ronito said:

okay-face.jpg[/IMG]

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It is forbidden Ronito. Forbidden!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

ThoseDeafMutes said:

Oh lawdy, I had no intention to actually put a train in my story but one still found its way in. An unconventional train, but a train nevertheless.

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http://www.tolido.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/inception_train.jpg

Lone_Prodigy said:

http://www.tolido.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/inception_train.jpg

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Cue inception horn.

Hmm, maybe I shouldn't have attempted script frenzy.

DumbNameD said:

Hmm, maybe I shouldn't have attempted script frenzy.

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The neogaf thread is here, if you want in on it.

ps. where are all the entries folks?

Scrapped the story that I wrote because I just had a better idea. I think I can complete it in time.

AnkitT said:

Scrapped the story that I wrote because I just had a better idea. I think I can complete it in time.

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Curses, I only had a chance if other peoples entries were just as bad as mine.

1.

At first we couldn’t believe our luck. Josh found her wandering downtown. She wouldn’t tell us her name, and when I made a move on her she said she was numb, she couldn’t feel nothing, and it started as a bad joke--Josh held her down and I pulled her pants off--and there she was a young girl of perhaps sixteen lying there naked without a word. I took her first and Husan went second and Josh third. When we were done Husan named her Creta Kano after some book he read, as if by naming her we could claim ownership or something.

2.

We took turns with her, it all settled into a routine of sorts. She’d come by after school still in her uniform--Catholic school, kinky stuff--and we’d lock the door and get her in the restroom and have at it. It was Husan’s apartment and he didn’t want us making a mess in his bedroom so we were just forced to do it where he could quickly wipe away all the filth after the party. I was careful not to beat her or anything so I always went first, since there was no chance, or less of it, than usual that I’d break something and we’d have to call it quits. It was in-n-out, all quick business--slip on the condom, spread her open, push in. What guilt there was disappeared by the end of the day when we looked at each other all three of us complicit in our guilt, and we’d get stone fucking drunk and she’d sit there on the toilet with her legs spread wiping away with a clump of toilet paper. It was a good deal--she was a beautiful girl--but then Josh started getting some weird ideas.

3.

I was stuck at work that day until six o’clock or so and when I arrived the door was locked. I knocked--no answer--knocked again, again no answer, so I just ringed the hell out of the doorbell until someone opened it. It turned out to be Husan, and he had blood all over his Roots t-shirt.

“What happened?”

His eyes, wide open. “Fucking Josh, man. He... come in. Look at her yourself.”

He shut the door behind me and I went over to the restroom where Creta lay on the floor with a little pool of blood spreading under her. Josh was slumped over in the bathtub moaning with all his clothes off and Husan came in behind me and sighed.

What did he do, I asked.

“I guess he slapped her around a little, you know how he likes it. I was just reading in the other room, waiting for my turn, when I heard something crash to the floor. And there he was still fucking pumping away when her head was fucking cracked open.”

“Jesus. Is she dead?’

“No, she’s still breathing but her head’s bleeding--you know--she could be concussed or something.”

“And what the fuck is Josh doing?”

Husan shrugged. “Just freaked out, you know? I was screaming and shit just trying to get him off and there he was still clutching at her tits even with her bleeding all over the floor. So I kicked him off and he crawled over there and there he is now.”

“Fuck.”

“Yep.”

I bent down and felt for a pulse--a light flutter like that of a hummingbird’s wings--and incongruous comparisons to delicate things sprang up in my mind, contrasting sharply with the kind of things we normally used her for.

“Do we call 911?”

“Is she eighteen?”

I looked back at her. “Probably not.”

Then the girl spoke. “It’s okay,” she said. She slowly got up without our help. “I feel fine.” Husan and I stared at her as she stood with blood still seeping down her face.

“What’s wrong?” She touched her face, and her hand came away all red. She licked her fingertips and grimaced. “Did you spray something on me?”

Husan, without a word, slipped past her and took the shower nozzle. He turned the water on--ice-cold, I could feel it from the droplets bouncing off her naked body--and he washed her down. Pink water coated the floor of the restroom.

“Get her clothes,” he said to me. “We gotta get her home.” He looked down contemptously as Josh, who still shivered in the bathtub. “Should I wash him down too?”

“Let him be. I’ll get the girl dressed.”

4.

She didn’t come back for about a week. Husan and I just thought it lucky that nothing more had happened--headlines had flashed through my mind that night, things like three men gang-rape a young highschooler or some shit like that--and I was glad that it was all over. Josh never spoke of that day and we all acted as if nothing had happened.

Then one day, I went out to pick up some chicken from the local grocery’s deli. Got the sack and some Miller Lites with a pack of Newports tucked in my front pocket. And as I walked back to Husan’s apartment, there she was--walking there--in her uniform.

“Hey!”

She turned to me. Eyes blank. Full lips slack on that pale face. Blond hair hanging limp. “Yes?”

I hurried over to her, beer and chicken in hand. “Why the fuck are you here?”

“Back to his house,” she said.

“To get fucked? After what happened last time?”

“Yes. It was nothing, by the way. A cut on my scalp. Got three stitches.”

“You gotta be kidding me. Why are you doing this?”

She reached out, touched my chest. “Didn’t you enjoy it?”

“Yeah, but... don’t you get it?” I would’ve said something along the lines of we’re raping you, run! but we were in public and it would’ve drawn unnecessary attention.

“I get nothing,” she said softly, and turned and began walking to Husan’s apartment once more. I stared at her as she walked away, and if I’d been a better man I would’ve held her back, maybe, perhaps stop her in this pursuit of pain or whatever the fuck she was after. Then I dreamed of flesh slapping flesh and the feel of my cock sliding in and the way her mouth kind of opened up with drool sliding down and hanging off before falling on her naked thigh--I got hard just thinking about it. But as she walked away she looked so damnably small, so helpless, no matter that she professed to feel nothing, nothing at all, and if I’d been a better man no doubt I’d have held her back and called her parents or got her help or done something.

What I did instead was, I hurried up to make sure the other guys wouldn’t call dibs before I got there.

