Somehow, I have a feeling that The Cat(TM) is going to come out of the hat.
[I'm working on my world building, but have decided to try an experiment. As a test of my skills, I'll tell you nothing of it. Just show you a slice of it, and see if the reactions are the ones I intended to elicit without being too anvilicious about who's who on the alignment scale. Critique — especially regarding what I've done wrong or could have done better — would be much appreciated.]
Zakest. Everything about the city stank. The towering brick chimneys, spewing toxins and death into the air, the drug-addled poor sleepwalking through their lives, the aristocrats made corpulent by excess and depravity, the shit of beasts splattered upon the pavement. All of it made Aduras sick. The only people in this damnable town who didn't stink of drugs, disease, and smog were the Ul'kast. Aduras would have normally considered their scent foul, but here in Zakest, the smell of sweat and blood was a perfume.
The Ul'kast looked like barbarians, and the Kykzavi who ostensibly ruled the town viewed them as such. The men and women alike wore naught but the furs of beasts wrapped around their waists – not to preserve modesty, but as trophies – and their bare chests were covered in scars. The most prominent were the ones ritualistically applied to every Ul'kast, male or female, as a rite of passage: a jagged slash from the right shoulder to the left hip bone. Others joined them, each with a meaning; penance and disgrace were recorded across the back, and honors upon the front. “Let our foes see only our pride,” the Ul'kast said, “and let the craven show their shame to the world.”
The Kykzavi were less impressive. They too left their chests bare, save perhaps for decorations or sashes – not as a matter of pride, but because the Zakest was sweltering, a sticky, humid heat that hinted that the land had once been a jungle. The only scars the Kykzavi bore were ones given in bar fights, though a few had received some very specific markings upon their back for picking a fight with an Ul'kast. They wore kilts, reaching to their knees, of coarse cloth or fine silk, depending on wealth. The poor were emaciated, with sunken features and discolored faces, and most were barely able to focus on Aduras, no doubt strung out on whatever they used to get through their wretched existences. The rich were hideously obese, laughing madly at nothing in particular, with bloodshot eyes, and seemed to have no problem with blatantly groping each other in a way that would get one arrested in Aduras' lands.
While the Kykzavi could not be bothered to pay Aduras any note, too lost in their own little worlds, the Ul'kast watched him with cold stares. They knew he didn't belong. Perhaps it was how Aduras dressed; a floor length robe of dark purple, and black gloves, leaving only his head uncovered. Perhaps it was his guards, similarly dressed and carrying rifles. But then Aduras realized there was one thing that made him stand out, perhaps even more than his clothes.
Aduras looked at his guards. To his left stood Yaurutos, a tall, wiry man with wood-brown skin and a thick head of dark blue hair. To his right stood Velomes, a slightly overweight but muscular figure with pale skin and a tangle of curly brown hair. Aduras himself was dwarfed by both men, and had coal-black skin and a shaven head. Aduras had never thought how little his most trusted guards resembled himself, until he'd realized what was strangest about Zakest.
Everybody – Ul'kast and Kykzavi – looked the same. Tan skin, bright red hair, deep blue eyes. The poor occasionally showed some variation – a few blonde, blue, or black-haired heads, a few skins a bit too dark or a bit too light, some brown eyes – and some of the rich seemed to have dyed their hair or skin to match the norm. It was an ominous, disturbing sight.
Aduras contemplated this until he and his guards reached General Thaddul's estate. A massive, rectangular edifice of brick and mortar, taller than any other house Aduras had seen, even before considering that it was built upon a hill. Aduras and his men passed through the gate and made the climb to the building, to be invited in by a Kykzavi woman with a large metal collar around her neck. Avoiding eye contact, she said, “the Mauros diplomat, I assume? Come, my Master has been waiting.”
They followed her, taking note of their surroundings. The house was as spartan as it was massive; the parlor they entered had a few simple couches, that didn't look especially inviting. The dining room contained gigantic table with brutal-looking wooden chairs. They entered a stairwell, and climbed to the top, exiting in a massive study. The main features of the study were a massive, rough hewn desk, and a large window offering a grim vista of Zakest's factories and tenements. Behind the desk sat General Thaddul.
There was no doubt General Thaddul was Ul'kast. His muscular chest bore an unspeakable number of scars, and several more decorated his face. His hair was trimmed short, and he eyed Aduras with beady eyes, chewing on a massive cigar. After a moment spent measuring Aduras up, Thaddul spoke: “I see before me a mongrel, an Uelane, and a Tay'losian. Tell me, are there any Mauros left?”
Voice level, Aduras replied, “we are all citizens of Maurosete.” Thaddul scoffed in disgust. “The grandchildren of slaves. The Mauros have gotten so weak they can't even send one of their own as an emissary. They were a lot like us, once. Strong. Worthy enemies. If they still kept you dogs on your leashes, they'd still have an empire, and you would be slaves...”
Velomes interrupted, “as would you.”
“No,” Thaddul said, lazily blowing smoke in Aduras' direction. “The Kykzavi would be slaves, perhaps. They have no pride. But the Ul'kast would be free or dead. There is no other way.” He leaned back in his chair and said, “so, what do you think of my wonderful city?”
Aduras, after contemplating various technically true statements, decided on, “it's absolutely fascinating.”
