going rate for it.
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Oct 22, 2016 10:34
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And, for an instant, he stared directly into those soft ambiguously coloured eyes and knew, with an instinctive mammalian certainty, that the Clintons were no longer even remotely human.
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Oct 23, 2016 01:31
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Ia! Ia! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Clinton R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!
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Oct 23, 2016 01:33
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Corny posted:Ia! Ia! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Clinton R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn! T̡̖̿̓͆̓ͬ͜o̜͓͎̼͐̉͊̈́͋ ̭͖̠̳̺̞͖̪͓͂̋̾̌͌̄́i͙̰ͥͪ̈́͊̚͞n̶̩̠̄ͫ͐́v̴̧̗͇̹͍ͯͫ̎͌̄̃̈́ŏ̵͓̳̌͐͛ͪ̒̃̍ḵ͖̻͓̣͙̈̔ͮ͊̿̃͡ê̷͇̫ͯͣ͊ͩ̾̋ͧ ̺̣̼̻̫̆̎̓͑̂̑͘t̙͖̝͕̼̫͇̘̽͆̽͆ͮ̕͝͡h̬̖̼̠̮̫̅ê̺̘̝̫̖͊͊ͧͨͯ͂̋ͅ ͨ̋͆ͫ͏̹̟̬͕̠͇̹̮̯h̵̥̦̖͍̟̠̰̫̘ͩ̊͒ͮ͐̍ͫ̂͟į͖̠̣̳̙̫̼̤ͫͮ̀̿ͭ̄ͭ̕v̮̪ͩ̈́̕͟e̴͖͍͓̫̐ͧ͡-̓ͧ̿҉̢͟ͅm̡̢͚̙͈͇͕̖̩̟̎ͬi̭̼̣̥̜͙ͬ͂͆ͫ̔̈́̄̒͟n̷̡̗̲̫̘̱̼͓̗ͮ̄ͭ͑̅̓ͪd̨̪̟̮̭̝̺̭̻͛̊͗̀ ̴͚̤̘͖͙͇̩̓ͤ̈́̈́̓ͅͅr̷̖̠͔̳͍̪̫̎ͤ̉ͭ͂ͮ̇́̕e̠̣͕ͨ͑̉ͧ͌͐͢͝p̷͚̺̊͡r̫͓̓ͩ͒͊̓͞ẹ̹ͤͬ͋́ͤ͠s̵̤͈̘̤̰͐̓̑ͪ̐̽ͪ̚ȩ̤͎̙̱̘̫͈͔̋ͯͩ̓́͜ǹ̩̰̗̈́̓́͟͠t̨͖̘͙̙̩̊̏̕i̳̖̥̩̱͚̲̖ͧ́ͦ̄n̸̟̔̏ͫͮ́̃̓̎̈͜͡ģ̵͓̰͔̠ͬ̀ ̨̮̤̇̏ͯ̈́͛͟c̪̫̘̠͓̲̲̻̀͑͂̍͌͂̈́̉̕͘͡ͅh̲̟̜̳͈ͣ̓̋͐͋̃̍͜͡a̧̛͇̲͈̻͓̳̾̔́o͚̙̯̪͎̣̱̟̝ͥ̚s̨̻̺͈͐͌ͧ̚͟͞.