Inside the Heart, There is Frost
Word Count: 2000

The tanto knife rested comfortably in his palm. A home beyond homes in the crevice and folds of his skin. Even the slightest one-second drag of finger spirals along its edge would slice right through them, a new valley unleashing the dam of viscous, red life. It was the kinda knife that would make messes of even the cleanest kills, but there was something about the way it sliced across a man's throat that made it feel unblemished, untainted, without imperfections.

It was the kind of kill the man deserved. He would have gone with the ole' silenced pistol to the back of the head, but that felt so cold, so impersonal. With a knife you broke the bubble and tore through the interstice that lies between people. All barriers drop like curtains blocking access to carnal desires; it's like laying your target on a bed weaved from rose petals, so that way when the knife plunges deep their essence paints the canvas further. They called him the Angel of Death, this man alone... sitting in the car of a train, traversing deep into the heart of some cold forest. He was the knife traveling hundreds of miles per hour, his wings the rails and the tanto his implement.

But that... that was just a rumor. He heard it spread through the grapevines of the world as he killed more and more of his targets. Being an assassin was all he ever felt with each inhale-exhale in and out. He knew underneath it all, though, that there was more to getting up every day than just the cold impracticality of killing a man, a woman, a child. A heart beat under there and it pounded without relent, a piece of him he fought every waking moment to keep going. So long as he heard that booming thunder in his chest, he had a reason to keep getting a paycheck. And so he closed his eyes, and turned the key.


"Why didn't you kill me when you had the chance?" A naked man asked, entangled in velvet sheets. He couldn't have been older than twenty, babyface of an unreal kind, but with a piercing hazel stare that jabbed and poked. His hair oversexed from their wild passion before, he ran a hand through it before letting it rest upon the other man who lay in bed with him, who was at the time staring up at the ceiling. Only the ceiling was just endless white, a void, nothing and everything and nothing again.

"I saw in you something else. A way out... or some other reason to keep doing what I do... or a reason to just walk away from it all." The other man said, a large black wing unfurling itself from his back to spring out from their bed. He turned to look at his lover, still naked and innocent, pure as an angel, and he knew the look on his face expressed no emotion. He had lost that ability long ago. They had told him that years of killing and slaughtering would change him, and it had. The tears that fought the corners of his eyes would lose again, as they always did.

"Alex, can I stop?" He asked, even as the younger man ran a hand across his buzz cut hair, then down along his cheek, in a slow caress, meeting the scars that slightly marred the Angel's face.

"Only if you want to." A kiss sealed the conversation like an envelope with no place to be mailed to. Even when the Angel of Death opened his eyes and saw them all alone in the universe, a place he should have felt content, he felt the fantasy and all the thundrous power of his reality threatening to make it all disappear, and so it did. The lock formed, and the key was gone again.



Even the inside of the train was cold, frost crawling and creeping alongside the windows as the assassin looked out upon vast fields of ice and snow, the only interruption the forest received before making its cloying and claustrophobic presence known again. Their was only one reason he was even here... a man. The only man who had ever made him want to stop. He didn't want to draw the bullseye on the man's face but his thoughts were crammed with the image, and with each blink the layers of red and white etch themselves into his skin. Every thought made Alex seem more and more scared, his eyes widening, intensifying as the Angel drew closer. He kept fighting to pull back the knife but some other force pushed back, forcing it closer and closer to the man's chest. The fear that Alex felt wanted to make him succumb, as well. His heart could close itself off, but his mind kept racing, imagining Alex all around him.

"You told me it would never come to this." Alex kept whispering in his ear, so much so that he could feel the breath tingle, as if he were there, so close and tangible.

He's just four cars away. All it takes is a little horizontal across his throat and it'll be over, forever.

"There are consequences for falling in love with death."

"You're only death in your actions, not in your thoughts." An arm extended, Alex's, to brush a trail down his chest, feeling the solid black blazer, playing with the striped tie that split the Angel in half. The arm and the body it was attached to disappeared again, as if it were haunting him like a ghost.

Yet that's what you are, a ghost... here to place shackles on me. All I know is how to kill, the part of me that gave a shit died long ago. Only your whispers remain and when I'm done here they'll die with you.

There was only ten minutes left before the window closed and he would never get another chance. The terms given to him by those the assassin worked for were clear, "Slit his throat or a knife will find yours." This was the first, and hopefully last, time they would ever use his own life as the extra weight on the scale. But the scale was forever broken, morality and justice nonexistent in the mind of the Angel of Death. It took someone magnetic to make him realize he was wrong, that it was there, and he could feel it. He stood up then, brushing off his dark blue dress pants. The knife was inside his wrist, resting along his arm, and it felt heavier than before, like chains tying him down to the seat. He broke them anyway, his mouth a solid crease, robotic and resolute. The door to the third car opened, and he felt the key turning again.


"Teach me what to do in case I'm ever being chased by one o' you." Alex said with a smile in his voice. He was fully clothed this time, in hand-me-down shorts and a wifebeater clinging to his lean and toughened frame as if it were stuck to him. He held up his fists, like he wanted to box with the man who stood a few feet away from him. The endless white void still surrounded them, and seemed more prevalent now.

It's obvious. I'm forgetting you, little by little until you're totally gone. All it takes is time, or my knife and your jugular.

"You expect me to be defenseless? I dated an assassin for three years, hidden from your higher-ups like I was swept under the rug. I'm not going down without clipping a few feathers off those wings."

He swung a fist, and the Angel caught it, twisting it. By doing so, he accidentally feigned ignorance of the right leg intercepting his side, cracking a rib. Momentarily letting go of Alex's wrist, a one-two punch knocked him flat on his back. Alex was then on top of him, pinning him to the ground. The grin never left his face, but in a blink the tides changed, and all of a sudden there was a knife milimeters from Alex's right eyeball, a hand clenched around his throat.

"I don't enjoy you referencing that name, I hate it. And I don't know why you keep bringing it up." He pressed the knife closer, the tip barely grazing his pupil, a slight prick of blood beginning to well.

"Go for it. Stick the knife in, twist it. The same way you do with every one of your targets. The same way you do it in your dreams."

The Angel pulled back and wanted to stab downward but as he raised the knife he was back in the train car again, an old lady looking at him puzzled as she tried to move her way past him. His shoulder bent with her passing, but even as he swayed to move for her, he felt rigid like stone. The chains were getting tighter. And the key no longer worked anymore. He had to do this now or never do it at all.