Thaddul replied, “don't patronize me. It stinks of animal shit and drugs. Not this little vice," he said, displaying his cigar, "but the stuff that screws with your mind. The Kykzavi are too high to care, and no Ul'kast would reduce themselves to washing streets on their hands and knees." After thoughtfully sucking on his cigar, he continued, "I give the Mauros this: their cities are clean. But that is all the kindness I have for them. You see, we build factories when they build museums to hubris. They set aside room for gardens, where we put barracks. They're so obsessed with... pretty things." He waved his cigar dismissively and said, "tell me, is my city pretty?”
Aduras decided to try a new tact. “No.”
“Ah, there we go. An honest answer from a diplomat. Never thought I'd see the day. No. Our city is not pretty. It is strong." He leaned back in his chair, took a long drag from his cigar, and said, "Even the Kykzavi have their uses; the 'aristocracy' are a bunch of swindlers, but they're our swindlers, and so very good at it. And their poor fill our factories, accepting pay in this disgusting stuff.” From his desk, he pulled a white powder. “We never have to deal with strikes; those who don't work don't get their drugs. So they work. It's perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
Great, Aduras thought. A chatterbox. Aduras hated these kinds; so full of themselves. Perpetually talking, never listening. Aduras had a number of things he wanted to say, but knew Thaddul was quite capable of throwing him out the window. So Aduras made due with, “I believe you called us here for a reason.”
Opening his desk's drawers again, Thaddul pulled out a softly glowing, silvery sphere covered in runes. “You. Uelane.” Thaddul pointed at Yaurutos. “You must have seen this in your homeland.”
Glaring at him, Yaurutos replied, “I'm sorry, Maurosete” – he emphasized the name and gave it a moment to sink in – “has no such things.” He then added, as an afterthought “but I gather the Uelane think of it as some sort of magical artifact.”
Thaddul said, “technically, no. I've fought enough Uelane sorcerers to know magic is real, but this... this is something altogether different.” Thaddul manipulated the device, sliding runes across it until he was satisfied with the configuration. Then he tossed it on the ground, and a pillar of light rose up.
The light expanded into an oval, in which Aduras could see a vast, alien landscape. Massive towers, made with more glass than bricks, dotted the landscape. Though it was night on the other side, many of the alien towers glowed with a strange light. Thaddul stepped through and motioned for Aduras to follow, and he and his guards cautiously did so.
Aduras realized with a start they stood upon one such gigantic tower. Thaddul turned to face the landscape, revealing a back with only a single scar, and said, “the people here call it Earth. I've learned their language, and walk among them, dressed as they are, blending in among them. They have technology – the sort none of us could have ever imagined. But all this technology... it has made them weak. They spend all their time on children's games and theater, beamed directly into their homes. They...”
Aduras cut Thaddul off, saying, “and your point?”
Thaddul said, “I understand your people have made a fascinating discovery. If you take a musket, and put some spiral grooves in its barrel... you can shoot far more accurately, and kill more reliably at a distance. Is this true?”
Aduras said, “I can neither confirm nor deny...”
Thaddul gave a mocking laugh, and said. “Everyone knows your secret. You can't keep your gossips under control. Now, these people,” he swept his arm, cigar still in hand, across the artificial landscape, “have known about 'rifling' for centuries. They have guns that can fire hundreds – literally hundreds – of bullets in the blink of an eye. It's so perfect. They're so weak, but so advanced... I can just take what I like. There was this store, just full of these wonderful guns. And ammo." He sucked on his cigar, then released a cloud of smoke with a contended sight. "All I had to do was walk in with a few of my kin, murder the owner and those poor idiots who tried to shoot me, pack all the firearms into a 'truck' – another delightful invention – and drive to the nearest portal! Oh, sure, a bullet grazed my shoulder, but I've done worse to myself for fun." To emphasize the point, he took one last drag from his cigar, then casually shoved it against the nape of his neck until it went out.
He then flicked it away, letting it fall to the ground far below. "Some beggar will probably pick it up and try and smoke it. He'll be in for a shock: Earth cigars are weak. Like Earth beer. And Earth... well everything. You know how few of these poor bastards know how to fight in hand-to-hand combat? Some poor moron and his buddies tried to threaten me with a tiny little knife; apparently, a blade shorter than my middle finger counts as intimidating! Why, they even... ah, but I ramble again!” Thaddul turned to face his guests, and with a grin revealing several gold teeth, said, “tell your lord everything you've seen. All of it. Tell your people as well, if you like; I'd enjoy watching them panic. And tell him this: the Mauros Empire is dead, and if he is wise, he will abandon his adorable attempts to resuscitate it with 'diplomacy.' We will come. We will come with wonders you can only begin to imagine. And when we arrive, the Mauros may live as slaves, or die. Choose wisely.”
[EDIT: Ouch, over a full 24 hours and no response. Meh, looking over it myself, it's not my best work anyways. I forgot Thaddul's Not So Different speech, at any rate. Makes the Mauros come out smelling like roses when they should be A Lighter Shade of Gray. *Headdesk.* That will teach me to post stuff at 2:00 A.M. So perhaps it passing unnoticed is for the best.]
edited 18th Dec '10 11:17:13 AM by KillerClowns
He and she rest upon the field, watching the sun crawl under the horizon.
