i'm just implementing the disability aspect into my story, and man, i'd just like to mention how damn lucky we are to be living in the age of google

I wrote down about 1,500 words for this, but not sure how much of it I'll actually use. I have more in a notebook, been having quite a lot of fun with this one. It's also different kind of fiction than what I usually write (usually I'm pretty basic stuff/dialogue/stuff writer).

But because I've enjoyed writing it so much, it's hard to be critical, but I do get the feeling that this was much more fun to write than it is to actually read.

I think I will hammer mine out this weekend. I figured out everything I wanted to do while I was in the shower right before I had to come to work tonight. Let's hope it isn't cliched and sucks. :lol

I'm looking forward to sitting down and writing this one out.

I haven't enjoyed writing a story this much in some time. Hopefully, that's a good sign.

Tim the Wiz said:

I haven't enjoyed writing a story this much in some time. Hopefully, that's a good sign.

Click to expand...

I actually find it's the stories I don't like that win.

Okay, I finally have an idea for this one. Hope to write it soon.

The world cup is sucking all my energy dry. Don't know If I'll put finger to keyboard this time round. E3 is there as well. Who knows anyhow. We'll see I guess.

Ashes1396 said:

The world cup is sucking all my energy dry. Don't know If I'll put finger to keyboard this time round. E3 is there as well. Who knows anyhow. We'll see I guess.

Click to expand...

Same here, and I wasn't even interesting in gaming, really. I meant to hammer it all out this weekend, and spent all of my time either watching soccer matches I missed, playing FIFA World Cup on my phone, or watching movies with my wife. GAH!

I have an idea, but I'm not completely sure I'll have time to write it. Reason being, I'm still sick and it's E3 time, which means an increase in nerdy hang outs with my pals.

The idea's not a serious one, and not at all nitewulf (More Ronito), but it did strike me as fun while I was dreaming it up.

Ashes1396 said:

The world cup is sucking all my energy dry. Don't know If I'll put finger to keyboard this time round. E3 is there as well. Who knows anyhow. We'll see I guess.

Click to expand...

Same here. All my free time is going to either the WC, looking up E3 stuff, or playing final fantasy tactics.

Geez, you guys are bums. I had that massive exam a week or two ago, and I still wrote my story.

Anyway, got nothing yet, but I'll have something written by the deadline.

Hopefully E3 won't take us down.

Edit: Heh. Well, I suggested a plan on the first page for if this happened. Whenever the OT gets unlocked, midnight of that day becomes the new entry deadline.

Unlocked now for some reason. My story is already past the word count, and I probably won't be able to shrink it down. It's pretty thrifty as is. So I'll probably post it, but not for voting consideration. Or I'll lie and hope no one notices I'm a thousand words over.

It'll probably get locked down again in a few hours, due to the Nintendo & Sony conferences.

I'm honestly going to try my hand at this, today.

Good thing I got an early start with this one, because with the World Cup, E3 and Super Mario Galaxy 2, haven't got much done since. Of course, the things that keep me busy paint a grim picture of what a sad life I lead.

Fingers
word count: 2112

The gloves were too hot and thick. They clung to Emily's fingers, restricting their movement as the synthetic fibers scratched against her sensitive skin. She wiggled and regretted it.

"Never been off world before?" the man beside her asked in what she guessed was kindly. The words were spat out of the receiver in her helmet, and sucked into the metal bulbs that poked out from her malformed ear canals. She couldn't hide them anymore, now that her blonde locks had been sheared away.

Her eyes shone with their own metallic glint, filtering out the glassy distortion and dimming the ship's harsh lights. There were no sights of the stars through wide windows like in all the spacer shows. Just rows of empty seats with quick release restraints, and dirty signs in bright colors directing her to a dozen safety features of this pressurized cabin.

"Do we have to wear the spacesuits? I thought... space travel was completely safe," Emily spoke with a slow care, still stung by the memories of youth. She learned to speak so much later than the other children, and they never let her forget it.

"Just a precaution," 'Simon' reassured her. The slight strain on his face convinced her it wasn't his real name. He was old and craggy, like the surface of the airless moon they had just departed. He reminded her of the beef jerky they ate until their jaws were sore on Solstice, in the two winter months when all the animals went into hibernation. When these government men had come for her, wearing plain suits with dark glasses, carrying official forms and concealed weapons.

Emily wasn't frightened. She handled dangerous animals in their settlement because she didn't take any sense for granted. She could read a lion's mood from scent alone, and approach unafraid.

No matter how much they tried to bury it under clothes and culture, humans were still beasts. They preened themselves for a mate, or sought their place in the herd. Their expressions still told the truth, even if their mouths could only form lies. So she knew these men had something specific and important for her. They meant her no harm, even if they were experienced in causing it.

"We're here," Simon announced, freeing himself from restraints before helping her to do the same. He wasted no time in guiding her over to the waiting airlock where they shed their spacesuits for the jumpsuits beneath, adding thinner gloves and light boots to replace the bulky ones they left behind.

Only when all their preparations were complete did the second airlock finally thump open, revealing another harshly lit chamber, and a woman a few years younger than Emily's own mother. Her smile tried to hide the insecurity of her own shaved head, and the lack of makeup to hide her tired eyes.

"Hello, Emily. I'm Sue," the woman greeted her with a cheery but nervous lie before reaching out, and gently guiding the girl into the entry chamber. There were others there, floating with slates and serious expressions, and all but ignoring this new arrival. They kept to polite whispers as 'Sue' said, "I'll be your big sister for the duration of your stay. So if you need anything, or just want to talk, all you need to do is ask."

Emily thought of eating chocolate after tasting salt. The stoic Simon had said little during her journey to leave behind everything she had ever known. Now she was greeted here with open arms by this burst of feminine enthusiasm. Yet there was only a sour taste she couldn't dislodge. "I could use... a little water."

"Of course. We'll grab something while getting you settled. Your things should be passing through decontamination even now." Sue tightened her grip, navigating the girl down the narrow halls by guide poles. Left behind, Simon merely floated on another path without bothering with a parting word.

*

The food tasted vaguely of chalk. Vitamins to compensate for muscle atrophy and bone loss. Emily spent several hours a day in weighted restraints and light exercise, browsing the galactic news networks on the holographic display that had been her room warming gift. Whenever she asked about what she had been brought there for, Sue brushed the question aside. They were waiting until Emily was fully acclimated.

There were others around her own age, each with their own big sister or brother floating at their side. They were preoccupied, secretive and quiet, muttering complex math equations or cellular reactions to newly synthesized compounds. Emily kept her distance, shamed by her lack of understanding. There were older scientists too, forever in need of a shower, as well as stern and armed men like Simon that didn't say a word. While holographic displays revealed a lifeless world rolling beneath them.

"Everything checks out." Sue sounded genuinely pleased, looking up from the monitors after a simple exam, like the one Emily received before they had shaved her hair and burned off her outer layer of skin. Nothing so drastic followed this time as the girl got dressed. Only the words, "You're ready."

Simon returned. He was smiling a little as he led the way down unfamiliar corridors, into an area of the station Emily hadn't been allowed to pass before. She needed no guiding hand now as she launched herself and passed from the guide poles with practiced ease, following the change of scent as an unfamiliar odor crept in. It reminded her of nothing; not the organic smells of home or the manufactured musk of the station. She passed ahead of Simon as she pursued it, only for this path to end at a secured airlock.

"You're not wearing your gloves," he observed.

"I thought... I didn't need them anymore." Emily looked away to avoid admitting she had shed them at the first opportunity. She could navigate the open section of the station with her eyes closed, knowing each corridor in room by touch and scent alone.

"Put these on," Simon ordered as he claimed a pair of gloves and a filter mask from a container flush with the wall.

Confused and annoyed, Emily's expression remained placid as she did as she was told, fitting the clinging mask covering the lower part of her face before struggling against the padded rubber gloves meant for larger hands. The strange scent she had followed was quickly expelled by layers of fibrous filters.

Then door slid open then, revealing a dim airlock illuminated solely by dull red emergency lights. She glanced away to find Simon without a mask for himself. "Aren't you coming?"

The soldier didn't answer, but merely gave her a firm shove, causing Emily to drift into airlock alone before the door slid shut and locked behind her. Under the hiss of air filters, she gasped. The involuntary reaction to an irrational fear of being spaced.

"Nothing to worry about," Sue reassured her in soothing tones, patching a signal directly into one of her artificial ears. "The air composition of the area you're about to enter is different than what you're used to, but you'll be just fine with that filter mask."

"Why is it... different?" Emily inquired with her metallic eyes still on the door, knowing this was the reason she had been brought here.

"Space travel isn't as easy as they want to you think. Distortions in the energy paths often cause ships to go off track, sometimes for hours or even days," Sue explained at a whisper, imparting this dire secret. "A rare few need to be looked for. Once the searchers came back with something unexpected."

Then the door opened into the unfamiliar.

Humans carried a memory of gravity into space, assembling rooms and corridors with clear distinctions between floor and ceiling. Here there was nothing but a twisting metal tube with spiny projections mounted here and there at random. It was hard to see clearly when there was no light beyond the dim red of the airlock. Even her artificial eyes picked up no more than vague forms.