The door to the car Alex was bound to be in was ironically unlocked, as if he were waiting for death itself, the trumpeter to signal the end of the world through his horn of skull and bone. He saw the man sitting there, back to him, not moving or noticing his presence at all. The knife slowly slipped out from the Angel's sleeve, resting along his fingers and into his palm. He glanced briefly at the window, which had become frosted over almost entirely, blocking any view of the outside. They were alone together, in a freezing train car sealed off by the elements themselves.

"So they sent you to kill me now, huh?" Alex asked, refusing to turn and look back.

"You helped one of my targets escape the country, and now no one can find her. Her and her child were connected to a dictator, and going through with it would have helped us cripple him. But no... no, you had to fuck me over."

He turned then, and it was as if he'd never aged. Years later, separated by the divisive ocean of the fates themselves, he was still as he was, no different.

"I bet this means nothing to you, killing me. Does it, Louis?" The stare returned with the utterance of his name, the only person in the world who had ever uttered it with any weight, any feeling.

"Don't call me that name." Louis said, flinching as if wounded by it.

"What should I call you then? You don't like being the Angel of Death, yet... you don't like being Louis, either. Who are you, then?"

Everything afterwards was a blur. A fist connected with Alex's jaw, but it didn't feel connected to Louis, or his alter-ego for that matter. Whatever was controlling him was alien, not connected to the nerves in his muscles or the thoughts in his head. Alex doubled over as another fist buried in his stomach, breath and spit expunged from his mouth as he did so. Louis watched as alien arms pulled Alex's hair back, forcing him upright as he suddenly stood behind the man, the tanto at his throat.

"I'm no one. You should have forgotten me long ago."

"Why should I forget you, when you clearly never forgot me?" He asked, coughing, a trace of blood drizzling down from his lips.

"If you did, you wouldn't have been here, with your life in my hands."

Alex laughed then, a sharp, stuttering laugh as he coughed along with it. He then pointed to a hidden timer on top of a rigged bomb. There was only ten seconds left.

"'Death be not proud... death, thou shalt die.'" Alex whispered as the knife slid across his throat.

Five.

This was the way out you promised me, even if you never said the words.

Two.

One.

First Tragedy, Then Farce

Part 1: Remembering the Dead

“Thanks for the ride, Connor.”

“No problem, Liam. But did we really have to do this tonight? And it looks like it’s going to rain.”

“I just want to get this over with.”

Liam unlocked the front door of a two-storey wooden house, the yellow paint of the walls flaking, window shutters cheerlessly swaying in the wind. The creaking door opened into a dim vestibule with stairs and two doors.

“I don’t know why uncle left me his house. I didn’t even know him that well.”

“You’re uncle was a bit of a local celebrity, you know. I’ve heard stories about him ever since I was a kid.”

“He was the best detective in the state, Uncle Finnegan was.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t he only have one case in his whole career?”

“Yeah, but it was the only one he never solved.”

They went into the living room. The room was centred around a cozy lounge chair, its worn fabric no longer in control of its filling. The fireplace looked like it had long since fallen out of use, separated from the flames that gave it purpose. A bookshelf was filled with detective novels, except for one shelf which had an engraved crystal whiskey carafe and glasses.

“Let’s have a drink,” said Connor. “Drink for good ol’ Finnegan.”

Liam was looking at old faded photographs on the mantelpiece. There was a picture of his parents, Finnegan, and himself as a baby, a picture of a woman, and a portrait of young Finnegan in a military uniform. Liam picked up the last one.

“His real name was John, but at some point he decided that was too plain, so he wanted everyone to call him Finnegan. He also thought ‘regular’ speech had no character, so he always spoke with an accent. Of course, he couldn’t actually do any accents, so his speech was a patch-quilt of random accents, mostly standard with some Irish, some Texan, and who knows what else, none of it accurate.”

“Who’s the lady?”

“It’s his ex-wife.”

“He kept a picture of his ex-wife on the mantelpiece?”

“She left him years ago. I guess he never got over her. Or just didn’t bother with cleaning.”

The rain began to fall; first gently tapping the roof and walls, then crashing down. The pandemonium of the downpour seemed to be the whole world outside. A flash illuminated the windows as a warning of thunder.

“I should have talked to him more often. Even though he lived so near, he always felt so far away, the crazy uncle of my childhood. As if he belonged to another time.”

“Maybe if he had known you better, he wouldn’t have given you his house.”

“Hey, thanks.”

“No, I’m just saying, he was a bit of a recluse in the end. Maybe what he liked about you was that he didn’t know you. That you left him alone.”

“It’s weird. I never even knew him that well, but I still love him. Loved him.”

“He’s family. You have to love him.”

They went upstairs, and opened a creaky door that led to a simple bedroom: a queen-sized bed, a desk and a night table. Liam placed his hands on the footboard of the bed and looked at the unmade mattress.

“He died here,” he said. “It’s funny. There was a small earthquake the night he died. Next day his neighbour came to check up on him because he hadn’t seen uncle that day and the house was dark, even though he had seen him come home the night before. If it hadn’t been for that quake, it could have been months until anyone found him. I guess it’s not really funny. More sad.”

“So, what are you going to do with the house?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m going to sell it. But let’s get out of here.”

As they were about to leave, Connor noticed a string dangling from an attic latch in the hallway.

“Hey, let’s check out the attic before we go. I love them. And maybe the rain will stop then.”

They pulled down the ladder and climbed up to the attic. The walls were lined with boxes and miscellaneous items a sentimental mind had chosen not to discard. A single enormous window was blurred by running water and occasionally flashing with lighting. A large mahogany wardrobe against the wall opposite the window appeared majestic in a sea of dreg.
As they were about to rummage through some of the boxes, a loud noise startled them.

“What was that?” asked Liam.

“Maybe the wind slammed the front door? Did you close it properly?”

“I think so, wait, are those steps?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

Next they heard the creaking bedroom door.

“It’s a burglar!” Connor yelled.

“Who the hell would want to break into this dump? Anyway, there’s two of us, so...”