Finally, with all the tension, the nervousness that has built up in him, he summons the courage to ask her.
"May I kiss you?"
She is still looking at the outspoken sky, and she does not answer for a long time.
Finally, she says, "Yes."
He inches himself close, and close to her he might catch the irises in her hair, or the little tear forming on her eye, or the steady breathing she is letting out. He is hesitant. It is almost like the first time stepping into a hot bath.
He sees her lips, pouty, full, like a rose in full bloom. He wonders for a second, how they might taste.
Then he embraces her.
She is nice to him.
The grass gently blows in the breeze.
I used some random characters I had already made but had no real plot for. Hope thats okay.
Kay stared out the kitchen window, head resting in her hands as she leaned against the sill.
The sky was gray. Not a ugly, stormy gray like it would sometimes get in winter, but a whiteish gray, a snowy gray.
The sky will open up, and frozen water will flow down around us.
She heard Lonny before she saw him.
"G'morning, Kay."
"The sky is going to burst open soon." She didn't look away from the window.
"Yes, the news said it was probably going to snow soon."
"So pretty to look at."
"Yes."
"Cold, like long time death."
Lonny barely raised an eyebrow as he moved toward the fridge. He was used to Kay talking like that. It was just how her mind worked. Had been ever since she had moved in with him and his family long ago. Ever since the incident.
"Vela and Dottie will be coming over soon to go shopping." He said over his shoulder as he reached into the fridge for some milk.
Hmph.
It sounded like she had smirked at him, but he couldn't be sure.
"Yes, I suppose they are."
He listened to the sound of her footsteps as she left. He waited a few seconds before sighing. Just another morning at home.
That was much longer than I intended. Took about an hour to write and is really more of a short story than a vignette. :/ I'll fix it sometime if it's not awful; undoubtedly needs a lot of cutting.
Will keep it up here anyway though, just 'cause. I guess that gives me a good idea of where my mind tends to go, anyway.
It is a bad time to be facing first metal.
The immense iron span of Kirion Bridge lies behind Kol Araoth, against which the capricious winds dash themselves in vain. The immense golden span of the wasteland lies before him, the selfsame winds stirring up whorls of sand and scree. On either side are the men and women of his people, waiting. It is almost dawn. Somewhere that way are the Ves — how many he does not know. No one does. And if Kirion falls, Satorica will be next.
Kol glances at the old man who stands beside him. He is an Eye, and the silvered beard that quivers against his naked skin bespeaks the skill he has brought to the battlefield: it has let him survive. "How far away are they, halni?"
The old man's good eye is closed, and he is adjusting the intimate controls on his halfmask, focusing his metal eye on whatever targets he can make out. "Couldn't say yet, lad," he says. "We'd have better luck in the skies, but this wind isn't helping any."
The halni'a say the Book of Prophecy plots the course of every battle before it occurs. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps the Book even tells of who will be the victor in the end — the Andari and the civilisation they have hewn from the wasteland with blood and sweat, or the Vesdari, beasts in human form. But if the bridge is to fall and the cities of the Easterly Corridor itself are to be under threat from the Ves, Kol does not want to know. They must win. There is everything to lose.
"Flyers are coming back," the old man mutters, but though Kol might crane his neck he cannot make them out amongst the pinkish clouds and the kaleidoscopic patterns of shifting sand.
"Why?"
"Don't know. Shev'an? Can you reach the flyers?"
From across the narrow circle of men the lady Shev'an calls back across to the old man. "Been trying already, halni. Two of them are out of reach." The metal she wears loops around her head and replaces both of her ears; in form it resembles a second layer of hair. Kol had always liked the Communicators' metal designs — both elegant and functional. But his is not to be like that.
It is only when he has turned his thoughts back to the battle to come that he can make out the flyer approaching. Something already seems wrong. The flyer is damaged. It descends crazily as though without manual control, looping over its path like a scrabblebug rolling down a slope. Though he has seen flyers taken out in action before, Kol feels his heartbeat increase despite himself. The flyers are beautiful machines. Each one is unique, inherited; their mechanics are flawlessly designed, their wings so streamlined and appealing. Kol has a brief vision of a dropped paper, lazily wafting downwards 'til it gently comes to rest upon the earth.
This one has a hole larger than a man's head in it.
Some of the men rush forwards as it plunges to earth. Perhaps they hope against hope that it can be saved. When it crashes, the noise is sudden and explosive, and the silence afterwards is that much emptier. The woman inside was dead long before her flyer hit the ground — and again Kol is reminded that symbiotic with each beautiful machine is a human being.
He had always liked the flyers. But his metal is not to be like that.
The gunners must be growing anxious. The Ves must be close, and they too have guns. But their halfmasks and shoulders have not fed them targets. Kol watches them for a moment. He has seen them in action before, as a child, too young to be facing his first metal. They are usually carefree. They crack jokes. They claim to be the prophets, for like the Book of Prophecy, they decide battles. But now they are grim and deadly serious.
He asks the old man: "It's not possible that their attack was merely a feint? That they never had any intention of taking Kirion?"
The old man does not answer him. And perhaps justifiably; it's a stupid question. The Bridge is the only place that the Rift can be crossed. If the Ves are to expand, they must hold it. And yet the halni'a have only seen fit to deploy a few hundred of the An to defend it, and the Ves themselves are nowhere to be seen.