"There's a light woven into the shoulder of your jumpsuit. Just give it a squeeze," Sue instructed her calmly, waiting for Emily to reach over and activate the soft glow before continuing. "Don't be afraid to go inside. Techs have already studied the ship from top to bottom. There's nothing that can cause you any harm."

Emily swallowed the lump in her throat, and released her grip on the guide pole, letting herself slowly drift into a craft that was not of human origin. Spacer shows were filled with aliens with rubbery faces and gibberish languages, but in the real galaxy humanity reached out to find nothing more than microbes. Now she floated through a misshapen corridor, variable in size and splitting off to run like the veins in her own body.

The noise annoyed her. There were hisses and rumbles, clanks and spitting coming from all around. The walls even shook in spots from this activity, unseen from this twisting passage. They nearly drowned out the sound of the door shutting behind her, leaving her alone with nothing but the pale light on her shoulder.

"What am I... here for?" Emily asked as she reached out with the lightest touch these gloves could manage to propel herself deeper into the unknown. She passed into an oblong chamber with the shape of a mutant vegetable, catching an odd whiff of something from the narrow section where some controls were set, but the filter mask adjusted quickly to clear the air.

"Turn right and head down that passage. Veer left when it splits," was all that Sue would say.

Emily obeyed with a nod, beginning to detect faint patterns in the shapes of various dark metals that formed the way. She reached out, only in frustration to feel little more than gloves. Then she passed into another oblong chamber, though this one choose to run straight, revealing faint movement in the distance. She found it hard to speak. "There's... someone else here."

"The sole survivor," Sue informed her in a solemn tone. "The ship must have suffered a terrible accident that claimed the lives of its small crew, but there was one kept in a preservation pod. We repaired the ship as best we could, and set 'it' loose... we even managed to synthesize the rations they lived on. All efforts to communicate, however, have been a total failure."

Emily expected the thing to shy away from the light as she drifted near, but it failed to react, even when she coughed to clear her throat. Though it writhed when her boot lightly scraped the floor.

"From tests we believe it's naturally both blind and deaf," Sue explained this obvious lack of reaction. "Popular theory is they harbor some form of telepathy...."

"This isn't a spacer show," Emily chided her as she shut off her shoulder light, though her advanced orbs still managed to form vague and disturbing shapes out of total darkness.

She pulled off her gloves and reached out to the surface of the room, feeling the faint grooves that these creatures used to propel themselves along. She tapped twice and moved a bit closer, tapping again until the alien answered with a tap of its own.

She ripped off her filter mask, tasting the scents that clung to different spots, identifying certain controls or passages to guide the way. Sue was saying something in alarm, but Emily failed to hear as she removed her false ears, shutting out all harsh distractions. There was still the one terrible sight before her, so she reached into her sockets and disconnected her eyes.

Emily returned to the world of touch and scent. So rich in detail she needed no more. Like the odor of this alien as she drifted near, curiosity at first becoming the stink of alarm. She pulled away, clinging to the side of the chamber as she reached out with her fingers splayed. She knew the dread of intruders into this quiet, sightless life, but not as great as the misery of being alone.

Several uneasy breaths passed before Emily felt tiny feelers tentatively gracing her fingertips, resting on the ends of horrid tentacles. She shivered but did not pull away. Instead, she very slowly began moving her fingers back and forth across these feelers, like a mother's caress for a frightened child.

Emily was surprised just how quickly the alien responded, with simple gestures that blossomed into complex patterns against her fingertips. So the joy of discovery dimmed a little to realize she was a child again, learning to communicate for the first time.

.

Evidence of Time Travel
(1380 words)

"I WAS HERE 08.41.2144"

Finally! Conclusive evidence of time travel!

This enigmatic message was scribbled with a permanent black marker on a crossbeam of a wooden jungle gym at a Massachusetts elementary school playground, its exact location not disclosed here to protect the privacy of the students attending the school.

The message itself is open for interpretation. "I was here" would indicate the author had visited our time, but the date would suggest the message was written in the future. Perhaps the structure itself had been built in the future and sent back, or perhaps language change has altered the English grammar in such a degree that the phrase "I was here" no longer holds the same meaning in the year 2144.

The date of the message is of course the biggest dilemma. As is well known, with the exception of February, all of our months have 30 or 31 days. So what could explain this date, which seems to indicate there are at least 41 days in August, or whatever the eight month of the year is called in 2144? The most obvious interpretation of course is that our system for measuring time has been altered, but what could have caused this?

As one imagines how advanced the men responsible for this message must be, one could assume their discoveries have rendered today's understanding of time lacking, and have made the required alterations.

Another possibility, however, is a colossal change in our world, a global catastrophe that rendered our understanding of months, years and seasons void. What that might have been, we can only conjecture.

The pen itself used for writing the message also raises questions, which appears to be a regular permanent black marker. Are they still used in the future, or did the time traveller use one he acquired in our time? Careful analysis of the markings is required to shed some light on this mystery.

At this point it is vital to note another interesting conundrum. Which number signifies days and which years? While the location of the structure would lead one to assume the American usage is in place here, with the months marked first, we cannot close out the possibility that in the future the practice of marking days first will have become more widespread. And it is of course needless to say what a critical distinction it is in this case, as our interpretation of this single message is the basis of our understanding of the civilization, and their environment, that sent us this memorandum.

The typography of the message is also of the utmost importance. While the handwritten message confirms that handwriting has not been wholly abandoned in the future, the uneven, even amateurish, handwriting suggests that our still valued talent of penmanship has not been properly maintained in the future, and signs of atrophy in the skill are evident. This does not seem surprising, given the almost certain reliance on technology in the mid 22nd century. What is the most fascinating, however, is what the typography can tell us about the person who wrote this dispatch.

The crossbeam on which the message was written, while high, is perfectly within reach for an average adult of our own time to write on it normally. But the slanting letters suggest that whoever wrote the message had to put considerable effort in reaching up to the crossbeam, which implies the person had to be extremely short, close to the size of a child. Was the weary traveller from the not so distant future, politically correctly put, "a little person", or could the author by some chance have some kind of a physical disability that would cause him to struggle reaching the beam? Or could this message perchance tell us something about the future of mankind? After all, considering the harsh requirements we hold for our astronauts and other pioneers, it would be difficult to imagine a person chosen for such a, if you'll pardon the pun, historical mission would be so notably below average in height or have any striking physical or mental disabilities.

Could the human species have shrunk so dramatically in just over 130 years? Such a drastic change in a species in just over a century seems impossible given our current knowledge of evolutionary biology. But taking in consideration the strange date, as was noted earlier, feasibly this message is from much further from the future than the date would indicate, or maybe some cataclysmic event has affected not just the world, but people themselves.

When it comes to the motives behind sending back in time this note, or possibly the entire construction, one can only theorize. A cynic might argue it was a mere test not meant as a communication with the past generations, but as a trial of their time travel capabilities. This would explain why such an unassuming vessel as a jungle gym was chosen.

However, if one assumes humanity's love of progress and discovery has remained constant through the passing decades, or centuries, and that our eternal hunger for truth and knowledge has not been satiated, we much accept the conclusion that contact with the past was not only expected, it was desired. Why the message then is so cryptic is of course puzzling.

If one takes into consideration all this, a single theory arises. "I was here" could possibly not be a message as such, but a triumphant declaration. Indeed, this note could have been written not by men, but by something as of yet unknown to us. That is to say, an alien race. As anyone familiar with the origins of languages such as English knows, language contact between speakers of different varieties plays a key role. While it's always unlikely that the conquering people, or species, in this case, would take substantial influence from the vanquished people's language, perhaps the English words had entered their language before the hostilities started, or perhaps they merely wanted to declare their victory in a language understood by the people of Earth.

Why the advanced alien race would choose an elementary school jungle gym to announce their dominion over men is of course a riddle itself, but it would be presumptuous to think we could even begin to understand the reasoning of a superior race of extraterrestrials that have not yet been encountered in our time.

Of course there is the possibility that no extraterrestrial life has played a part in this, and the cause for humankind's future plight is an underground race of violent mole people or lizard men from the murky depths of the ocean, dormant in their gloomy caverns or submerged cities for untold millennia, that have risen to take over the planet. During those aeons of bleak slumber, and especially right before their swift and brutal invasion as preparations were under way, a certain number of words and phrases from English and other surface-dweller languages could have entered their gruesome tongue, explaining their savage broadcast on a playground plaything, and likely on anything else they could get their murderous paws on after the defeat of humans was complete. Being diminutive in size, but fierce in nature, the mole and/or lizard people would be a likely explanation for the seemingly small size of the author of the message. But what could have led the ferocious raiders to use human inventions such as pens? Surely one would expect them to use their own barbaric instruments to scratch their announcements on our constructions, resembling the wretched hieroglyphs that undoubtedly mark the walls of their accursed domain. Could they have been experimenting with their slain foe's technology?