Liam saw he was talking to air as Connor was climbing into the wardrobe.

“You damn coward!” he yelled, and then heard footsteps in the hallway coming towards the ladder. “Wait for me!”

They huddled together terrified in the wardrobe as the footsteps moved up to the attic. Suddenly the door of their hiding place was pulled open. At first they saw a silhouette of a man as a lighting struck behind him, but soon let out a high-pitched shriek in unison as in the gloomy light of the attic the man was revealed to be wearing a rain-drenched and torn suit and his rotting face to be twisted into a manic grin.

“´Ullo, lads,” said Uncle Finnegan. “Let’s have us a ride.”

Part 2: The Last Days of Uncle Finnegan

The young men at the front kept their eyes fixed on the road ahead to avoid catching a glimpse in the rear-view mirror of of the rotting figure between them on the backseat clutching a folder.

“When you get back, you boys may want to have a look-see for a toe down here.”

“Uncle, can I ask you a question?”

“Spit it out, boy!”

“Why do you look so, uh, bad?”

“Because I’m dead, hee hee hee.”

“No, I mean, we buried you a week ago. You look like you’ve been dead for ages.”

“It’s me soul. Or spirit. I don't know what. It tried to get away, but I pulled the bugger back. And now it’s wrecking me body, trying to get out. But I ain’t letting it go. Not yet.”

The car sped through the rain as the street lamps of the highway disappeared into the distance of the endless night.

“Listen, boy.” said Finnegan. “You are a unique snowflake. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“Thanks, Uncle...”

“And just like every other snowflake, you will melt away and no one will give a toss. Lost and forgotten.”

“That’s great, Uncle.”

“Uh, excuse me, Mr. O’Brien?” asked Connor from the driver’s seat, finally gathering his courage to speak.

“Call me Finnegan, lad.”

“Mr, uh, Finnegan, how far are you going, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not very, if you mean distance. In time, an eternity. Just keep on drivin’.”

They arrived at a wealthy suburb when Finnegan motioned towards the sidewalk.

“Pull over thar yonder.”

“Where are we?”

“See that house? That be the house of the man who murdered me!”

“Murdered!” exclaimed Liam. “You had a heart attack!”

“Heart attack! Ha! I was poisoned! I got too close to the truth and had to be dealt with.”

“Is that the famous solitary case of your career?” asked Connor.

“Aye, the only one I never solved. Until now. That’s why I came back to the house, to get this,” Finnegan said, holding up the folder. “This here are all the evidence I need to bring down these criminals. It was lucky ye lads were there, even if you squeal like a couple of lasses who saw a worm, since it saved me a walk. Now let’s go, we’ll be paying Mr. Rutgenhauer a visit.”

“But the doctor said...”

“Who are you going to believe, lad? Some doctor, or the person who was actually there? I was murdered, I tells ya!”

“But Uncle, you can’t hurt anyone!”

“Calm down, I’m just gonna have us a chat.”

The young men ran in the rain to find shelter under the house’s porch. Finnegan took his time as he dragged one leg behind him.

“Uncle, is your leg okay?”

“Aye, I’m just limpin’ for dramatic effect.”

“No lights.” Liam said. “He must be asleep, or not at home.”

“He must be hiding," asserted Finnegan. “Here’s the battle plan, lads. You twos waits here 'til I gets to the back door, then you rings the bell. I’ll make sure the bastard won’t try to make a run for it.”

“Why would he run just because someone rang the door bell?”

“You don’t know these people! Do as you’re told and none get hurt, ya hear?”

Finnegan skulked along the wall, cursing under his breath until he vanished behind the corner.

“Speaking of making a run for it, “ said Connor. “We could run to the car and leave. Right now.”

“I can’t leave my uncle. Not like this.”

“He’s a goddamn zombie!”

“Exactly,” said Liam, and rang the door bell. They waited for a while, but there was no sign of anyone inside. Then they heard a loud crash, and in a moment the door was unlocked. They saw Finnegan in the doorway.

“I got tired of waiting, so I let myself in.”

He herded the two young men in. Before entering the living room they saw the back door had been shattered to pieces.

“Looks like Mr. Rutgenhauer ain’t home,” Finnegan said, tossing his folder on a table. “Well, I can wait.”

Just then they heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Ah-ha, Mr. Rutgenhauer must just be a heavy sleeper. The wicked always sleep the best.”

A man in pyjamas, looking half-asleep, came into the room.

“Who are you? What are oh god what is wrong with your face?”

Now fresh-awake, the man stared in horror at Uncle Finnegan’s melting face.

“Oh, you just kill people, but don’t like to see the results of your grisly work, is that it, Rutgenhauer?”

“What are you talking about? Who are you?”

“Enough talk, I say! Chaaa!”

Liam and Connor watched in horror as Finnegan charged for the man whose scream was soon stifled as Finnegan tore his head clean off, covering himself and the room in blood.

“Uncle Finnegan! What have you done!”

“Wut? Nothin’.”

“Then what is his head doing on the the other side of the room?”

“I don’t see it doing anything.”

A light flashed in the window as a car pulled over in the driveway.

“Someone’s coming!” yelled Connor.

“Let them,” said Finnegan. “Our work here is done. Justice has prevailed.”

“You just murdered someone in their home!”

“Murder begets murder.”

The front door opened. Soon they heard someone shout “James? What happened to the back door?”

The newcomer entered the room and saw the three men staring at him, and then the headless corpse on the floor.

“James!” He shouted and ran to the body.

“The hell are you?” asked Finnegan.

“What happened to my brother?”

“Your brother? Wait, are you a Rutgenhauer as well?”

“Yes! I live here!” he said between sobs. “My brother was visiting!”

“Oh, that’s right,” said Finnegan. “You’re the one I wanted, you devilish bastard.”

“Uncle! You don’t know what the man who murdered you looks like?”

“It’s not me fault you lot buried me without me glasses.”

“Uncle! You killed the wrong person!”

“Oh, that so? Well, I know how to fix that...”

“You can’t just go around tearing people’s heads off!”

“Why not? Seems to be working pretty well so far.”

Liam grabbed Finnegan’s arms, his first time touching his deceased uncle.

“Uncle, what is that one case about?”