̸̂ͧ̎ͣ̀҉̣̳̭̝̘͙̲̱ ̷̡̲ͥ̉̀ͤ̆͊I̠̜ͮ̑̋͂ͥͦ̈́͝ͅͅǹ̴̡̘̩ͩͮͥͥ̉̎v͈̯̩̗͕̞̻̹͆̏̅͗̅̕o̟͈̺ͬ͟͠k̲̠̲̞ͤ̂ͤ̊̇̽ͦ͜i̥̣͙̦̬͎͗̑ͬͪ̎̈̚͢͞ͅn̴̨̖̦̟͎͍̪̪̘̳̂̋̿ͦ̂̒̈g̰̺͖̠͔̹̑̌͂ͮ̆͠ ̧̘̦̤̫̳̥̺͒̽̂͛̊̋ͪͅt̴͈͔̺̙ͤͫ̇̔͋̈́̇̍ĥ̛̩̱̖́̾e͕̗͕̞̼̻͐̒̀͐͠ ̳̹̓̾̆̆̈́͋̚͞fͤ̇̉͐ͮͤ̀͐͏̛̥̜͍̘̩͘e͎̾͗́͠͡ȩ̛̖͉̠̞͚̼̍ͩ͊̑͒͒̈́͆l̟̰͚̗͓̖͓̀ͦ͐͆̃ͨ͂i̼͚̜̹͚̥ͦ́n̢̹͙̠̝̫̺̭͗̆͘ͅg̷̼̹͐̿͑ͪͫͪ͟ ̛̖̻͇̰͚̠͊ͮͣͤ̋̍ͣ͌o̡̺̪͉̜ͧͨ͗ͦ͋͆f̬̯͐ ̭͎̯̳̜̬̄ͧͦͪ́c̅̆̇̉̇͆̌͏̧̥̘̣̳͈̠̜ͅh̡͖͈̲̠̪̆͒̂ͥ̈́ͭͪaͮͫ̌̿҉̞̙͈͞ǫ̫͇̲̆͑ͤ͞ș̪̜͙̯͎́͒ͦ̂̈̄͛̓̇͘͟.̜̞̣̠̒́̑̐ͦ̓̒̈̉͟͞ͅ ̡̳̩͕̹̘̖̉̀͒̽̿̀W̩̪͎̱͈͈̩ͬ͑i̹̪̠̫͓ͣ̇͌͛͞t͎̺̱̻̭͑̇̂̚͘ȟ̶̢̛̠̦̺̦͈̖ͫͦ́̔͌o͚͎̘̹̪̜̲ͬ͑̈́ů̻̜͖͉̻͔̗̳̦t̵̗̦̞̰͒̋̈́́͑ ͔̰̳̈̆̃̏o͇̳̟̺͕͍̞̪̊̽ͩͭ̿̌ͪ̚͝r͓̭̫͓̩ͣ͜͡d̵͚̗̹̞̪̩̤̏̽͞ͅͅe̺̫̠̞͈͖̜̞͒́̈͊r̿͞҉̼̤̙̳̺̜̺.̖̲ͬ̅͑̎ͬ̏ ̢ͪ̏̈́̉̂ͪ̆̓҉̯̯̯̜̹̩ͅT͙̹̣͔͚̠̠ͭ̈́ͨ͗̏̋̀̚̕h̡̩̪̳͕̦͉̯ͬ̏̊̆ͦͥ̊e̺̝͑ͫ̓̽ͦ͠ ̷̮̭̻͔̼̣͓̃͑N̴̩͖̗̺͔͍̘̾̐̔̚̕͡e̗̤̙̗̲͈͕͛̄ͪͦ̿̓̈́͌͜z̵̳̣̙̘̝͕̱̼̗̓͐̓̇͐̀pͯ̂͛̉̿̽̉͆̒͏̜̩̜̳̳̟̝e̮̼̭͚̲͓̯̭ͨͮ̈̕͟r̖͉̱̮̱ͫ̋̚͢d̵̢͉̦̬̠̱̪̪͋̿i͍͍͖̰͎͎̠̻̾̉aͦ̍͊͘҉̼n̮͕̺̙̲͓̭̏̎ͨ͝ ̨͚̙̝̭͔̼̓̐̈ͦͭ͆̍ͮ͝ͅh̨̠͛͗͊͛̂̋ͣ͋͟i͊ͫ̈́̎̓̽̒͛͏̞͎͜v̹̤͉͓̐͒ͩ͊̒e̟̭̘͙̪̤̙͈͙͑-̹̠͈̤̹̟͓͚̈̀͑̚͘̕m̛̩̻̙̜͉̘̻̱̉̑ͨ͒ͨͬ̿͡i̷͌͛̑̅͛ͦ̑͗҉̳͔̞͍n̴͎̯͓̫̥̫̠ͮ̑̓d̏̓͌ͯ͏̥̹̠̲͇ ̳̇ͣ͗̋́̚͘ó̬̥̝̬̾ͤ̋ͫ̀͠͠f̡͔͚̹̪͎̥͓͍ͣͣ̍ ̷̫͇̭͎͙͖͉́ͩ͛ͣͣͫc̲̙͈̼̫̬͗̾ͫ͒ͨ́́ͅh̜̮̲̰̰͉̭̩̉ͮ̐̓͞a̵̤̠̠̻̮̜̠̾̎̿͛͡o̤̦͖̘͍͍ͤ͝͝s̷͓͙̠̝̳͖͖ͤ̇̅ͥ̾ͅ.