Shev'an has crossed the ring of men and addresses the old man directly. "Halni... word from the flyers. The Ves are very close. Among the rocks, scarcely an aerion's distance westward."
The old man shuts off his metal eye; covers his good eye with a hand for a moment, giving himself time to adjust to normal vision. "We will have to be prepared, then. Have them feed targeting data to the gunners."
She half-bows, adjusts something by her ear and speaks rapidly, in the flyers' language of which Kol has only ever been able to make out a few words.
It is not the gunners Kol is watching as the first shots are fired. It is the swordsmen, who crouch below, in the front line. Their turn to fight will be first. The Swordsmen have always been special — only their metal might reasonably be considered armour (which they say the Vesdari wear over all their torso, a sign of their cowardice), but it is woven so skillfully with the flesh around the vital organs it protects that one is awed, not shamed. From their loincloths they hang many blades, each capable of cutting through metal and sinew like paper. Soon, so soon now, the Ves will appear and the waiting will be over.
"How many are there?" Kol asks Shev'an. It is curiosity, not urgency, that he tries to bring through with his voice. He fails.
"Thrice our number, lad," she says, glancing at him. "Or more. This may be but the vanguard."
He can feel time running shorter.
Kol has always liked the swordsmen. But his metal is not to be like that.
He is a Seeker. It runs in the family. Not an honourable profession, nor is the metal pleasant to implant — is it ever? Cutting up the bodies of the Ves for metal. Scavenging. But he thinks, if he had had a choice, it might well be the one he would have chosen. It gives him a chance to spend most of his time reworking those beautiful machines; and though Seekers must be inured to blood and innards, he would only have to fight one battle. The one for his metal. This one.
The battle on which everything depends. Irony stings.
But there is no more time for reflection. The gunners have drawn the Ves out from their hiding places. Into the silence a single voice throws a keening cry, answered by a second one, and then a whole chorus of wordless shrieks; continual, high-pitched, unnerving. The cry means one thing only: single combat, to the last man standing. For a long, suspended moment the An stand there, listening, as the keening gains unimaginably in volume and hundreds of dark figures materialise out of the whirling sands.
And then the Ves are upon them, and battle is joined.
edited 11th Feb '11 4:37:42 PM by aishkiz
I have devised a most marvelous signature, which this signature line is too narrow to contain.Shion's life is mostly monotonous. If you do not consider the great difficulties of a high-profile hit, she lives the same boring shit day-by-day. Beat those the Dragon Head wants to beat, and whack those the Dragon Head has fucken' exhausted his patience at. Double-tap at the sternum with her .45 USP, or surreptitiously stab chopsticks in the neck as she passes by. Poison is a pussy's weapon, and she employs it to her need as last resort. She is a messenger of Death.
When she first killed for them, oh, the bloodied, spurting out and exploded face — the image stuck with her, made her steps rigid and her heart freeze. Haunted her dreams. But the fears get dulled more, like a bad smell you get used to in a week, as she took away more lives. She can hardly remember each their face now, except if there was a nose especially beaked or scars especially ugly.
When she sleeps, she lies as straight as a board on her bed, always with one eye open and unblinking.
And when she opens her other eye, she resumes her name that is Red Mistress.
Storywriter
Step outside of your daily reality, if you are kind my dear reader, and come venture with mine — if only for just one moment. Come with me to my stories. I pour them out of my imagination. Why, might you ask? Why would you come journey with me, instead of sitting at your desk, filling out paperwork, doing the boring homework?
Let me tell you why I write.
I write of the magical moments that spring from life and imaginarium. These moments, you see, come filled to the brim with what real life has often lacked us — curiosity. The curious emotions that come forth from me, they shew themselves in such many, many wonderful ways. I see the colourful clouds, high above in the stratosphere, during a sunset's peak. I see the blooming roses and irises, the violet within white within magenta, and the infinitesimal ways which its blossoming seeds may travel.
I see the people who populate our Earth, each person as varied as each withered brick or a fractal pattern. Each person their own lovely island of hope, happiness, and knowledge. Each person, deep inside, vying to pour out the contents of heart for another soul to understand. Maybe it is transcendental bliss? Or the lifetime sorrow they burden? Or maybe they just want to say that which mere words cannot?
And most of all, I see you. My dearest reader, have I have such high hopes in you. You might be thirteen, or thirty, and yet you might still feel your cup a little empty. And you try filling this emptiness with something outside, and you always still feel that little void. It nudges you on like a little child beckoning you forth with a smile and a hand.
I write because I find you beautiful. And if you read these words, whoever you may be, feel love. Feel loved. My stories are my little hugs, for that emptiness longing to be filled.
edited 22nd Feb '11 11:08:08 PM by QQQQQ
It is the brief moment after the death of Anthy. Utena, who loved her dearly, followed her all the way to the halls of Eternity, defying the forces of nature who guard the Gates.
But at the first Gate, Utena was asked to surrender her shoes, which the three musketeers say she is giving up her Will. At the second Gate, Utena had to lose her shocks, which the scholars say means giving up her Ego. At the third Gate, she surrendered her outfit, which was the hardest of all because it meant giving up her Mind. At the fourth Gate, she surrendered her bra and panties, relinquishing her sexuality.