The influence of an outside force, whether extra- or subterrestrial, would also explain the curious date, as it's unlikely they would follow our calendar. Perhaps our few remaining descendants have sent this jungle gym back in time as evidence of the precipice on which humanity stands.

Whatever the true explanation for this mysterious message is, we can only speculate and hope the noble time travellers will contact us again, if they haven't already, and share with their fellow lovers of truth and science the wonders of the universe, or warn us of its perils.

Oh geez, I got nothing, nothing, nothing!

Gonna have to squeeze in an hour or two before midnight and bang something out.

I'm gonna have to sit this one out because I just don't have the time.

Cyan said:

Oh geez, I got nothing, nothing, nothing!

Gonna have to squeeze in an hour or two before midnight and bang something out.

Click to expand...

Join us and together we can rule these boards as lazy bums!

I've written absolutely nothing for this challenge, been really busy with something in life the last two weeks. Boo to me.

I did gestate a cool idea for a story though, hopefully I'll write it one day.

less entries, more pity points for me, fist bumps all around.

ZephyrFate's entry:

There's a dead end.
Word Count: 1959

I'm sitting here in my car and I keep thinking, what the fuck am I doing here? The key's in the ignition and my foot's on the pedal, but I'm hesitating. I'm thinking too much. I'm over-overthinking, as if that was possible. Maybe I could call it mega-thinking. Ultra-thinking, even better! Super-t...

Fuck.

He's probably thinking I've bailed on him, but I haven't. I just temporarily lost my nuts... s'ok, I can just find 'em again. They can't have gone far. Probably in the glove compartment.

They're not there either.

Let's rewind this vinyl a little bit, add a few samples and get a real flow.

I saw that beautiful face across a park, and that face was attached to a body that was attractive, more than attractive, maybe, more like gorgeous. You'd see a piece of Michelangelo's, right? And you'd think that was the paragon of good-looking men, but you'd be wrong. There was something about this guy that made the world slow a little bit, like when I watched him throw a frisbee for his dog it all went at half-speed, and my eyes just stayed fixated on him. Just him. He's got an earbud in his left ear and his head's bobbing to some beat from some band I didn't know, and all I'm thinking about is how the fuck do I meet this guy?

I walked over to him, my hands shaking like a drug addict's, which... probably didn't bode well for first impressions. Before I said anything, I took him in, all of him: the whole picture and the frame and the dinner table centerpiece it should fucking sit on. He was about my height, no taller. He was on the thinner side for a guy who was very obviously ripped, with short-cropped dirty blonde, borderline brown hair. He wore khaki pants and a tight-fitting wifebeater... motherfucker knew how to magnetize people to him. His face was chiseled, northern European or something. And his eyes were wide and expansive, almost azure in hue; they were miniature globes where the world would spin, dwarf cosmopolitans catching a ride on an Adonis.

“... Hey.” I said, finally taking another few steps forward to bridge the gap between us. He didn't answer at first, so concentrated on his dog running back to him, but he finally turned, a smile creasing his sharp features.

“Hey there.”

And that's when I froze again. Think of an icebreaker, just one... take a fucking pickaxe, break through!

“W... w... what's up?” I asked, fear creeping up into my voice. When that happened, I swear, my voice would go up like three fucking decibels or some other exaggerated shit and I would sound like a twelve year old girl.

“Just out with my dog. Haven't been able to take her out often, it's been raining too much here.”

I smiled, chuckling lightly.

“Yeah, the river flooded part of the path over there.” I pointed over to two paths that intersected at a T, next to a large overpass where cars rushed by endlessly.

“Really?! I bet my dog would have gotten a kick outta that.”

My smile widened, and the frayed nerves began to recede.

“Yeah, the little lake here was connected to the river again, it was kinda cool... like nature taking over what it used to have, y'know?”

I fought the urge to go into absolute headlights-on-rainbow-beaming-gay-smile mode when he laughed at my poetic observation.

He offered a hand out to me.

“I'm Kevin. You?”

The drug-addict nervousness became almost like a seizure as I grasped his hand with my own.

“Stephen.”

A silence passed, briefly, as both of us still had each other's hand clasped tightly, sweat starting to form between us, commingling. We looked at each other as if the rest of reality just didn't exist.

And then the moment passed. Brevity is the soul of... fuck it. Brevity sucks.

“So... how long have you lived in Eugene?” I asked, cordially, keeping my face to the side so only one eye could be seen in his view. A shy move, to be sure, but a cautious one. Never can be too trusting of dudes in parks...

His dog ran up to us before he answered, barking loudly after dropping the frisbee. This time, though, he threw it long and far, assuring the dog wouldn't be back for some time. And as he did so, I caught glimpses of his underarm, of the toned muscles flexing and contracting.

“A few months, just got back from a stay in New York, though. Man... those guys are assholes, compared to here, at least.”

“I bet... everyone 'round here is high all the time, or drunk, or both.”

He laughed at that, but then fell silent for a time. I wanted to reach out and touch him, but my hands were thankfully glued to my sides, my fists starting to ball up for no reason. He was the one who made the next move.

“Hey... would you wanna get coffee sometime?” He asked, looking over at me with innocent, pure eyes. Eyes that couldn't be as real as they were, eyes that had to be unreal. And here I was getting lost in them like I had so many other's, and this was always the point where the conversation ended because I'd get so entranced that I froze solid; a block of ice on a summer day, impossible to thaw. Say something, you dumbass!

“S-...sure. That'd be g-great.”

He smiled briefly, pulling out his phone. It was a Droid phone, one of the newer models. I did the same, pulling out an iPhone.

“What's your n-number?” I asked, still stuttering, still coming off strange.

We exchanged numbers then, quickly, as if it were nothing more than a small matter of business.

“Well, I gotta go. How about... tomorrow, 12:30?”

“That's fine. See ya, Kevin.”

“Later.”

I watched him walk off towards Coburg Road, and as I turned the other way, heading back across the river towards downtown Eugene, I felt all the nerves come rushing back, all the doubts and paranoia. All the demons that held the heart at bay; all the enemies that fought against what it wanted, blockading its desires.

What if he's got a boyfriend and he just wants a friend?

What if he's just fucking with me?

What if I screw it all up?

What if... what if he's straight? Worst-case scenario. A nightmare I can't put into a cupboard, lock and throw away the key. A horror that doesn't just sit around twiddling its thumbs. I've struck out so many times 'cuz of this...



But we never got coffee. A twist I wish didn't happen. I was sitting in my apartment listening to music when my phone vibrated. I had at first thought, oh, phantom vibrations, everyone who has a cell phone gets those nowadays... but no, it was a real text, from Kevin. It read: “Wanna come over to my place?” I shakily texted back, “Yeah, sure. Where do you live?”

And so we're back at square one. We're back to where the curtain opens up and the play begins and all the actors are in their proper positions, ready to spout lines of poetic dialogue and prance around theatrically. Only in my play the actors have forgotten their lines and so they just stand there, embarrassed and nervous and scared.

I'm sitting in my car and I can't even turn it on. I have the key stuck in the ignition but my hand won't turn it on. All it would take is a simple wrist flick, some pressure applied to my thumb and index finger, but the nerves have failed.

Another text, my phone surfing along the passenger's seat of my car, riding the vibrations.

“Where r u?”

That was enough. I turned the key in the ignition and...

Nothing happened. The car sputtered to a halt; just my fucking luck, to be sure. I didn't have time to get out and fix it, so I left my car and began to walk. The trek would be far, but worth it, right? The night lights shone with clarity that night as the sky cleared up and a cool breeze played and skipped along the city streets. I watched the trees move and shake, letting themselves be lost in the current, and as I did, I began to think back to all the previous times I'd found myself in this exact situation.

Andrew. Thirty-something older man in a suit, standing casually at a table in a gay bar. I don't remember his face because all that remained of him was getting my shit kicked in, all alone in an alleyway with him looking down on me with what I would guess was a malevolent smile but is now just a hazy mirage of a long-forgotten memory.

Jaime. Met on the Internet... probably not the best way to meet someone, the most impersonal... by far. The pictures that lie, the information that dupes, the gambits and deceits inlaid within virtual text. He was a man who looked like he worked out, who was intellectual and sweet, who didn't give in to the vices of heavy drugs. He was none of those. None at all. And you wouldn't believe how quickly I walked out on that encounter.

Trevor. A straight guy. No need to further explain here, I think. Why he was cruising gay sites... I'll never know. I gave him up before he even got a chance, told him I wasn't some random whore. The look he gave me was a mixture of anger and confusion. The look I gave him was disappointment.

The chill of the night air began to have its effect, goosebumps trailing their way up and down my arms. I watched as cars drove by, as groups of people went off towards parties or bars or dinner, wherever would ease their travails. There were texts upon texts lighting up my phone but I ignored all of them. The moment I check them is the moment I stop walking and head home, cowering in fear or doubt or whatever flavor-of-the-month emotion I get.

I made it to his place in one piece, but tired... not physically, emotionally. The thoughts and reminiscences and the slow-cooker pot that boiled all of my feelings into a split pea soup were tearing apart my psyche. It began to overflow as I walked up the steps to his apartment, as my hand raised upwards to knock on his door. I felt juvenile, my hand shaking once more at such a simple action. I felt like I'd regressed to some sort of younger state, one without experience from the trials of growing up.