̙͕̪̫͉͍̦̟ͦ̾̈̒̇͌͞ ̥ͧ̔̒̿̚͟C̣̣̩̠̬̯̭ͮ̓̔͂l̷̶̖̞̦̗̠͗̿ͯ͠ͅi̪̰̥̤ͨ̅̅̄n̴͋̊͆͗͏͈͇̹͉̲͉̦̼͙t̵̢̠̪̜̗̱ͬ͌ͪ̽͑̊͆o̸̙͍̓̇̏̋ͫ͛͛́͐͡n͔̬ͯͯͤͯ́.̡͚̖̝̼̋͂͆ͩ̀͘ ̹̩͎̠̰̜̠̞͖̋̃̿̉S̃̿ͮ̓͒͐̾̔ͥ͡҉̩̙̤͔͚̗̠̗̹ḩ̤̯̝͋̈́̇ͧ̚e̱̭͈̠͕̿ ̥̗̱ͪ̉͗́͝ẅ̶̱̺́̓̓̈́ͣ̿́h̦̗͉̾͜o͎͚͚͇̓̄ͧ͒̐̃͂̃͘͠ ̗̗͖̠͕̖ͨ͗ͫ́̅̎W̷̵̢̜̤̜ͬ͛̍ͫ̋̓͒͆a̘̮͓̜͊ͯ͆͠ͅi̛̼̦̠̊̈ͫͤͩ͟t̄ͣ͌҉̪̝̜̺̖̣̻͖̀͞s̢̝͖̜̩̦̾̓̀ͫͤ̊͊̀ ̡̝̬̩̓͑̏͘B̗̎ͮ͂ē̺̪̐͗̓ͬ͌ͫ͐̕͝h̶̜̒̃͆ͫ̑ͥ̾̓i̶̯̙̯͚̟̲ͯ͂̉ͣ̓̓͘n̶̺̟̈́͘d͈͋̈́ͩ͡ ͒ͨ͏̬̼̲̱̙͚͕͉̀Tͨͬ̌̔͊͗̔҉͏̘̯̕h̥̙̒̅̓̾̈́͜e̖̱̺͖̩͕͐̓͊͆̏̈͗̐͋ ̡͑ͪ̈́̊̚͠͏͕͙̰̠̞̗̦W̵̥̆̆̌ă̧̛̲͇ͬ̏ͮ̅́͠l̺̞͙̐̐͘͘l̽ͨͭͮ҉̰̩̦͈͈͖.̶̷̞̗̟͓ͦͧ̾̈́ͩ ̘͈̹͈͆̀͊C̪̝͕̃ͨͪ̀͟Ḽ̡̬̤̙͇͂̆͂ͫ͂͘͜I̶͍̪͔ͩ̾̊̚͘͟N͙̘̯̬ͦ͂̍̅̽͒Ṱ̙̻̱̺̜ͮͮ̓̊͡O̷͆̽ͬ͒̽̿̀҉̯̮̜̞̣͇̯ͅͅN̊̈͘͏͖̬̕!ͤ̿͗̓̏̃̃҉̭̰̖͙͢͢ ̢̪͎̼̉̊ͧT̠̺̄̅ͫͯ̀ͨ̈̃͡͞h̜̘̭̥̬̙ͩͫͧͭ͟ȅ̛̦͚̖̳͊ͤ̉̄͐͌́ ̸̷͚̭̠̥̲͔̅͋ͦ̌̊e̷̡͎͖͔͚̣̫̤̘̩͗͡n̦͕̣͉ͯ͞t͓̝̻̭͕͆̆̕͟i͚ͩ͛̊̂͠r̖͎̯̱̻͛͌̌̕ę̶͍̝͐͑ͥ̍ͬͮ́̾ͮ̀ ̴̛̞̦̤͇͙̥̖̝́͌ͩͩ̀r̡͓̪̼̲̅̀͞o͒͊͢҉̫̣̜̼͚͕͕ộ̲̯̘̪̪ͩͯ̿ͅm̨̦̬̯͈̱͊͒̑ͦ̀͠ ̆҉̠̥ȋ̶͓̟̒͂̂̈͟s̮̱̭͗̋ͩ̏͌̔̔̕̕͟ ̧̦̟͔͖͔̰̠͖̄ͬ̀̍͛́̚f̷͖͚̜͇͍̋̎̅i̶̠̱̜͇͖͉̙̽̌̉̀͟ͅļ̳͖̮̟̣͗ͤͪ̇̾̚͟l̵͈͈̝̞̟͌ͣ̌͛ͧ̎͞ě̵̫̬͙̥͚̪̝̻͉̔ͤ́͠d̛̙̻̦̤̙͗̀̂͌̇ͪ̽̐ ̂̓͏̷̻̪͖̝̩͟w̵̱͎̪̤̳̝̫ͭͥ͒̃̉̊̑į̵̖̟̻̣̹̯̮̹̈͒͂͊t͙̱̗̭̬ͪ̍́h͕̣̰̟̍̀͡ ͫ̓ͪͮ̎̒̿ͨ͏̡̥̦̖͇͓͖̯͍͚C̳̯̮ͪ̇ͤ͝l̺͙̮̤̪̫̱͙ͮ̌̾͂̒̀̄̔̐͜i̵̬̤͓̻͌̽ͧ̄́̓̆́n͖̹̤̺̑ͨͩ̒͠t̺̮̦͎̺̹͍ͫ̐̌ͯ̓̎͛͢ó̧̧̠͐͌͊ͥ̆ͬn̛͍̞̤͉̏̍̈̉͘.̸̭̲̄̋̋͐ͧ͐̕
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Oct 23, 2016 04:31
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Two possibilities exist: either Clinton wins or Trump wins. Both are equally terrifying.