“Oh, it’s vile stuff, boy. Vile and...”

“Uncle!”

“Somethin’ about a lost dog, I think.”

Connor had picked up the folder and was now leafing through it.

“There’s nothing but pictures of people walking dogs here.”

“Exactly!” declared Finnegan triumphantly. “And the last one clearly shows Rutgenhauer there walking the stolen canine. The very same fleabag Mrs. Applebloom hired me to find in this here neighbourhood all them years ago.”

“It was my sister’s golden retriever, you goddamn idiot! Mrs. Applebloom lost a poodle!”

“Well, isn’t that convenient for you!”

“Uncle, you’re obsessed! You have to let this go!”

“Let this go! Would you let it go if someone murdered the person closest to you?”

“That is both extremely poignant and egotistical,” said Connor.

“No one murdered you, Uncle! You had a heart attack! You have to realize that!”

Finnegan stared at Liam’s face looking as he was about to start shouting. But then his dry lips began to quiver.

”You don‘t know what it‘s like, boys,” he said, collapsing into a recliner. “Wasting your life obsessed with triviality, and then one day you lie in your bed and feel a pulsing pain move through your body. You just don’t want it all to be for nothing. For just once in my life I wanted to do something that was mine, but I could only ever do the little things. The things everyone does. Things that felt real were always so far away, beyond my grasp. And as you feel life flee from you in the last gasps of a moribund, you’re filled with fear, and regret. And you feel such hate. Hate for yourself and the world. And God. Yes, hating my God as I watched the last shreds of life escape through my eyes. But then I grabbed it, I, I dragged the lil’ bugger back. The earth shook when it crashed back in my body. I lost consciousness, and my body died. But I was still alive inside. And you buried me.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle.”

“Wasn’t your fault, laddie.”

“No, I mean, about everything that happened to you.”

“It’s fine, lad.”

“Well, I think we all learned a valuable lesson here,” said Connor.

“And the important thing is that no one got hurt,” said Finnegan. “No harm, no foul.”

“You bastards killed my brother!”

“Did he have that gun a moment ago?” Connor asked.

“Oh, put the gun down, son," Finnegan stood up. “I’ll apologise to your brother in the great beyond, if there is one.”

Rutgenhauer emptied his gun at Finnegan, who took a few steps back and slumped.

“Uncle!”

“Stop your squealing, lad. Not like I can die again.”

“But, Uncle, your body!”

Finnegan looked down. The bullet holes glowed like white fire. Incandescent cracks began to spread from the holes, until his whole torso was a white beacon in the dark room.

“Uh, figure I can’t hold on to me soul no more, lads. It be coming out! Run, boys!”

“Uncle!”

“Now!”

As Liam and Connor rushed out, grabbing the shellshocked Rutgenhauer with them, Finnegan looked like he was about to burst as he swelled into a ball, the light pouring out of him forming such elaborate shapes as never before witnessed by living eyes. Or dead ones.

“Uh-oh,” Finnegan said.

Finnegan exploded, leaving only a crater where the Rutgenhauer residence had stood.

That's too long to be eligible, but I just didn't have the time to edit that or write anything else, so thought I'd just post it anyway if someone wants to read and comment anyway. If you're just voting, feel free to skip this one. It sure could have used some cutting, I'd wager.

Oh, and I'm sure all you experienced gaffers will recognize the title being a tag of some member whose username I don't remember. I've always liked that, and thought it was oddly appropriate here. Mostly because I wasn't sure was the beginning sort of good, and then it got stupid, or is the beginning pointless and then it goes somewhere. Or maybe it's just all bad. I'm sure some of you fine gentlemen will tell me.

It actually looks as if I'll have a piece for this challenge. None of the ideas were sticking with me, initially, so I had already begun telling myself that I was going to sideline this challenge, but lo and behold, here comes this goofy ass idea that refuses to remain unwritten. This should be pretty funny. I'm going with something a little more traditional this time around.

John Dunbar said:

That's too long to be eligible, but I just didn't have the time to edit that or write anything else, so thought I'd just post it anyway if someone wants to read and comment anyway. If you're just voting, feel free to skip this one. It sure could have used some cutting, I'd wager.

Oh, and I'm sure all you experienced gaffers will recognize the title being a tag of some member whose username I don't remember. I've always liked that, and thought it was oddly appropriate here. Mostly because I wasn't sure was the beginning sort of good, and then it got stupid, or is the beginning pointless and then it goes somewhere. Or maybe it's just all bad. I'm sure some of you fine gentlemen will tell me.

Click to expand...

Stooge iirc.

.

I'm a writing noob, so really I'm just looking for any critique at all. 567 words.
_________________________________


30/10

I have no idea where I’m going. I’m at a train station, which means I had some intention of going somewhere. Something is guiding my feet down these glass-walled escalators, and as I glance down at the yellow and grey landing strip at the bottom, I try to forget the fact that my consciousness is hopelessly lost – or rather, took off without thinking of where it wanted to go first. Somebody knew though. I hadn’t stopped walking yet. She knew. She knew that I was a special case, because this was my destination. Of course, a train station is never a destination, unless you’ve only got 30/10 to live.

I don’t remember how I eventually came face to face with her dark skin, her dark eyes, and her black hair. I got that nervous feeling you get when you’ve been driving for an hour and somehow don’t remember the last half of it. But I forgot all about then when I saw that look in her eyes. 25/8.3*. She got close to me, and just looked at me. 20/6.6*. I think she kissed me, I’m not sure. I’d had kisses that felt like less than…whatever she did. Sorry, my memory is a little foggy. Although you’d think I’d remember something like that. 15/5.

She was young. Too young for me, in fact. Must’ve been only 14 or so, and I’m not that kind of guy. Although she had the head of someone older – save for the fact that she hadn’t learned to keep it inside. Either she never knew the pain from confiding, or she did it anyway. No, she knew. She knew it all. She knew that love should be hard, and fast, and painful – that’s how you know it’s real. And she knew that you shouldn’t bother saying “this won’t hurt a bit”, because no one will believe you. When you don’t believe it yourself, why would they? 10/3.3*.