But I got my shit together, and knocked. Two loud raps that made my knuckles slightly sore, hastily done. The door opened and he appeared, a smile lighting up the contours of his face.

“I thought you were...”

I cut him off with a kiss. A heavy one, one that he bent his face into, finding his tongue with mine. My iPhone beeped that it was about to die, but I ignored it. There was no need for a cellphone, or a car, when this kiss made reality flip over itself. It was a moment a picture would do justice to, because of the millions of words that it would emphasize, words I'd put down on a page just like this one.

But there's no need for more, because this dead end was exactly the one I wanted to run into.

Word count: 1242

The Wisdom of Digital Devices

I can never remember bits of information such as telephone numbers, addresses and the like. I always get into awkward situations at work where people ask for my extension and I’m unable to provide it. Instead I give them my last name and ask them to look up my extension on the intranet.

Consequently I’m usually countered with the “You’re shitting me, right?” look, or the actual words. Then I’m forced to go through an elaborate explanation, embarrassed smile included at no cost, about how I don’t usually call myself and thus I don’t remember my own number. How my brain works a bit differently when it comes to memorizing things and so on. How my brain interprets details such as phone numbers as impertinent to self, in the grand scheme of things, thus filtering them out.

After the delivery of a finished package and the elaborate conversation that followed concerning my phone number, I was back at my desk, concerned about something entirely grand and relevant.

A pimple had occurred!

That’s correct. I had a pimple, exactly on the center of my upper lip, right below the ridge under my nose. Located exactly at the boundary between lip and skin. A very strange location for a pimple to appear. All of a sudden. I couldn’t scratch it, it hurt a bit. It looked strangely noticeable, due to its location. In fact it’d be the first thing your eyes would focus on, were you talking to me at that moment. The odd placement of the pimple was driving me nuts. Not to mention I had plans to go out later that night, and the night after. And to have had my own pimple block my own c*ck (quite large thanks! balls intact), with my own wife, lest she find a leaking, oozing crater on my face unappealing, would have been the most pathetic existential conundrum.

What I was really supposed to be doing was to check the Maschinenfabrik Reinhausen (try saying that out loud 10 times in a row, fast) device schematics, but instead I was sitting at my desk, having my second cup of bitter coffee, no milk, no sugar, and contemplating the state of my pimple.

And waxing romantic about being a lone wolf. Who’s married.

I let the phone ring twice before picking it up.

“I know you will never, and I mean, never ever take me away for the weekend, so I booked us a resort on the Poconos.”

But Arsenal is playing Tottenham tomorrow! Yelled the right half of my brain to the left half.

“Oh you did? That’s uh…good...how much was it?” My voice faltered a bit. My spending habits hadn’t changed a bit, I had a delayed reaction to the fact that I had my own family these days. The Cure’s Disintegration was just reissued on double vinyl, and a Neil Young retrospective, along with Coltrane’s rendition of My Favorite Things. Also picked up a bunch of Blue Note reissues. Damn the gleaming, black discs of lust and affection. How could I not!

“Oh you are gonna love this! It’s only $99 for the weekend.”

“$99, why $99? I mean, what? Are you sure? You didn’t rent us a parking spot near the resort yeah?”

“Don’t be a jackass! It’s a cottage, here I’m forwarding you the confirmation email, why don’t you read it and get back to me.”

Clack.

Great, having a regular corporate boss wasn’t enough, now I had a boss at life I had to manage as well.

Resort nestled within the picturesque Pocono Mountains...yaddi yadda, blah, blah….pictures looked good and all. There it was, $99 for the weekend. Unbelievable. I scanned the email, trying to find a catch, and, there it was, literally in tiny print, as they say:

Guests must sit through a 90 minute sales presentation during their stay at the resort. Failure to do so will result in guests being charged the full amount for a weekend stay at the resort at the rate of $350/night…

“Umm, honey, did you happen to, you know, read through the whole promotion deal?”

“Don’t be sarcastic with me, I’m really not in the mood.”

“Yeah that’s great but just go all the way to the bottom of the email and read the fine print. Literally.”

“Ok, so what does this mean?”

“It means we have to sit through a sales pitch honey. Now why am I wasting my precious free time on a 90 minute sales pitch? Explain please.”

“Is it that hard, really, to sit through a presentation to save hundreds of dollars? Will it pain you that much, physically?”

“No, it won’t pain me physically, no, argh, we’ll talk after I get home.”

Brilliant. The right half of my brain quipped as I hung up. Anytime a situation went beyond scope, a hint of irritation, prickly at first, started to gnaw away at my mind, culminating in an inflamed outburst of massive jackassery if left uncontained.

By the time I was home, I was completely irritated.

My wife should have read the fine print. I had no idea what else the resort had in store, but I wasn’t in the mood to be conned out of my time, and my money. She should have read the fine print. No one was perfect, I definitely wasn’t, but how I wished everyone was always perfect.

“Oh great, you are mad, because we have to sit through a sales pitch? Why is it such a big deal?” She could tell, because she knew me too well. No matter how hard I tried, I could never quite keep that irritation hidden beneath the rough exterior of my patchy neck bearded face.

“Alright, if you wanna discuss, I’m not mad because we have to sit through a sales pitch. I’m mad because you were incompetent at reading.”

Yes, I am aware that I am an asshole.

“And, I am mad because I don’t know what else they have up their sleeves, once we get there.”

“Fine, you know what? We aren’t going. I’ll pay you back the $99. We are never going anywhere, I am never ever doing anything for you again.”

Off to bed, cry and so on.

Ok, so I messed up.

“Right, look...” I said softly, “Now there’s no point in not going, we already paid for the thing.”

“Shut up.”

“No seriously, let’s go, you already packed, I’m gonna program the GPS and we are off...”

“Fuck you.”

“Of course, but that’s gonna be after we get there...which reminds, don’t forget the condoms.”

The highway was a patch of darkness through the Jersey mountains. Breezy. The wind swirled around the car, ever playful, as fleeting as our sadness. The pointless fight an hour ago, seemed pointless.

“Take the next exit to highway 17.”

“I dont wanna go that way you POS GPS asshole.” I kept driving ahead, through the Turnpike.

“Erm, where are you going?”

“Do we need to go to the resort tonight? Let’s just get lost.” I drove on into the winding highway. Faster.

“Recalculating.”

“Oh fuck off.” My wife turned off the GPS and threw it on the backseat.

I pressed the gas even harder. The highway was broad and curvy. It opened up before us. Endless. Lit up by the moon. She rested her hand on mine.

Our options were infinite.

The pimple didn’t stand in the way of our own little progress.

Damnit! I sit one out and it's the one when Nitewulf returns!

I thought you were sitting out only on the writing an entry part?

Ashes1396 said:

I thought you were sitting out only on the writing an entry part?

Click to expand...

I don't know if I'll have time to even read. Work is crazy and I Got vaca coming up.

cool...

See, enough of the good guys posted so now I don't really need to shit up the selections with my entry. (I'm gonna try though, damn it. I just need to start writing. 4 hours is all I have. :/ )

OT being locked has made me forget about this entirely. I've my idea waiting to be written up all week, so hopefully I can get it done over the next couple of hours.

We should rename this thread the last gasp thread! :lol

Wait, how in the hell did I already waste an hour? I didn't write a single damn word.

Oh shit, nitewulf! Pressure's on, now. Ok, starting something... now!

Yeah, I'm not going to make it. I'm only two paragraphs in. Still, I suppose I might as well continue.

Irish said:

Yeah, I'm not going to make it. I'm only two paragraphs in. Still, I suppose I might as well continue.

Click to expand...

How on earth are you still two paragraphs in? Stop thinking so much and put your thoughts on the damn paper. :lol

fuck, i've been writing for about an hour, about half done. Don't know if I will finish. If I do it'll be shitty. Sorry guys.

Timedog said:

If I do it'll be shitty.

Click to expand...

SPOILARZ!

No worries, I submit shitty stories all the time. The others can definitely handle it.

Glow
Word Count: 1,219


“Tell Charlie that if he really thinks he wants to kill me, I’ll make his job easier. I’ll meet him anywhere he wants.”

I laughed out loud as I typed into the chat program. I felt both nihilistic and invincible, like Superman dealing with existential despair.

“No, please don’t do this. He’s crazy!”

Oh, he’s crazy? I laughed at her again—this time hard enough that I could feel my eye muscles begin to well up with blood, and my vision vibrated with every cackle.

“Oh, he’s the one that’s crazy?”

Several minutes went by with no response. I sat in my computer chair, staring at the chat window and breathing in and out so slowly that an ant crawling up my shirt wouldn’t have noticed. I had a good guess about what was happening on the other end of the connection.

“Meet me in the Saf-a-way parking lot in 15 minutes.”