At the 5th Gate, she surrendered her necklace, giving up the rapture of illumination. At the 6th Gate, she lost her earrings, giving up her Magic. And finally, at the seventh Gate, Utena surrendered her headband, giving up her right to Godhood.
It was only thus, naked, that Utena could enter Eternity.
"I tell you, it's not supposed to click like that."
"Shut up and do you're job Thatch, it's fine."
"I am doing my job, it's not supposed to click like that," Thatcher was more insistent that time prompting his companion to look up.
"Thatcher," she said calmly, "it's fine. Just start interrupting the data." A beat. "Please."
Thatcher glared at her but did as he was told, pulling a headset on and pulling down a holographic screen. "Fine," he muttered under his breath, "fine is just code for 'going to explode any minute now you know'." The woman ignored him, returning to the papers she was signing. Feeling petty Thatcher started to hum, very deliberately off tune.
Across from him the grey haired woman darted a glace over, half smiling to herself as she watched his fingers blur over his keyboard. Silently she stood, slipping out the door to the tiny room and gesturing to the on duty marine.
"Ma'am?" he asked, trying not to look bored.
"When you switch shifts please report down to the kitchens Dr. Pembroke and I will be eating here tonight."
"Of course ma'am," the man said dutifully and returned to his spot. Going back inside she half thought the savant hadn't noticed she'd left until, without taking his eyes off the glowing green screen or his fingers slowing he spoke.
"They better not send up any damn eggs," he told her firmly, "I don't trust those things."
Smiling she shook her head, "standard navy fare," she said, "they're fine."
Thatcher dared to look away from his work for a moment, a slight smirk darting onto his face. "Boom," he said, a smile tinging his voice and she laughed, signing off on the bottom of the page and flipping it over to the same to the next.
Imagine a beautiful tropical island. Its beaches are covered with soft golden sands. The island itself is like a fairy-tale garden – an ocean of flowers and exotic trees. Huddling into the exuberant verdure the beautiful waterfalls inland are like a sight of the paradise, watching them for hours will not be enough to satiate your desire to feast your eyes on that beauty of incredible merging of colours. That waterfall looks like the ones in the fairy tales - the water has broken into a mist of tiny droplets and falls down like a soft silk. Add to this the playful sun’s rays and you get an unbelievable tint of peace and beauty.
The sight is so marvellous and relaxing that even the worst thoughts and the most gloomy mood disappear in no time. Are you able to imagine the tender ripple of the leaping water that streams down the steep slope and flowing into the small pond releasing an incredibly beautiful blue radiance?
Sweet birds’ singing is heard from the trees above you. They’re singing so softly that make you feel relaxed and delighted. Having appreciated the sight you and your sweetheart make your way to the beach, a pathway of grass like a green rug stretches in front of you. The soft grass tickles your bare feet. All the flowers and trees draw aside to make way to you in this moment. Every kinds of butterflies flatter around – real alongside fictional ones. Here, your most secret wish can come true.
You feel that you’re entering a fantastic world – a one in which there’s no sorrow, no weariness, no heavy thoughts. All these simply disappear behind the dark side of the Moon.
Let’s continue this delightful walk. You reach the splendid and sunny beach. Warm and transparent water in bluish and light greenish shades, soft golden sand, palms and other tropical plants bowing over it. Both of you, in love and happy, walk along the beach. You feel the seaside sand scratching under your feet and the water touching you tender. You can see the white fluffs of froth on top of the overflowing waves. A perfect corner for bathing – the huge waves are stopped by colourful coral reefs, in which you can see the reflection of the rainbow.
The suns’ rays playing pet your naked bodies. The weather is fine and you, both, are alone on that island far from the noisy city. Happy and smiling you jump into the water, play together, splashing water all around you and finish with a kiss. Then get out of it and take turns chasing each other. Running around you are careless, beautiful, you embrace each other, lie on the sand in a hug.
Oh God, everything’s so lovely. On your left you can see blooming flowers, exotic palm trees, forest overgrown hills, and on your right is the endless ocean that seems to merge with the horizon, so that it’s hard to understand where’s the end of the water and the beginning of the sky.
There is no one on the beach. You stand in Paradise – away from the noisy and hectic city. There are no crowds, no cars, no traffic jams. Being away from the boring routine, you feel calm and happy. You feel free, free to fly, to enjoy life. Just like little children, have you ever wondered how carefree and joyful the children are? They live for the moment, they do not think for any problems. They live in a trouble-free world. They are smiling. They are happy.
edited 12th Apr '11 9:38:33 PM by QQQQQ
I liked the one above. Relaxing. For a less pleasant introduction to a setting:
The train grinds to a halt. You find yourself in a city that once knew great days, and whose citizens bustle around you, hard at work, or hard at work at the illusion that the city is still a great place. A singular city. A city where the contrast between night and day, between right and wrong is plastered all over the walls, is etched indefatigably upon the faces of it's inhabitants. A city where finding a chance is as simple as finding your moral limit, and knowing you must cross that line if you stay here long enough. A city that is your last chance of finding home.
edited 13th Apr '11 7:25:45 AM by RPGenius
The clock on the wall reads 1.36 PM. The second hand ticks ever forth in its never-ending cycle. If this clock were an all-seeing eye, watching the many denizens toiling away on the terminals, it would gladly blind itself to the dull sight. The grey snow out the windows never stops falling. Nothing encourages; not the Stalinist buildings, nor the white plaster walls, nor the clock which leers wordlessly in the meaning "Time waits for no one." It is prison.