We sat there for a while. I could tell something was on her mind, and only later would I know what. Only later would I know that she heard the cruel prison keeper’s footsteps and the clanging of his ring of rusted keys. She winced a bit with every heel strike of his footsteps* – 9/3, 8/2.6*, 7/2.3*… Visiting hours would soon be over. I would return to my bed, and she would cease to exist. Or was it the other way around? I wasn’t so sure anymore. How did she know so much and I so little? This was my world, dammit. What was she, but pieces of me? What was this strange place, where one mind could create another? 3/1.

I shouldn’t feel too bad. She lived a full life, having loved. It’s enough to love, and being loved back is just icing on the cake. Yeah...maybe I’ll believe that myself someday. I just wish I could have taken the tail end of her smile as she turned away – that slow, downward turn that she hoped I wouldn’t see – and kept it in a jar to bring back home. But I know the keeper wouldn’t allow that – you can’t take anything with you when you go back. He would smash the jar on the ground, and that line of hope would gasp for air in the shards of glass. Alone. It would fade away, and everything she ever loved would soon follow. 0/0.

Goddamnit. I have an idea for this, but I just can't make it work.

Might have to start with something fresh.

when in doubt Good Morning America is rife with inspiration.

ronito said:

when in doubt Good Morning America is rife with inspiration.

Click to expand...

Are you not feeling any pang of my reverse psychology powers?

Hmm...

And I said that I was going to do something a little more traditional this time around...

Policy: Prevention
----------------------

“Hold your horses, there’s more pressing issues. If you were to die now, there would be no

one that's missed you; no one that's hit you; no one that kissed you. They all will have

tried, but no one could get through.”

“Yeah..."

“So we’ve sent someone to get you. He’ll be waiting at the station on a step-stool. He’ll

hear all your issues, then if you want he’ll kill you, pump you with enough lead to fill you,

then rebuild you, make you a brand new person.”

“Sounds like it’ll hurt then...”

“Writhe in the dirt then. See if we care. We’re the people that fuck the suicidal punks like

you up, then make for thin air.”

“...But you just said that you’ll help me?”

“Of course, I was speaking metaphorically--not really. So hear me, if you fuck this chance

up, I’ll be sure that the only thing you have the mind to do is fear me.”

“Alright mister... I hear thee? You can be assured that I’ll operate obediently. And I’ll have

all the money for your agency. I’ve gotten kinda tired of this complacency. So you’ll just

have to sit back, relax, and wait to see that your perfect record isn’t going to waste on me.

Because it’s goodbye for now for now, I’ve got another place to be. The train is pulling

in, and I’m getting off the phone.”

“The train is pulling in, and you won’t be walking alone.”

“The train is pulling in, it’s time to right my wrongs.”

"....Well, well, if that isn't good to hear."


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

That was more fun to write than than ever thought. And to note, I didn't actually take count on the words, but I can assure you, it' under the limit, haha.

Ashes1396 said:

Are you not feeling any pang of my reverse psychology powers?

Hmm...

Click to expand...

If I could sleep beyond 4am I might...Sadly it doesn't look like it's gonna happen anytime soon.

ronito said:

If I could sleep beyond 4am I might...Sadly it doesn't look like it's gonna happen anytime soon.

Click to expand...

4am? aren't you in the states? It's 5am here. in london.

Deleted due to TOS change.

Ashes1396 said:

4am? aren't you in the states? It's 5am here. in london.

Click to expand...

Yeah I'm California. I mean my kid wont sleep past 4am. It's taking its toll.

Ashes1396 said:

4am? aren't you in the states? It's 5am here. in london.

Click to expand...

Hmm, speaking of a meet-up pace for us NeoGAF writers from #70, I am planning to make it to London in May.... I wonder if London would be a good central meeting place! It sure looks like the "center meeting point" on most typical world maps, 0 deg longitudinally.

ronito said:

Yeah I'm California. I mean my kid wont sleep past 4am. It's taking its toll.

Click to expand...

Oh my goodness. I hope you're sleeping when your kid sleeps. A friend of mine who is a child psychologist will be giving a talk next week on "getting your child to sleep." I'll see if I can get notes for you.




Okay....... so here goes nothing. I'm going to try to "type" (perhaps using speech recog software) to dictate my story. I have corneal ulcers that make me feel blind in front of a monitor.

Tangent said:

Okay....... so here goes nothing. I'm going to try to "type" (perhaps using speech recog software) to dictate my story. I have corneal ulcers that make me feel blind in front of a monitor.

Click to expand...

Your idea sounds pretty far out though. I wouldn't even edit it.

since apparently no one saw my post in the other thread, did any of us make it onto This American Life... you know, challenge #65 back in January?

Damn daylight savings time, now I have an hour less than I thought I was going to.

ZephyrFate said:

since apparently no one saw my post in the other thread, did any of us make it onto This American Life... you know, challenge #65 back in January?

Click to expand...

Sorry. Didn't see it. I haven't heard back from TAL. But then I only sent it a few weeks ago due to the kiddle coming and everything.

As for you Tangent, my kid's less than 3 months old. According to the books I've read it's too early to get them to do anything. Just another month and a half...But hey if your friend has the solution I'm happy to listen.

Tangent said:

Hmm, speaking of a meet-up pace for us NeoGAF writers from #70, I am planning to make it to London in May.... I wonder if London would be a good central meeting place! It sure looks like the "center meeting point" on most typical world maps, 0 deg longitudinally.

Click to expand...

That'd be a bit difficult; considering I'm a ghost in the interweb's system and all. :/

London is going through great weather at the moment. The best it has been for years. Hopefully you catch some of that your self.

As regards your story: go all in. It's the only way to be.

I'm stuck at work; I have all I need for my story at home, so a last minute edit, when I get home, and I should be fine getting it in before the deadline.

ronito said:

As for you Tangent, my kid's less than 3 months old. According to the books I've read it's too early to get them to do anything. Just another month and a half...But hey if your friend has the solution I'm happy to listen.

Click to expand...

Hmm yeah I'm not sure about the age. I'll find out...

Ashes1396 said:

That'd be a bit difficult; considering I'm a ghost in the interweb's system and all. :/

London is going through great weather at the moment. The best it has been for years. Hopefully you catch some of that your self.