My guess was correct. He actually typed out ‘Safeway’ but I…uh…

*****


Well, it wasn’t quite a cliff, as sure feet ought to be able to descend to the bottom of the semi-steep, long hill in the daylight. Calling it a hill, however, made it seem less exciting in some obscure way. Nobody gives a buttfuck about a hill unless they’re in a life raft in the middle of the ocean. At the bottom it looked like there was a park with some sort of jungle gymish type of contraption, we called it the Big Toy when I went to school. The kind of thing that’s made of multiple off-colors of plastic nowadays because some insufferable hippie asshole couldn’t fathom that kids might have an imagination without his intervention, and some insufferable lawyer asshole wanted playtime to be ‘safe’.

I wasn’t really there to stare at the Big Toy. On my usual trip home from my usual Saturday night haunt, I decided to take a new route. Right before the large Monroe hill, I turned off the main road and onto Zora Dr., a street that I had never ever been on in all my 127 years on this planet. I’m not sure what compelled me to do this, but it felt so good turning left at that moment though. Good motherfuck, it felt right and I’m unstoppable, baby. For a brief moment I noticed the sensation of the engine underneath vibrating my asshole and I chuckled, childishly. I love my motorbike.

Monroe St. cut directly up the hill that separated the north side of town from the south. No pretensions, no bullshit, it did what it said it was going to do. Zora on the other hand made a slow wrap-around lateral ascent up the hill, if for no other reason but create a row of houses with extremely high property value. I noticed a little pull-off area at the top of the hill, and it looked like it had a nice view. Sure, why not.

*****


I pulled the keys out of the ignition of my bike, attached my helmet to a clamp underneath the seat, locked the handlebars and dismounted. It was all out of routine, though. I didn’t care if I came back and saw my helmet stolen, or my moped, or if I even ever came back to this spot, or if I ever saw another moped again.

Charles’ El Camino came to a screeching halt about 50 feet away. Dude, couldn’t you have tried to make it into an actual parking spot? You didn’t even try!

“You’re fucking dead!”

For some reason he rolled down his window to say it. He could’ve said it while opening the door, y’know, allowing him to make me ‘fucking dead’ a bit quicker. Finally, he opened up the car door, slammed it behind him, and walked toward me. He tried to look as confident as possible, but there was a slight, nearly imperceptible hesitation to his gait every time a foot left the ground. I smiled really huge and stared him down. Not an angry stare, mind you, but more an inquisitive one.

“You think you can go and fuck other people’s girlfriends, bro?”

What do you have in you?

*****


I screeched to a stop and swung my leg over my scooter with the awkward, vaguely rationaled forcefulness of a 5 year old having a temper tantrum. I don’t know why I was feeling like this, but I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to let the moon and the night beetles know of my discontent at 2:15am in the morning.

I look out beyond the cliff. It was your typical “view of the entire city at night”, but that sort of experience was sporadic enough that it never really got old. Most of the lights were a pale orange, telling me that the street lights hadn’t been replaced since I was a kid. Any time a light pole was replaced, a newer neon light was installed that glowed a bright neon green-white. From this distance and at this time of night the nooks and crannies of light enveloping the city almost looked golden. Each individual street stretched to the horizon and beyond in perfectly straight lines, bathing its immediate perimeter. I imagined that the lines eventually led up to some sort of monument or altar—that such perfect order had a higher purpose.

*****


“I’ll suck your dick, Charles.”

I was on my knees in front of him.

“I’ll suck your dick until my mouth is overflowing with your cum.”

Sweat beads rolled down is forehead and pooled at his chin and jumped to their doom, as if even Charles’ very insides wanted desperately to escape his body at this moment. He continued to point the gun at my forehead. He tried to hold it still before, but now his arm was shaking obviously. His eyes were dilated and glazed over.

“I’ll let you fuck my ass any time you want, honey. I’ll make you ashamed to look your father in the eyes.”

By now, the sweat mixed with tears, and Charles' .357 magnum was shaking almost uncontrollably. I put lips around the barrel and slowly made my way down its length, moaning all the while. When I felt the tip nudge the back of my throat, I looked up at Charles, longingly. What do you have in you?

He closed his eyes as tightly as he could, and let out an audible yelp as he made his decision.

*****


What would someone from an ancient civilization think if they could see what I see now? There were unimaginably large stores of energy, given off in bursts of light in every direction. There was creation—human ingenuity, technology, growth. There was order—lines on lines inside of lines, each building and each light equally spaced and evidently thought-out. There were awful shaped hulks of metal, careening down unnaturally made pathways, making sounds more terrible than any animal could ever choose to. The order of the trees was disrupted—ripped asunder by grey and black trails, and long twisted metal torches. The torches gave off an evil bloom that spoke inherently of emperors, control, and the death of the soul. Depending on the religious beliefs of the person, they’d probably think they died and went to either heaven or hell.

Neither one would’ve been wrong.

The Blue Room / 1658 words


The waiting room was empty and quiet. A handful of primary school chairs and short, round tables were scattered atop a floor of stained and broken tiles. The walls had been recently painted a peach pastel in an obvious attempt to mask the cracks and water damage of a building well beyond its prime. The room was harshly lit by long fluorescent bulbs. One of them, near the far wall, flickered on and off. Several hanging portraits of babies, families and footprints were occasionally illuminated. The overall effect evoked the one feeling the Unit was trying to avoid; a clinical environment.

The wide double doors - a relic of the converted turn of the century hospital - swung wide as stout young woman and thirtysomething couple argued while walking towards the center of the room.

"This isn't - where's Dr. Gress?" said the thirtysomething year old woman.

"I told you. I'll get him. Just take a seat and give me a second. Sheesh." The younger woman waved at the miniature chairs and then rolled her eyes as she turned on her heels. The younger woman's white lab coat flapped in the stale recycled air as she pushed through the double doors and disappeared into the shadows beyond.

The thirtysomething year old man studied the woman's face as she paced paced back and forth, seemingly taking in every detail.

"Honey, are you okay? I've always hated seeing you upset."

She stopped in her tracks.

"I just - want an answer. Three months. It's been three months."

"I'm sorry," replied the man. "Well, you know what I always say."

She couldn't help but laugh.

After a moment, she walked over to the sporadically lit wall. There was a framed image of a father holding a sleeping infant. She traced the outline of the man's face. She moved down the series of images, a faint smile creeping across her freckled face. She stopped at pair of blue footprints. Her fingers stroked the heel, almost as if she was hoping to get a response.

There was a very faint whirring sound and then the small room exploded with the sound of the double doors opening, along with a string of apologies from a tall, scraggly haired man in a worn lab coat, "So, so, sorry, Mrs. Chambers. I had no idea you were coming. Please sit." The stout young woman was close behind.

His face was highly expressive, almost like a cartoon, and it seemed to be pleading. The tall man pulled a chair from under a nearby table, causing a piercing screech. Mr. Chambers grabbed a hold of the chair as Mrs. Chamber took a seat. The tall man spoke like an uzi, rapid-fire, and bounced from salience to non-sequitors with the attention span of a young chimpanzee.

"You know we normally don't have visitors." He looked at the stout young woman, "You told her we don't have visitors."

The younger woman shrugged as if to say, "duh."

"It's been three months, Dr. Gress. You told me it would take less than one month to have the results," said Mrs. Chambers.

"First of all, let me just say that we are so grateful for the support of the mayor. We wouldn't be able to perform this service without it." Dr. Gress, looked over to the younger woman for acknowledgement. Indifference was written all over her face. He turned back to Mrs. Chambers.

"Would you please extend our thanks to him? The cost for this kind of round the clock processing is mind boggling," he said with an enthusiastic smirk.

"I don't think he'll be as supportive in the future when he finds out that his only sister is getting the runaround." Mrs. Chamber's voice rose dramatically as she spoke. A hand gently fell on her shoulder. "Memo, please calm down."

Dr. Gress quickly stood up and waved his hands in horror. "Nononono. It's not like that. We've been working night and day on your... Mrs. Chambers. We knew the results within two weeks. But since that point we've been trying to find a solution to your, er, unique problem."

"What are you saying?" asked Memo Chambers, almost in a whisper.

Dr. Gress turned to the younger woman again and pointed to the flickering light bulb, "Jenny, can we get that fixed?"

Memo shot up from her seat. "Dr. Gress! What is wrong with my child?"

Dr. Gress was startled but still calm. He was apparently expecting this kind of reaction sooner or later. Mr. Chambers stiffened, then took a measured step towards the scientist. His glare was steely cold.

Memo grabbed Mr. Chambers by the arm. "Robert! It's okay."

Mr. Chambers immediately loosened up and retreated to his wife's side. Dr. Gress wiped his suddenly glistening brow.

"I'm afraid we cannot, in good conscience, recommend giving birth to a child.. that is, with your husband," said Dr. Gress.

Memo's face went dark as she exhaled sharply. It was as if her soul had receded into the deepest part of her body. She sank back into the chair.

"Explain," she said simply, limply.

"As you know, we've digitized your DNA, you and your..." Dr. Gress gestured to Robert Chambers. "We simulated recombination events on our brand new supercomputers - again, please thank your brother - and came up with an mean gene profile for your progeny... child... both male and female. You insisted on a male child so we proceeded to run the development sims on the male only - the program takes so long to run so this really helped us out timewise. The gene profile passed every one of our checks - no obvious disability or disease - so we ran him through the gauntlet. I, er, you don't need to know all that. Essentially, we ran into the problem at age 25."