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Oct 23, 2016 05:12
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"Who the hell are you?" barked Farrer. "I am a pro-Soviet Demon," said the apparent Mr. Mao Tze-tung, "and these are materialized Communist hospitality arrangements. I hope you like them." At this point both Kungsun and Li appeared. Li climbed up the left side of Farrer, Kungsun on the right. All three stopped, gaping. Kungsun recovered his wits first. He recognized Mao Tze-tung. He never passed up a chance to get acquainted with the higher command of the Communist Party. He said in a very weak, strained, incredulous voice, "Mr. Party Chairman Mao, I never thought that we would see you here in these hills, or are you you, and if you aren't you, who are you?" "I am not your party chairman," said the Martian. "I am merely a local Demon who has strong pro-Communist sentiments and would like to meet companionable people like yourselves."
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Oct 28, 2016 14:48
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I read the whole op and now I hate myself for it. Good show. Now go write a book or something.
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Oct 28, 2016 15:02
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On a very remote planet, the survivors of a Trump rally were released from internment. By special orders, direct from Earth, their memories had been discoordinated so that they would not reveal the pattern of defeat. An obstinate reporter kept after one deplorable. After many hours of hard drinking the survivor's answer was still the same: "Golden the ship was—oh! oh! oh! Golden the ship was—oh! oh! oh!"
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Oct 28, 2016 15:11
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Baloogan posted:"Golden the ship was—oh! oh! oh! Golden the ship was—oh! oh! oh!" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nWJNGs8bXAs&t=137s
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Oct 28, 2016 15:21
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Their intelligence, if they had it, was not human, but their motives were clear. In between the stabs of pain he felt them fill his stomach, put water in his blood, draw water from his kidneys and bladder, massage his heart, move his lungs for him. Every single thing they did was well meant and beneficent in intent. And every single action hurt. Abruptly, like the lifting of a cloud of insects, they were gone. Pence was aware of a noise somewhere outside—a brainless, bawling cascade of ugly noise. He started to look around. And the noise stopped. It had been himself, screaming. Screaming the ugly screams of a psychotic, a terrified drunk, an animal driven out of understanding or reason. When he stopped, he found he had his speaking voice again. A man came to him, naked like the others. There was a spike sticking through his head. The skin had healed around it on both sides. "Hello, fellow," said the man with the spike. "Hello," said Pence. It was a foolishly commonplace thing to say in a place like this. "You can't kill yourself," said the man with the spike through his head. "Yes, you can," said the woman covered with hands. Pence found that his first pain had disappeared. "What's happening to me?"
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Oct 28, 2016 15:31
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It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his orange toupee on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the voting booth jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping butterfly ballots died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the votes went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning, Trump grinned the fierce grin of all men singed and driven back by flame.
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Oct 28, 2016 15:42
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I remember asking a wise man, once... "Why do liberals hate Donald?" "Because Donald," he told me, "is ignorance made visible." "And do liberals despise ignorance?" I asked. "No," he said, "they prize it above all things - all things! - but only so long as it remains invisible."