Antonio is supposedly studying, his fingers clacking on the rusty keyboard in the library's study section. But he isn't. He's writing his own little message in a bottle to the internet for someone to find. Everyone else might notice if they bothered to peel their eyes away from their dim, hypnotizing screens. The globs of text on Microsoft Word. They're holding their hands to their chin in thought, and perhaps taking a sip off their bitter coffee. Oh my God, listening to them slurp is hearing the drain sucking the water down the pipes. He's not one of these zombies. He'll never be one. Ever.
In exactly 23 minutes poor Antonio will have to go for another hours-long group meeting, where he'll sit on a hard, corrugated steel chair and tune out the useless chatter and zone into the sanctuary of his memories, the mental images of imagination a private comfort. Until then, he bides his time. Typing letters. Letters make words. Words make sentences make one man's sane meaning in this purgatory.
Every second which passes by, the lethargic walls suck his life out gradually, inevitably. He will turn grey and grow up to be yet another productive robot citizen for the years to come.
There are the signs hanging all over the place. Signs which regulate: you must shut your mouth unless spoken to. No twinkies snacks. (The crumbs stick to the monotone carpet like Velcro(R).) This is a productivity station, every mouse swipe and click must contribute to your assignments in some manner whatsoever — I swear, didn't they teach you "Efficiency" back in Productivity 101? You'll quack your lips with the words they cram down your throat.
It's 1.58. Antonio types his last word, period, and then sends his message to what might be no one in the vast reaches of internet. Or maybe someone in a brighter place where the music never stops. He'll envy this someone.
edited 14th Apr '11 1:03:01 PM by QQQQQ
Hm.
I always seem to be ninja'd on the internet, so maybe I'll bring in my own ninja and show him ninja'ing someone during his day job.
Shinji meandered his way around the room, observing his calc students busily making use of the rare extra time they were given to complete the three massive problems.
For the most part.
In the very back corner, Shinji caught a student out of the corner of his eye sitting at her desk with her textbook and notebook open... with her eyes fixated on something she was holding under her desk.
He adjusted his oval-shaped glasses by the bridge.
When the student looked up, she saw her teacher helping someone on the opposite side of the room, then continued her conversation.
Shinji was peering around at her blank notebook from behind her back, taking care to keep his breaths quiet and move with care...
"You need any help?"
Her eyes snapped wide open, followed by a clatter on the floor.
"Drop something? Here, let me get it for you."
Shinji knelt down, picked up the phone, and began to walk away.
"HEY! You can't prove that I was doing anything!"
"The timestamps on your texts beg to differ. Also, your grade is currently in the toilet, so maybe taking it for a day or two would be for the better."
He smirked broadly, walking back to his desk.
The student, meanwhile?
Didn't even realize what happened.
"Jack, you have debauched my sloth."Nicole was sitting in a cheap beige chair in a cheap beige room, staring at the television through bloodshot eyes, steam from the sixth coffee that night rolling in front of her face. She had barely slept. She knew that leaving the city should have brought her safety. A bigger part of her knew that she probably would've been taken already if there was anything to fear. But these were the rational parts, the parts which shut down when confronted by a threat to one's life. The fear of something coming for her in her sleep, some long, shadowed form, cruelly slashing the life from her, something that no longer even seemed human was the same fear that keeps children awake at night, convinced of monsters in every shadow. So she paid homage instead to caffeine. It was coming up to seventy two hours without rest, and those hours had carved their mark on her. The television was on simply to keep her mind busy. Simply to give her a point of focus other than that night in the city. A young brunette in a red dress was sitting and talking to an old woman, who was recounting the misery of losing her nephew. A shock ran through Nicole watching this, watching the world she had been trying to flee catch up to her so easily. Her head turned sharply to the door, as though she expected to see him burst through. Her eyelids began their descent, and she brought the mug to her mouth quickly, fumbling it in her tiredness. Scalding coffee poured onto her lap, staining the cheap hotel chair, and burning her. She yelped briefly in pain, and stamped her foot on the ground repeatedly, slowing gradually to a trot. Still, she did not move. She found herself paralysed with the absurd fear of some unknown assailant waiting for her to move to the bathroom to clean herself. A dark, unpleasant stain in her lap, the red blush of shame on her face, and tears watering up from pain, she waited pitifully through the night, some barely human thing.
Bank Robbery, I
The Bank of Johann's foyer is crammed with eager customers, who lounge the couches or join the huge afternoon line-ups when they shorten. It's mostly the suits in these line-ups; the average customer wanting a quick transaction can be found pressing buttons at the AT Ms. The bright sunlight shines above from the ocular windowpiece.
Through the revolving door come Liu, Ming, Shion and behind them Raki. Their black dress make them look spiffy; their shoes so clean one can catch their gleam a couple steps away. A slim barrel pokes from under Raki's suit, and he quickly covers it up. He feels numb to his toes. He thinks he's inhabiting a different, more violent and determined person. (Gurgle.)
Two guards stand adjacent to the entrance, never forgetting to bid their loyal customers good fortune. Raki'll be covering the entrance when it gets down to it. Past him, Liu and Shion wade in-between the line-ups, brushing people aside as if in a hurry. Shion's carrying the bags.