"What problem?" asked Memo. Dr. Gress's face was unreadable. Jenny, the younger woman, looked anxious. She knew.

"He doesn't live past 25," said Dr. Gress. His tall wiry frame seemed to shrink into the undersized chair once he spoke.

"I know what this means, Mrs. Chambers. I know how horrible this must sound to you."

Memo's face was torn between bottomless confusion and fury. Her eyes darted between Robert and Dr. Gress.

"How could you not catch it? It was in bold fucking print on the first page of the application."

"Mrs. Chambers, the disease is well known, yes. But its origin is not. We don't know what genes are responsible. We do have a whole panel of genes that we know could be related, and that's what this whole delay was about. If we could find the one, or two genes responsible, we could fix it. You're our most important client, we all know it. Our future, the future of Advanced Fertility Unit, depends on making you happy. I've searched.. oh, how I've searched, Mrs. Chambers, for happy news but I could not find it."

Tears were running down the face of the scientist. Memo couldn't help but break down herself. Robert knelt by her side and wrapped his large arms around her. "I'm so sorry, honey. It's all my fault. Please don't cry. Well figure something out."

Moments passed in silence. The troublesome bulb strobed in the corner.

Memo shrugged off Robert's bear hug. "No! Take me to him," she ordered Dr. Gress.

The scientist looked up, confused. "To what?"

"Don't pretend. Don't lie to me anymore," she said. "Take me to the blue room."

Dr. Gress's red eyes bulged. "How did you-." He turned to Jenny. "Did you?"

Jenny shook her head with ferocity. Dr. Gress turned back to Memo and stood as straight as he could muster.

"I cannot stress enough how bad an idea this is, Mrs. Chambers."

"Do you want to be funded or not?"

Dr. Gress seemed to be calculating an innumerable amount of moves and consequences like an expert chess player. In a moment his frame shrunk, defeated. "Jenny, fix that fucking light."

------------

The door slid open and the lights immediately came on. The room was painted a bright orange. There was a small round step located in the dead center of the room. Off to the right side a long, arced and narrow desk was illuminated by a large blue-green holographic display, filled with code and medical articles. A chubby man in a lab coat snored quietly, face down on the desk.

"This is the blue room," said Dr. Gress to Mr. and Mrs. Chambers.

The chubby man shot up in his seat. "Ready, Rich. What's next?"

"Oliver, this is Mrs. Chambers."

Oliver, stood up and walked over to formally greet her. He waved weakly. "Hi, Mrs. Chambers."

A second later, he realized who this woman was. He immediately straightened. "Mrs. Chambers! Thank you so much. But, how.. why are you here?" He turned to Dr. Gress for an answer. Dr. Gress simply shrugged.

"Mrs. Chambers, this is Oliver Hope, our lead technician. He wrote most of the Mendel program."

Oliver simply stood, mouth wide open.

Dr. Gress whispered to Memo, "We call him 'No Hope'". He spoke up to Oliver, "Bring him up."

"You mean, Smiley?" asked Oliver, clearly still a little sleepy.

“Don’t… just load him. Start with zero,” said Dr. Gress.

Dr. Gress turned to Memo. "We give each of the means a nickname eventually. We observe them for so long, little behavioral tendencies seem to stick out."

"Ready," said Oliver.

"Well, light him up," said Dr. Gress.

"I did," responded Oliver.

"Oh crap." Dr. Gress walked over to the small round step in the middle of the room. He gave it a swift kick and an image of a luminescent green-blue infant hovered several feet above the ground. The image flickered and waved. Dr. Gress gave it a few more kicks until the image held steady.

He turned to Memo. "You wanted to look down the rabbit hole. Come on down."

Pawn Shop (1222)

Eros should never have tried to modernize. Should've stuck to the tried and true. But he'd listened to Apollo and made a play for faster equipment to match the faster pace of modern romance, and somewhere along the way, he'd lost the old way of doing things.

Literally--someone had taken his bow.

Eros stared around the room. The pawn shop was full of junk of every description. An old suit of steel chainmail leaned against a wicker lamp; a golden apple lay atop a pile of tattered baskets, while a felt hat sat at a jaunty angle atop the apple; tin pots and a single battered pan hung from the ceiling, dangling on silver threads; a stack of moldering tomes stood on the wooden front counter, adding a scholarly air to the proceedings. On the whole, between the cracked vases, unraveling tunics, and rusting swords, there was little to nothing of any value. He wrinkled his nose.

"All right Mr. Eris, what can I do for you?" The man at the counter peered over the top of his thin spectacles. A wisp of white hair fluttered in front of them.

"That's Eros. Eros. Eris is the goddess of discord."

The man sniffed. "All right Mr. Eros, no need to be snippety. Not my fault you have a girl's name."

Eros glowered, but let it pass. He and Eris were not on speaking terms at the moment; he preferred not to think about her. Especially since she'd turned out to be right about Apollo's ideas. "Listen," he said through gritted teeth. "I was given your name by a mutual friend. I understand you sometimes get items of... dubious origin coming through here, no?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Mr. Eros. We buy and sell only the finest quality--"

"All right, all right. I just--I'm looking for something."

The man raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"A golden bow."

"Ah, so you're interested in weapons. How like your father." The man smiled. "Well, we've a sword stuck in a stone, a soul-eating black sword, a magical sword that once killed the monster Grendel--"

"I don't want a sword, old man."

The man leapt right back into his salesman's patter. "Of course, not young sir. I had you marked as a spearman from the start. We've one made of the bone of a sea serpent. Or one that causes earthquakes. Or," He leaned in conspiratorially. "We've a spear that pierced the side of a deity, shortly before he died." He winked.

"If I wanted that sort of weapon, I'd ask Hephaestus." Eros shook his head; the man was making him dizzy with his fast speech. "I don't want to buy a weapon. I just want to know if you've seen my weapon. My bow was stolen, and I want to know who took it and why."

The man leaned back slightly, and his eyes narrowed. "You should have said so from the start." He steepled his fingers. "So you've lost your bow."

"It was stolen!"

The man shrugged. "Lost, stolen. Makes no difference. Either way, you don't have it, and someone else does. Not my problem."

Eros grabbed the man's collar. "Listen up, old man. I just made it your problem." He pushed into the man's space, got right up in his face. "Have you seen my damn bow or not?"

The man blinked and licked his lips. As Eros loosened his hold on the man's collar, he leaned back slightly. "Ah. Your bow. Can't say that I've seen it." He took a breath and regained some of his previous aplomb. "But as it happens, I have several bows of various types in stock now! I've the bow of a legendary outlaw, or a bow that was once mounted in the chariot of the sun, or perhaps you'd be more interested in a modern bow. I've a rapid fire automatic bow, a long-range ballistic bow, a bow that sprays out five arrows at once." The man was hell-bent on selling something, Eros had to give him that.

Eros shook his head. "Gods! No modern bows. That's what got me into this mess in the first place. A rapid fire bow in keeping with modern times. I should never have let my uncle talk me into it."

"Ah," the man nodded wisely. "I quite understand. You leapt headfirst into the modern era and burned your toes. A common problem for early adopters. Might I suggest, then, a more traditional weapon--a throwback bow. You can move to the newer versions once the technology improves."

Eros frowned. "It wasn't the implementation that was the problem. It was the speed. Love just can't be hurried that way. I shouldn't have tried to go modern, not without thinking it through."

"And now you want to switch back."

"I want my golden bow back, yes." Eros sighed.

The man tapped his fingers on the counter for a moment. "Young sir, this is no time for emotion. This is a time for cold, hard logic!" He banged a fist against the countertop. "You need a logician, and I know just the man. I have his business card right here, as a matter of fact."

More salesmanship. Eros had to admire the sheer persistence of the man. "I have no need of a logician; if I want to use logic, I can do it myself." Even as he said it, a thought took root and sprouted. He looked past the old man into the far distance, and allowed it to bloom.

The man stared at him, curiosity written on his face.

"If I look at it logically," Eros began slowly, "then the one who stole my bow must have been a god. No other could have entered my palace while I was gone."

The man nodded. "Makes sense. And while you mention it, I have something here that just might help--"

Eros waved the man to silence. The man complied; Eros stared in surprise for a moment, then collected himself and went on. "Who, logically, would be most likely to enter my palace and steal the bow? Why, the one who first encouraged me to leave it behind, of course. My uncle Apollo."

The man nodded again. "Sounds right to me, Mr. Eros. Now, if you want that logician to--"

Eros overrode him again. "Logical. But since when have I believed in logic?"

"Uh." The man cocked his head. "Sorry?"

"Who, emotionally, would be most likely to enter my palace and steal the bow? Why, someone who was already angry at me. And who, emotionally, would try to divert blame to my uncle? Someone who enjoys nothing more than spreading strife between the gods."

"I don't--"

"And who," Eros interrupted again, "who, emotionally, would like to hear me admit I was wrong and she was right? Someone," he gave the man a level gaze, "who I am speaking to right now."