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Oct 28, 2016 15:52
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Poll-Watcher and his companions had no recollection of what they had seen, after the crystal had ceased to cast its hypnotic spell over their minds and to experiment with their bodies. The next day, as they went out to forage, they passed it with scarcely a second thought; it was now part of the disregarded background of their lives. They could not eat it, and it could not eat them; therefore it was not important. Down at the river, the Others made their usual ineffectual threats. Their leader, a one-eared man-ape of Poll-Watcher's size and age, but in poorer condition, even made a brief foray toward the tribe's territory, screaming loudly and waving his arms in an attempt to scare the opposition and to bolster his own courage. The water of the stream was nowhere more than a foot deep, but the farther One-Ear moved out into it, the more uncertain and unhappy he became. Very soon he slowed to a halt, and then moved back, with exaggerated dignity, to join his companions. Otherwise, there was no change in the normal routine. The tribe gathered just enough nourishment to survive for another day, and no one died. And that night, the crystal slab was still waiting; surrounded by its pulsing aura of light and sound. The program it had contrived, however, was now subtly different. Some, of the man-apes it ignored completely, as if it was concentrating on the most promising subjects. One of them was Poll-Watcher; once again he felt inquisitive tendrils creeping down the unused byways of his brain. And presently, he began to see visions. They might have been within the crystal block; they might have been wholly inside his mind. In any event, to Poll-Watcher they were completely real. Yet somehow the usual automatic impulse to drive off invaders of his territory had been lulled into quiescence. He was looking at a peaceful family group, differing in only one respect from the scenes he knew. The male, female, and two infants that had mysteriously appeared before him were gorged and replete, with sleek and glossy pelts - and this was a condition of life that Poll-Watcher had never imagined. Unconsciously, he felt his own protruding ribs; the ribs of these creatures were hidden in rolls of fat. From time to time they stirred lazily, as they lolled at ease near the entrance of a cave, apparently at peace with the world. Occasionally; the big male emitted a monumental burp of contentment. There was no other activity, and after five minutes the scene suddenly faded out. The crystal was no more than a glimmering outline in the darkness; Poll-Watcher shook himself as if awaking from a dream, abruptly realized where he was, and led the tribe back to the caves.
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Oct 31, 2016 13:05
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aBQalkIeE7s better keep an eye on teh sky comey cause u just opened pandoras poo poo     Mariana Horchata has issued a correction as of 14:37 on Oct 31, 2016 |
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Oct 31, 2016 14:34
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baloogan what do u think about the hugo award controversies in the last few years
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Oct 31, 2016 14:39
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Karl Barks posted:baloogan what do u think about the hugo award controversies in the last few years gamergate but for books
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Oct 31, 2016 14:57
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Baloogan posted:gamergate but for books nice
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Oct 31, 2016 15:03
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there hasn't been any world changing science fiction written since the 1980s anyhow so I don't even know why people care. like scalzi will ever write anything other than dialog he thought up trying to be clever in his editor's office anything good these days is written as a screenplay first and as a novel second because the only way to really make it is to have a movie starring matt damon or its written for lonely housewives to jerk it to (vast vast majority) you want science fiction with new ideas you ahve to import it from chyna just like everything else or its written by autistic german adolescents how can you write good science fiction when musk is writing it in reality? everthing is a remake of a remake, even some Actual Good Science Fiction like westworld is a remake ffs there aren't any big ideas floating around in the zeitgeist it seems; south park has a good take on this with the memberberries. our very civilization is stagnating before our eyes, no one has any original ideas. rome is burning and we can't tear ourselves away from the tv the industry is organized for lovely writing, the only way to make money as a small author is to write lovely romatic fiction page turners cause amazon pays by the page we're discovering 100s of new planets, IRL, where are the planetary romances? where are the books about colonization? why is the future so loving pessimistic in the pages of the poo poo that passes as literature today oh poo poo gotta folow your favorite 'author' on twitter where they spend 30 minutes a day thinking of something clever that fits in 140 characters and calls it a day and the only thing 'worth' talking about is the pronouns the author used ugh or ZOMBIES or VAMPIRES or WEARWOLVES what the gently caress anyone writing worthwhile things in sci fi have (interesting!) day jobs where they don't have to give a poo poo about making money off of writing they need to hunt down ted chaing, put him in a nice house somewhere and refuse to let him go till he writes a full length novel, and do this every couple of years
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Oct 31, 2016 15:15
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china melville however is chill as gently caress
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Oct 31, 2016 15:22
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Lol look at this scrub who didnt read children of time or the ancilary books,i mean children of time is like a veiled homage to a deepness in the....oh wait i see what you mean.