As regards your story: go all in. It's the only way to be.

I'm stuck at work; I have all I need for my story at home, so a last minute edit, when I get home, and I should be fine getting it in before the deadline.

Click to expand...

Thanks, I gave it a shot! Story's below. I hope you're able to get yours in too.




Welp, here's a story. I thought of it after seeing this animation clip several years ago that I really liked. I don't know where it is now. And after writing this story, I sense that the story is better expressed visually in animation rather than expressed in writing. Oh well! I'm sorry if there are mindless typos. My eyes are giving up on me. Speaking of which, I'm not sure how well I'll be able to vote this time around guys!


Freedom (850 words)

“You’re slipping!” B40 called – or rather squeaked – from the upper lattice of mice tails and hands roped together by our faith.

I didn’t have time to respond. But I maneuvered my tail into the lock, and finally. OPEN.

Instantly, two things simultaneously happened. (1) The chain of mice shattered and collapsed on top of me like a heap of pillows. Not bad. (2) Blaring horns and blue blinking lights made me feel nauseous. Bad. But I had to ignore my stomach acid and do what mice do best: scramble. There was a mad race but nobody really knew the direction to freedom with just white walls and white ceilings and white fans and blaring lights all around us. I lost floor space since the opening of my receptacle triggered the opening of all the others’. Everyone scrambled. Including women! There were women among us!

Continuing to lose ground, I was forced to body surf on others. And at this advantageous vista point, I saw what seemed to be a moving wall. It was sliding down and mice by the dozens were making their escapes. As I too, joined in B-lining for the closing gap under the sliding wall, I saw the biggest pair of turquoise eyes. Almond-shaped with the ends tilted up ever so slightly.

A mouse with turquoise eyes? Wow. She was a Gem, literally and metaphorically. What luck that she also stood transfixed – staring at me, too. Perhaps because I was the only mouse who was frozen, in sight of her, rather than continuing on to freedom while the moment lasted.

But the moment lasted for us. We started towards each other and then tacitly agreed to make our escape together. Faster than ever, we raced out just when the door was closing.

“No!” I squeaked.

“What?” she asked. “Oh dear,” she whispered when she saw the fait of my tail. The end of my tail didn’t make it – it was stuck under the wall. I wasn’t concerned. Considering that the end was brittle enough to unlock my unnatural habitat due to some random injection I received, I don’t think I needed the crusty crap. And, I scored concern from my Gem. It did hurt a little bit, too. But the important part was that the rest of me, and my Gem, were on the other side of the wall.

The other side. Outside. Freedom. Also, darkness. Also, cold. Also, our momentum swept us off the corridor. We fell and splashed below into – a river! No wait. The sewer. Scrambling (which is what we do best) and gasping for air, we climbed up onto whatever we could find, which happened to be a flattened, empty Fanta 2-liter bottle.

Quickly, we had consummated our love. Other than scrambling, it’s what mice do best at the drop of a hat. Sometimes it makes sense to trust stereotypes. This consummation might have been particularly precarious due to the unsteady raft of our soda bottle. Nevertheless, we landed ashore as non-virgins, and we both felt exhausted from our great escape.

It turned out to be pretty rough being free. For a few days, we were always running away from something (again, the scrambling), and no matter how much we complained about the monotony of “Rodent Pellet Fiesta,” it sure beat trying to find something on our own. Taste was easy to find but food that didn’t result in explosive diarrhea was another story. As u could imagine, we were quite dehydrated by the time we found solace behind a dumpster. Unfortunately, I was a lab mouse. And the cancerous cells introduced to my liver were spreading, as was my Gem’s mammary gland tumors.

But in our short lives, the one thing we can hope for is to see the promise of continued freedom in the eyes of our young. My mate gave birth to six handsome lads and four radiantly beautiful ladies – all looking like human pinky fingers, but three of them ended up with those stunning blue eyes.

***

The humble mouse of our story passed away, as did his lover. But, their delicate young, shivering and hungry, were rescued by the sanitary engineer who dropped them off at Petco. There, the young faced the same fate as their elders with unnatural habitats with glass walls. And the freedom the parents earned, hoping to pass along to their young, chose selectively. Some were frozen alive for snake feed. (But, fortunately for them, they unknowingly achieved revenge upon their consumer since these rats happened to most riddled with cancerous cells from their parents, and grandparents.) The others, one by one or two by two, each were sold to the hands of either school teachers or proud, young first time pet-owners.

One boy, Jack, had built the most amazing mouse habitat ever with his babysitter. It had four levels, a man cave, unlimited food supply and clean water, a hammock, and it included a tunnel that led to Jack’s top dresser drawer, full of socks to explore.

You can’t buy freedom, but if you’re lucky, you can be born or sold into it.

Far Away Lands: A Rap Battle

Tolkien
Yo. Yo.
The name's Tolkien, my gold pen, will send you to your knees
You think Narnia's hot with that ancient plot, all I'll say is Lewis, please.

Anthropomorphic lion Christ, kids excised can't visit twice
Fauns and Greek gods, Santa Claus, talking beavers and a few stray dogs
You hit us with the themes like a two by four
And you crossed the Bible with the plot from Thor.

You been Surprised by Joy? Now get surprised by woe.
My flow explodes like the White Witch standing pissed off in the snow.

I wrote classics for the ages, modern mythology.
You plagiarized Christ, I think you owe Someone an apology.


Lewis
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost.
Your old butt's gonna be withered--
the Ring is getting tossed.

So you don't believe in Jesus, you believe in Ilúvatar.
Something boring happens, and then elves wake up from stars.
I tried to read that book, John, and I got a theory:
Your friends killed themselves in the war cause you were so damn dreary.

Bored of the rings, your story strings a Brit pastiche beginning
With a Gollum ex machina ending, and a bunch of midgets winning

Aragorn's an asshole and Gandalf's a walking cliche.
The white-bearded wizard mentor figure is getting damn passe.

Come to Jesus Tolkien, maybe He'll help you atone.
I plagiarized the Bible but I left the Norse alone.


Tolkien
Midgets win in mine, homeslice, but children win in yours.
And my story rings more true since I actually fought in a war.