The old man met Eros's gaze, finally shocked into speechlessness. And slowly, very slowly, the spectacles and tunic and wisp of white hair melted into mist. And the mist reformed into the shape of a goddess.

"I was wrong," said Eros. "I should never have listened to Apollo." He spread his hands and bowed. "Now, please--give me back my bow, Eris."

"Interesting résumé you have here, Mr. Crawford," announced the heavyset man from behind the brass nameplate on his desk. "After our newly created computer system whittled away all of the 'undesirables' from the pool, your résumé and a few hundred others remained and were hand-checked by myself and two others. Of those, only ten got the interview call. Can you guess as to why you and those nine other people were called in?"

Tyler Crawford, 23 years of age, sat still for a moment, contemplating his answer before looking up at... at... Kyle Hardwick and replying, "I haven't the faintest idea." A quick look at the nameplate had revealed the name of the portly man. A grotesque smile crossed Kyle's face as he continued on in his unnatural way of speaking.

"All ten of those selected résumés featured an actual weakness in addition to the numerous listed strengths. Most companies no longer require potential employees to list their strengths and weaknesses, but here at Vuvucorp, it is mandatory. You see, nobody actually thinks things such as 'I work a little too hard at times.', 'I sometimes push my coworkers harder than I should.', or other nonsense such as that are weaknesses. No, those are simply more strengths worded to sound like they are something to be concerned about. You, however, were different. You listed something that could actually be a problem. Why did you find it necessary to reveal that you... uh..."

The interviewer stopped his awkward speech for a moment and began rifling through the papers on his desk. "Ah, here it is. Why did you find it necessary to reveal that you 'become idle when not given a task to complete'? That makes it seems as though you're not much of a hard worker. Why should I hire you, Tyler, instead of somebody who can be productive at all times of the workday."

Stunned, Tyler studied the man sitting across from him as he struggled to find the words to form his response. Sweat stains painted the cloth beneath the heavier man's arms as a tiny globe of spittle traveled down from the corner of the man's lips. His black hair almost seemed to continue it's receding in front of the interviewee's very eyes. Sausage-sized fingers slowly tapped out a rhythm on the large desk. The ticking of the large glass clock behind him joined in with the rhythmic finger drumming, creating a masterpiece of unbearable noise. Slowly, of its own accord, Tyler's neck began rocking back and forth at a relatively fast rate, eliciting a surprised look from the man across from him.

After swallowing one last gulp of air, words spewed forth from Tyler in an unintelligible mass. "Well, you see... the thing is... what I was trying to... mainly... I figured... You know what? Fuck it! Thank you for sharing your time with me this morning, Mr. Hardwick. I greatly appreciate it."

With that, the young man got up from the hard-backed chair and reached his right hand towards his never-to-be coworker. It hung lonely in the air for a moment before Tyler waved it towards Mr. Hardwick and said, "Yeah, I wouldn't want to shake my hand either. Have a fantastic day, sir. I know I certainly won't."

The young man turned his back to the bigger man and exited the small little office, finding himself lost in a maze of cubicles. His arms shook uncontrollably as he lingered for a moment outside of it. Finally, he remembered the path to the exit and embarking upon it.

Once outside the large, revolving glass doors that led into the lobby of the building, Tyler slid off his gray suit-jacket, slung it across his left shoulder, and began making his way to the diner near his house. Next, he unbuttoned the top two buttons on his dress shirt, loosened his olive tie, and rolled up each of the sleeves on his shirt. The wind battered his lacquered brown hair as he walked, but it was no match for the perma-gel shell that kept its thick, normally unkempt strands in place. Dust and other particles floating through the air waged their own assault against Mr. Crawford's icy blue eyes. Eventually, a loose eyelash wrangled its way under his right eyelid, forcing his eyes to water. A quick swipe with the edge of his palm removed the ailment.

Wow, I really fucked things up in there. You know, I was even anticipating a question like that, but I still managed to screw myself over. I swear, I don't think I'll ever land a job.

His hands began to twitch as the thought crossed his mind. In a way, they resembled the ever-beating wings of a hummingbird as they flapped about at his sides.

After a few seconds, the momentary loss of control came to an end and his hands became his own once more. A quick look around revealed that no one had been watching, so he continued on his way towards the diner, a low rumbling sound drifting in and out of his hearing.

Several minutes later, the rumbling became chanting as he made his way closer to the sound. Eventually, his stroll led him to the center of the commotion, a protest outside of the diner he had been planning on eating at at.

Shouts permeated the air

"We don't want your kind around here!"

"Hell is the only place where you'll be enjoying yourselves!"

Hateful messages were painted boldly on cardboard signs attached to wooden planks.

As it was in Sodom and Gomorrah, so shall it be here. Punishment is coming!

This is not love, this is sin!

Tremors took hold of Tyler's body, forcing all control from his brain. Head twitched, feet shook, hands fluttered, and torso spasmed.

"Grgh! Arrrgh! Ooomph! Hmmm!" multiple groans escaped his lips.

Controlled regained, Tyler slammed into the crowd, snatching the first discriminatory sign he could see. He then began swinging it wildly into the mix, smashing heads, shattering bones, ripping cloth. A mixture of blood, sweat, and tears was sprayed into the air, leaving behind a bodily fragrance.

"Hate me and I shall hate you back."

_______________________________________________________________

A Religious moment
1461 words

“When I go from hence let this be my parting word, that what I have seen is unsurpassable."
Rabindranath Tagore

 
 
‘Imran, Help me,’ James begged amidst the excruciating pain. Imran was a local fisherman, of a muscular physique in his early. James cut a much more slender figure in his fifties.

James lay under the rubble on the east bank of the Mahim Bay. He looked at the bus teetering over the edge of the Rajiv Ghandi sea link above him. The bridge had been blown apart with several military grade C4s’. The wind raged above as the bus threatened to topple into the Mahim Bay.

James’s BBC press pass floated away on the water. Imran picked it up and trudged through the dirty water towards James.

Imran put it in James’s breast pocket and started walking away. “There is no hope for you sire. May God give you lasting peace.”

“I’m not your enemy Imran,” James said. “I don’t believe in anything. I beg of you, help me!”

Imran looked back for a final glance before walking off. “They are burning people alive sire. I have to choose my own people.”

The thought struck a chord with James. He wondered then what was to become of himself. If he got out of this he would be in a wheel chair at best. He couldn’t fathom that he could die here. Some way some how, he would get through this. He cried out in pain as blood leaked into murky waters.

He’d thought the same thing as he the bridge had given way beneath him. As he was holding on the edge of the bridge, he just believed that somebody would heave him up if he didn’t manage himself. Sure the 20 meter fall winded him, and he didn’t know what number of bones he had broken. But he was still alive.

 The bus slid momentarily but stuck fast to the metallic bones of the commuter highway.

The screams were incessant and rang loud into the night. Corpse floated past James as the crushing pain ringed through him. He wanted to pass out. But he couldn’t will it.

The front left wheel of the bus ripped as the bus started rolling forward. James could hear the sound of screams around him as the bus crept to the edge...
 
Earlier...

James walked over to the police sub-inspector and asked him what was going on. The inspector and four other police men were lounging in the police jeep, with a constable sipping RC cola.

“Sire, there is news that there is going to some missile soon. Missile, erm, is, you know like protest or march. A demonstration” the sub inspector said. He was a beast of a character and chewed paan as he talked.

“I see. And what of the people fighting two streets from here?” James asked.

“Sire that is not your concern. And definitely not ours. We are here to protect the embassy.”

“Even though we have military guards standing outside the front door?”

“There are police there. Don’t worry. Go back inside if you are worried.”

“I’m not worried about my self. But...”

James stopped speaking as the officer got out from the Jeep.

“Sire. I suggest you go back inside,” the office said. His angry eyes did most of the suggesting.
 
James walked away. Once he arrived at a reasonably safe distance, he pressed the stop button on his walkman recorder.

...

The bus came crashing down. James tried to push the concrete slabs away but it was to no avail. It slammed into the water with an almighty heave, thrusting the water every which way, as it destroyed the life that lay in its path, cracking bones, seabed and what remained of the fishing boats in between. James’s body was frozen in fear; his hands stayed in the air. He blinked several times without a single thought going through his mind. He was petrified. But he was alive.  The screams had stopped only because he was deaf to it all. His pupils bled a mixture of blood and tears.

...

James ran as fast his weary legs could take him, through muddy half made roads, and stumbled into an open drain. He wiped the water off him and got out. An office was beating a man on the floor. James took his phone out and pressed record. Two more rioters came up behind him and started to wrestle the office off the person. He could here shouts of ‘burn the musulmaan’ and ‘cut the hindustaani kaffir’ in the background. Two of the rioters spotted James. He ran west into Chalis Gulley.

Three ladies wearing burkhas stood their ground trying to protect a group of teenage girls in the uniform of the local Hindu school, Raja Ram Rahoy Academy for girls. James recorded them fending off the ‘talib’ men, who had machetes in their hands. The men called the Muslim women traitors, devils, even Kaafirs. A torch was lit and the biggest of the three ladies’s garments caught fire. A group of people came rushing through the eastern houses with kitchen knives and brooms to attack the Talib.