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Oct 31, 2016 18:41
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I've read both of those! At least the first in the ancillary Justice series And you mean children of the sky?
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Oct 31, 2016 19:12
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Children of time by Adrian Tchaikovsky,its a really good book.I mean i get that current sci fi is missing a master storyteller in the current crop of writers but Jack Vances and Vernon vinges and Le guins only come around once a generation.meanwhile theres some really inventive and weird sci fi being w riten right now, stuff like "the quantum thief" and "blindsight" and "3 body problem" or some really fun stuff like "the traitor Baron cormamu".more women are writing scifi too!its an interesting time!
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Oct 31, 2016 20:33
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Ted Chiang owns with or without Matt Damon and could be the only name besides LeGuin ITT who's remembered in a hundred years despite having written virtually nothing Daniel Abraham aka the guy who co-wrote The Expanse is really good too
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Oct 31, 2016 22:04
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i kind of wonder if the demise of the short story market is making it harder for new writers to be found. then again, self-publishing is already helping (e.g. The Martian, scalzi's stuff whatever you think of him), so maybe there's just a gap in the 90s-00s that we're coming out of
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Oct 31, 2016 22:29
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Huma didn't answer right away. "Are you all right? You had just a difficult time as the rest of us." "I'm fine." And then, "Mostly, I think. To be honest, Abuela, I feel like... like everything I thought I could depend on has disappeared, like none of it was ever true to begin with and I've only just realized it, and now, I don't know. I mean, I thought I was safe, I thought I knew who everyone was. And I was wrong." "I know that feeling", I said.
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Oct 31, 2016 22:36
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trump bad
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Oct 31, 2016 22:38
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Books lie, he said. God dont lie. No, said the Trump. He does not. And these are his words. He held up a chunk of mosque. He speaks in stones and trees, the bones of things. The rednecks in their rags nodded among themselves and were soon reckoning him correct, this man of learning, in all his speculations, and this the Trump encouraged until they were right proselytes of the new order whereupon he laughed at them for fools.
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Nov 1, 2016 00:54
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PleasingFungus posted:i kind of wonder if the demise of the short story market is making it harder for new writers to be found. then again, self-publishing is already helping (e.g. The Martian, scalzi's stuff whatever you think of him), so maybe there's just a gap in the 90s-00s that we're coming out of Yeah, I agree, the industry back in the 1950s 1960s was pretty much (unintentionally?) designed to find great authors. Piles of sci fi short story magazines, and a young author could turn short stories into a novel pretty easily it seemed
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Nov 1, 2016 02:00
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'- bet, human-friend?' Fivetide said, slapping a tentacle on the table in front of Anderson Cooper. 'Eh? A bet?' Cooper said, quickly replaying in his head what the Affronter had been saying. 'Fifty sucks on Trump!' Fivetide roared, glancing at his fellow officers on both sides. Cooper slapped the table with his hand. 'Not enough!' he shouted, and felt the suit amplify his translated voice accordingly. Several eye stalks turned in his direction. 'Two hundred on Clinton!' Fivetide, who was from a family of the sort that would describe itself as comfortably off rather than rich, and to whom fifty suckers was half a month's disposable income, flinched microscopically, then slapped another tentacle down on top of the first one. 'Scumpouch alien!' he shouted theatrically. 'You imply that a measly two hundred is a fit bet for an officer of my standing? Two-fifty!' 'Five hundred!' Cooper yelled, slapping down his other arm. 'Six hundred!' Fivetide hollered, thumping down a third limb. He looked at the others, exchanging knowing looks and sharing in the general laughter; the human had been out-limbed. Cooper twisted in his seat and brought his left leg up to stamp its booted heel onto the table surface. 'A thousand, drat your cheap hide!'
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Nov 1, 2016 02:02
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That's fukken scary baloogan don't make me think like that
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Nov 1, 2016 02:21
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Like Robby Mook is Zakalwe and oh wait the cluster needs Trump to win .
JeffersonClay has issued a correction as of 02:29 on Nov 1, 2016 |
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Nov 1, 2016 02:26
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| # ? May 18, 2024 17:17 |
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Baloogan posted:'- bet, human-friend?' Fivetide said, slapping a tentacle on the table in front of Anderson Cooper. Better if the Affront were literally trying to rig an election in the Culture and half the Minds thought that was good.
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Nov 1, 2016 07:11
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