Ming wanders towards another alert guard. Flashes her a friendly wink, then turns to check if Liu and Shion are up front yet. They're slipping their masks on.
This is it, the moment of truth.
Before the guard realizes it, Ming slams his fist up her nose and whirs out his carbine to the others around. Shion and Liu follow suit at the desks; Liu whacks the guards up at front and aims his gun at the now-ducking, screaming hoards — some of who try running away, before they notice Raki taking his stance. Nobody's getting anywhere.
"Get down!" Raki screams at the onslaught, frantically turning to those who look daring, watching the courage sap from their faces. "Down, all the way down!" Until they're on their knees, hands over their heads.
Shion vaults over the tellers' counter, and points her gun at each of them who had been hitting the panic button dozens of times under their desks. She won't do a thing about them. The alarm system is cut off. Instead, she specifically heads toward the bank officers at their desks, glaring at them behind her mask.
Liu climbs onto a desk, standing at the heighth of attention. "We want to hurt no one! We're here for the bank's money, not your money," he says. "The good government's got your money insured, you're not going to lose a jiao. Sit down. If you've got some heart trouble or somethin', lean against the wall. Think of your families and lives, don't risk your life! Don't try to be the local hero."
Ming thrusts his gun at these loyal customers. "SIT DOWN. And STAY DOWN."
edited 28th Apr '11 5:21:52 PM by QQQQQ
The Paradox of the Unsolicited Gift
There was once an illiterate shopkeeper in an Arab bazaar called Ali, who - not being good at doing sums, his customers always cheated him. So he prayed every night to Allah for the present of an abacus, that danged contraption where you push beads along wires to add and subtract. But some ignorant djin forwarded his prayers instead to the wrong branch of the heavenly Mail Order Department.
And so one morning, arriving at the bazaar, Ali found his stall transformed into a multi-storey, steel-framed building, housing the latest in computer technology with instrument panels covering all the walls, with thousands of fluorescent oscillators, dials, magic eyes, &c. &c. And an instruction manual of which he could not read. After days of fiddling with this and that dial, he flew into a rage and made a kicking of a shiny, delicate panel.
The shocks disturbed one of the machine's millions of circuits, and to his delight Ali discovered that if he kicked that panel say, three times and five times afterwards, one of the dials showed the figure 8.
Ali thanked Allah for having sent him a lovely abacus - happily unaware it could make a solving Schrodinger's paradoxes, deriving Einstein's equations in a jiffy, or predicting the orbits of planets and stars thousands of years ahead.
Later on, Ali's children inherited this thingamajig and the lesson of kicking the same panel. It took them a while until they learned to do simple multiplication and division with it.
edited 23rd Jul '11 7:46:36 PM by QQQQQ
[A short story within my Universe, for the purposes of world-building.]
Westport was an unremarkable town, to say the least. In fact, the people of Westport would likely take 'Unremarkable' as a compliment. The population was small, likely no more than one hundred residents, and the majority of said residents were either dock workers or whores. The town couldn't escape the pervasive stench of the Black Sea, and it seemed that Westport had chosen to fight back with a stench of it's own. The saying went that if Northport was forged by Asusilus himself, then he must have shit out Westport. The only thing notable about this cesspit was the name it had earned itself, The Pirates' Port. If you were visiting Westport, you were either a Pirate, or you had business with one.
Darem could be said to be part of the latter group. He was still a boy, only sixteen years of age, and his lack of experience was clear when he stood by some of the other men he had taken the cart there with. They were all bandits and mercenaries, born in the filth of the lower classes, and chose to live in and embrace that filth. They all had their fair share of scars, and each scar carried with it a colorful story. Bitten by a wolf... mauled by a bear... insulted the Warrior Queen in the presence of an Eastman... Darem had not such tales to tell himself, earning himself the nickname 'Softskin' among the others. Darem's skin was soft at the touch. He wore the same leathers as the others, but the clothing he adorned were much cleaner and well-kept than the worn attires of his newly found companions. Darem was the son of Darmec, The King's personal blacksmith, so Darem had grown accustomed to having more luxuries than other children his age. Darem had no interest in succeeding his father, however, and he had heard the call of the Sea from when he was a toddler. That call seemed to be all he shared with these men.
It was a day of trade in Westport. Just about every Pirate ship was arriving at the town's docks to do business, so now was as good a time as any to try your hand in the business. "First thing you need to do boy, is find a good ship with a good crew," the mercenary they called Scratch had told him. Scratch was an large, stocky man, with a scorch mark where once there was a left eye. "Asking to join the crew isn't going to get you anywhere. You're gonna have to prove yourself to the captain, and there's only one way to do that. Get involved in a fight, and make damned sure you aren't beaten to death, or to the point that you soil yer'self. Think you can do that boy?" Darem didn't answer him then, and he couldn't answer him now. Darem was small, even for his age, and didn't have anything in the way of muscles. He had never gotten into a fight in the entirety of his short life.