James ran to help the crowd of people but as he did another group of thirty or so people came from the west and fighting broke out amongst the masses of men, women and children.

James’s head spun with shock, bewildered at the scenes in front of him. He raced back to the embassy.

“You have to help them,” he said to the armed guard. “They will be butchered. All of them!”

The guard took immediate notice. “Are there any English Citizens there?”

“Why the fuck does that matter?”

“I can’t leave my post here but I can call my head upstairs and ask for immediate backup”

“But it’s happening now. As in right now. Over there. I’ve literally just run back from there.... why
don’t you just come? Just fire a few bullets in the air or something!”

“I can’t...I...”

James took his recorder out and thrust it in the guards face. “And why can’t you?”

The guard stayed silent.

“Argh... fuck you. I don’t have time for this.”

James headed west for the local police station. It was empty but for a single non-uniform receptionist.

“Where is everyone?” he asked the clerk.

“Don’t you know?”

“Do you have a gun or something? I’m not going to hurt anyone. I’m just going to fire it.”

The clerk lowered the glasses he was wearing, further down the nose. “Do you realise how absurd that sounds?  Anyways, there is no stopping this. Not by you. Anyways, the Government has called in the army.”

“And how long will that take?”

“Oh they should be here in a couple of hours.”

 James ran out the station and turned right onto Suleiman Road. He froze at the roundabout. Every direction he looked in was littered with violent bloodshed. The Muslim swords were slicing Hindu throats; the Hindus torches were burning the flesh off the selwar kameez wearing Muslim orphans; screaming and shouting was held aloft in the air; revenge was celebrated, and yet the mullahs fought off the swordsman and died in its wake, and the Vaishnavas, the Shaivites fought the Hindu nationalists to protect the Muslim mother and her three children; such was the scene as it was truly played out; neither were winners and all were losers.   

James watched opened mouthed with his hands on his head. How would he begin to put pen to paper?

....
 
“I went back last year in fact.” James said. “I don’t hate the place Harry.”

Harry Rockerfield smiled as he read the next question off the teleprompter. “Even though it was the place that put you in that wheel chair”

James laughed. “Even so. For every evil that a human being can do Harry, another can beg to differ. I saw in front of my eyes the very proof that good exists, truly, outside the leafs of a story, and is more powerful than evil or whatever word is more suitable these days. I had, I think, a religious moment then.”

“You believe in God now?”

“Well no. You’d think that I’d be put off of God If I had believed in him before.”

The audience chimed in with a chuckle.

“I don’t think what I felt was god or any other superstition. But it was definitely real. A realization struck me. Gave me hope almost. I saw for lack of a better sentence, a proof of concept that humanity is worth believing in.”

 ...

James watched the River Thames as the wind caressed his hair. Sat with a blanket, on his wheelchair, he wondered what happened to Imran, the fisherman he owed his life to...
 
 
 

Love Unconditional (1,327 words)

Rupert knew that Danielle had been brilliant. Everyone did. He didn't realize just how brilliant she'd been until he'd opened his front door five months after she'd passed to find her standing in front of him. She looked about fifty years younger and just as amazing as he'd remembered. "I must've had too much to drink. I'm seeing apparitions."

"You're not, Rupert. I can assure you that I'm quite real." Without being invited she stepped in closing the door behind her and swaying her hips the way he'd remembered all those years ago. "You do know what sort of work your wife did, don't you Rupert?"

"Did. What sort of work she did. I have a vague idea, yes. She was a scientist, a researcher in the field of artificial intelligence or some such. Why do you ask? And more importantly, who are you?"

"It was always your wife's; my dream to create an android. A simulated human being. I succeed, Rupert! All of my thoughts, my memories are all right here with me." She tapped at her head with a big grin painted on her face.

Rupert knew that his wife had been at the top of her field, but this was a bit much to believe. "Come now? Who put you up to this? Can't you show some respect for the dead?"

"It's no prank, Rupert."

"Okay, then. I'll play along. If you are what you say you are why would my Danielle create such a thing. Create some homonculous to put her thoughts into, hmm? What's the purpose of such an experiment. And why wait until five months after she's passed to activate the stupid thing? Answer me that, girl."

"Come now, Rupert. You know me well enough to know the answer to both of those questions. I created this project, this android, to see if it could be done. Curiosity for it's own sake. And it wouldn't do anyone any good to have two of me running around, now would it? No, I had to wait until after I was gone before I could do anything. And not too earlier either."

Rupert chuckled. Someone had done their homework and whoever had done this was having a laugh at his expense. He'd keep his composure a little while longer. String them along for a bit. "Okay, so you've proven it can be done? So now what? Do you intended to simply pick up where my wife left off, hmm? Step into her shoes and continue living the life that she left behind? I mean, what is the ultimate point of this thing here?"

"I can see that you still don't believe me. Tell me, Rupert, who else knows about that little grove with the honeysuckle that we used to sneak away to when we were still teenagers? Who else knows that you were afraid of squirrels when you were a boy? Or how about the way you'd always buy me those chocolate covered strawberries I love exactly a week before my birthday just to prove that I was always on your mind."

Rupert's smile sunk into a grimace. "This isn't funny anymore. Whoever you are, stop this right now."

"I know it's hard to believe, Rupert, but I am your wife!"

He was convinced that what this woman was saying was true. That is, she was some sort of machine that his wife had designed in secret. She certainly wasn't his Danielle though. "No, you're not. I think you were, perhaps, designed to think you are, but I assure you that you are not."

"But I am! I am Danielle. Look at me. Tell me what I can do to convince you, Rupert."

"I am not a gullible man. I can't be convinced of something when I know it to be untrue." There was a silence. Just small enough for the two of them to feel one another. "Tell me, this: what do you remember of the last six years, hmm?"

"Danielle's most recent scan was fifteen years ago."

"Fifteen years! That's a quite a big gap, don't you think? A person can change quite a lot in fifteen years, wouldn't you say?"

"Not significantly, no. Not at your age."

Rupert smirked. "Well, try this on for a bit. For the last four years my Danielle had been little more than a vegetable. A shell of what she once was. Even so, she was more human that you could ever hope to be."

"Why are you being so cruel? Are you trying to hurt me?"

"That's just it. You're not a 'you' or a 'me.' You're an 'it.' A contraption. A beautiful lie. Not my dear Danielle."

"Rupert, you need to see things more clearly. Forget the woman you buried and embrace the futu--"

"Forget?! During the last years of her life my wife couldn't do much more than shit herself! I'd look into her and you know what I'd see? Nothing. Not a god damn thing. Do you have any idea what that's like." Tears were forming in his eyes. "I'd give anything-- anything for another minute with my wife, but not like this. An automaton. A phony prancing around pretending to be Danielle! I can't accept--" He stopped for a moment to collect himself. "I think it's best you leave now, machine, before I lose my temper."

"Rupert, just listen," he voice was calm and soft, but it did not comfort him. "All that pain. All that time spent caring for me doesn't have to be for nothing. We can get it back and then some."

In a ball of fury Rupert grabbed a wooden clock resting on the mantle and pelted the android with it. it struck her in the head dislodging her left eyeball which remained suspended by some electrical wires.

"You're a marionette! A shadow! My Danielle is gone and some damned abomination of science isn't going to bring her back! Now get out!" He screamed.

The android, defeated, made her way for the door, cupping her eye to keep it in the socket. On her way out she looked at him longingly for one final moment. With a dismissive wave of his hand he sent her on her way.


* * * * *


Years passed. More than a decade. Rupert hadn't heard from or seen the android again. His bones had grown old and tired and he couldn't do much anymore without assistance. He'd hired a young live-in nurse to tend to him. Julie. She was always interested in hearing his stories and was very easy on the eyes. "If I were seventy years younger," he told her, "it'd be a crime if I didn't ask you out:.

"You're sweet, Mr. Ciccarello," she giggled. "Oh, I almost forgot. I brought you something." She reached into her bag and pulled out a greeting card. "I heard that your birthday is a week away, so I got you this." The outside of the card was covered in illustrations of strawberries and on the interior showed two overlapping to create a heart.

Rupert frowned. "Hell, at least you're not wearing her face anymore." Julie looked at him, dumbfounded. "Come on. Give me more credit than that. How long have you been following me?"

"I never stopped. I can't bear to be away from you. I-I know you don't care much for me, but please, let me have this. I want to be here from what little time you have left."

"What's your angle, girl? What's your goal in all of this, hmm? You can never replace her, you know?"

"I'm not trying to."

The Entries:

Hamburger Biffjaw slammer jiggers. Grip hard into the magic of flight, fuckface. :lol :lol :lol :lol :lol

Wow, decent turnout despite all the bailers-out. And the return of both nitewulf and Iceman! Rockin.

Is Zephyr perma-banned? I thought the ban would be up by now.

Yeef said:

Is Zephyr perma-banned? I thought the ban would be up by now.

Click to expand...

Nope! In fact, he returns June 21st.