Today was a day that encapsulated Westport more than ever. Any regular residents off the town where hiding in their homes in fear, and all the prostitutes were lined up by the dock, seeing a perfect opportunity for business from any man wishing to drop his anchor, and they certainly were getting it from one particular crew. Pirates had no code of uniform, but Darem could tell from their numbers and the way the carried themselves, that these were the men of Captain Nealkott. He had heard many stories growing up of Nealkott. They said that Nealkott had been sailing on The Black Sea for over 300 years. He had the crew, and the largest ship, named The Mad, of any other Pirate who lived. The story went that Nealkott had been born into nobility, the son of a Lord, but couldn't ignore his love of water and adventure. One night, Nealkott stole a ship from his father's dock, and made his way out to The Black Sea, carrying the entire fortune of his former family with him. Every Pirate wanted to be Nealkott, and none dared cross him. This could be the crew for me.
To see The Bad at port was a true honor for Darem. It was just as large as everyone would say, twice as large as a warship, with a mast of a giant skeleton hoisted at the front. It was said that this was the skeleton of a giant killed by the crew. That was, of course, one of the less believable rumors. The truth was that it was likely symbolism, conveying that no enemy could defeat The Bad's crew, no matter how large. Darem was frozen in admiration, but his concentration was broken by nearby screams.
"Get off of me, you dumb shit!"
Darem turned around to see that Scratch had begun to force himself upon one of the town's prostitutes. The poor girl was missing most of her teeth, and her hair was in clumps. She was small and frail, and far to weak to overpower the large Scratch. She was defenseless, and Darem knew he had to help her. He hurried over and attempted to drag Scratch off of her, but he was too weak. Scratch easily tossed him aside, where he fell to the floor, scraping his hand off to hard earth. Scratch wasn't finished with Darem there. He set his boot upon his face, pressing Darem's skull into the ground. The pain was incredible. Darem could feel the blood trickling from the back of his head, and he could feel himself slipping out of consciousness, until the pressure finally let up. Darem opened one eye to see that a blade had found its way through the chest of Scratch, and Scratch had taken his large boot off of Darem and begun to cough up blood, before collapsing to the ground. The blade was a cutlass, and a fine one at that, as Darem could see as the owner of the blade slowly removed it from the dying mercenary. At that moment, Darem could tell from the blade, as well as the owner's long blue jacket, which had checkered patches sewn into it in places. His life had just been saved by Captain Nealkott.
"One thing I can't stand, is a man who doesn't know how to treat a woman right," Nealkott said, helping Darem onto his feet.
Darem was still in pain, and struggled to get his words out. "I'll assume Scratch didn't make the cut for your crew, then?"
"Definitely not, especially with a name like Scratch. What's your name, kid?"
"My name... it's Darem."
Nealkott shook his head. "No, I meant, what do they call you?"
"Oh... Soft-skin."
"Scratch... soft-skin... you haven't been travelling with the most inventive lot, even if the name is appropriate, from the look of you... minus the recent cut on your hand, of course. Luckily, from now on you'll be travelling with my crew... The Mad."
Darem couldn't believe what he had heard. "Do you really mean that?"
"Sure, why not? I'm in a charitable mood today!" Nealkott made his way over to the prostitute, who was still in shock at recent events. Without saying a word, he took a handful of gold pieces from the pocket of his dark-green breeches, and handed them to the poor girl. He passed by Darem, making his way back to his ship, before stopping by Darem once more. "Just so you know, I gave that girl gold worth at least three clients. If the two of you want to have some fun before you board, you do have time." With that, he walked back to The Mad without another word, the tails of his jacket blowing in the breeze.
Darem gave the girl a dismissive hand gesture, but she likely didn't notice. She was far too concerned with the gold that had fallen into her hands. A crewman of The Mad... I'll be dead within a month, Darem tried to tell himself as he began to board The Mad, but at that moment, he didn't care. This was his dream, and apparently all it took to realize this dream was to be almost killed by a vicious brute of a man. No doubt about it, Pirates live interesting lives.

An emulation of the window shutters experiment...it's not half as good.
Mother never consulted with me before she brought home the cat.
It was springtime—mother never liked springtime. I suppose I should have known something was wrong. Bringing home a cat, though? That isn't so terrible. It isn't so strange. It wasn't the act of it, I guess. It was the cat.
The cat itself was...well, mother always said I was being silly, but the cat never acted like a cat usually acts. "How should you know?" mother used to say, "You've never had a cat." And she would stroke it lovingly as it pulled back its lips and rubbed her hand with its sharp, white teeth.
I had a favorite beany baby as a child. A green-eyed cat with black and white spots. I wouldn't call it ironic—ironic is something meaningful, something that happens in fiction. This wasn't irony. I just happened to have this beany baby, and I happened to loose that beany baby, and the next time I saw it was ten years later and the cat, who is, in a twist so unsurprising that it becomes surprising again, an orange tabby, was drowning it in her water dish.
Mother said I was being silly.
I said that cat was not very much like a cat at all.
The cat.
Not a cat.
The cat.
Any other cat and I'm certain I wouldn't have minded. Any other cat and it would have been a pleasant surprise.
It's just me and the cat now...like I said, mother never liked springtime. It tears around the house at night, claws scrabbling against the hardwood floor. It meows at nothing and stares at birds for hours and hours on end.
I would get rid of it.
I want to get rid of it.
It's worse than trying to herd cats.
It's worse than herding a single cat.
It's herding the cat,
and I just can't do it
but one of us
has got
to go.
edited 13th Dec '10 10:11:19 PM by DaeBrayk