My books sell better than ever, yours are jumbled and bargain priced.
And don't start preaching at me boy, I converted your ass to Christ.


Lewis
You converted me to Jesus, but I found Aslan on my own.
Your slow ass was still writing when he took the Narnian throne.
Jealous of my skills cause I got my books out fast.
Face it Tolkien, you're just a linguist, and your rings have been outclassed.

New East (1,312 words)

Thick, black globules of smoke drift upwards, choking the air. Dozens of people push and prod their way onto the behemoth machine, hoping to find a seat in the nearest car to prevent further entanglement. Mists of mucus float through the crowd after being expelled after hearty coughs and unblocked sneezes. The smoke is taking its toll on the folks gathered within the congested station, but soon they all shove their way onto the train, leaving the sickening haze behind.

A loud rumbling fills the emptied station as the machine's wheels begin to turn. Sensing that their time to board is almost at an end, several stragglers quickly gather their few belongings and hop up onto the entrance platforms. A lucky few manage to find an empty seat on the first couple cars; however, the rest are forced to continue their journey towards the back of the train. One relatively lanky man in his late thirties quickly makes his way to the front of the horde by nudging the other passengers off to the side.

The machine lets out a blaring whistle and begins its journey. Several of those still standing find their way to the floor at the sudden jolt. The tall man stays upright, his body swaying in time with the rocking motion of the train's floor. A slight jingle accompanies his every step as he breaks farther and farther away from the rest of the pack that boarded alongside him. For a long while, every car he passed through was filled to the brim. After walking through a dozen or so cars, the mob eventually began to thin out, resulting an abundance of empty seats. Still, the man continues forward, nodding every once in a while at a seemingly random passenger.

Finally, he stops and sits down next to elderly woman dressed in rich finery, removing the gray flat cap from his head. His dark black hair has been greased back, so it hardly moves at all when the cap is taken off.

"Madam."

"Sir."

"How far east ya headin'?"

"Ducane. Yourself?"

"A bit further out than that. Vinland."

"Why that's unsettled territory out there. What business do you have that's gonna take you that far?"

"I'm just tired of the west. I need a break from all the hustle and bustle. Why the trip to Ducane?"

"My daughter found herself a man. They're getting married in a week."

"That's nice."

Sensing that the conversation had nowhere left to turn, both settled down into their seats and found something to occupy themselves with. The man put his cap back on and drew the bill down over his eyes. The rattle and vibration of the moving vehicle put him into a very tranquil state, leaving him falling asleep only to wake up to see a new type of scenery flashing by in the windows. A forest, a large sea, a mountain range, and several cities passed by as he looked on. Each time he opened his eyes he would also check a silver pocketwatch hanging from a chain attached to his pea coat.

Several hours passed by and the man took his hat off once more and surveyed the rest of the car. His slate-colored eyes eventually settled on a man sitting diagonally across from him. A four pointed star was pinned onto his chest. The man reached over tapped the piece of metal, startling the other man awake.

"The hell you doin', boy?"

"You a man of the law, youngin'?

"You seen the damned badge, didn't ya? 'Course I am. Whatcha gotta wake me for?"

The lanky man let out a small sigh and began to explain his reasons for waking the youthful officer.

"Once we reach the grassy plains between Laston and Cheville, four men are gonna barge through that door at the end of the car. One of them is going to hold out a burlap sack to each person here and have them empty all their valuables into it. The other three are gonna forge ahead and break into the cargo cars up ahe-"

The young officer grabbed the man by the hand and said, "Wait, now! How you know all this?"

"Look, I was originally part of the plan, but I've been sittin' here thinking and I realized I don't want to be part of all this nonsense anymore. That's all you need to know."

He removed himself from the other man's grip and continued on, "Alright, I'm going to get up and act like I'm still workin' with 'em. Now, when they get to you with that sack, I want you to pull out your revolver and knock the guy over the head with it. Once he falls to the ground, you'll need to disarm 'im. While you're doing that, I'm going to do the same to the guys near the front. You got that?"

"I suppose."

The lanky man reached out and clasped the officer's hand.

"My name's Dan Childress, by the way. Yours?"

"Sheriff Thomas Howell."

Just like he had predicted, four men barged through the door about twenty minutes later. Dan quickly rose from his seat and pulled the black bandanna hanging around his neck up over his mouth. He then reached into his pea coat and pulled out a burlap sack and his silver revolver.

Him and one of his partners then shouted out, "Alright, valuables go in the sack. Resist and you'll be eatin' a bullet for supper." They went about collecting the valuables as the other three men rushed towards the back of the car towards the cargo carriers. Dan followed them close behind, only collecting the valuables from a person or so before moving down several seats.

Suddenly, a shot rang out from behind Dan.

"Damn it, James! I told you not to shoo-- The hell!"

James, the other robber with the sack, was lying on the ground. The sheriff's weapon had accidentally discharged when he used it to hit the thief over the head. Acting quickly, Dan tackled the whistleblower to the ground and gave him one hard punch to the face. He then jumped back to his feet and landed a swift kick to another of the cargo mens' chest. Before Dan could reach the final man, another shot rang out. The bullet flew out of the final man's gun and pierced the officer's head, killing him instantly. The barrel of the gun then moved towards Dan's direction, just as he pulled his own revolver out.

"Put the gun down, Dan."

"You know I can't do that, John. You just killed yourself an officer of the law."

"Dan, put it away."

"I won't do it."

"You sure about that, Dan. I didn't think you would betray us, but here we are."

"I had to John. You said we'd head out east and make new lives for ourselves. I don't see how we're gonna do that by robbing this here train. This the same shit we pulled back west. Ain't no difference between being a criminal here and being criminal there. I just want to live out my life without being on the run constantly. Drop your weapon. No one else has to die here today."

John began pulling the hammer of his weapon back with his thumb.

Three shots permeated the air before the hammer could lock in place. All three bullets buried themselves in John's chest. Another three burst out, killing the other thieves lying unconscious on the ground.

"Damn you, John."

Dan slowly walked back to where he was originally seated and rolled the sheriff over. He grabbed the four pointed star off the officer's chest and pinned it to his own.

After a few moments of silence, he went over to the door to the car and stepped outside. As the wind beat against his body, he dropped off the moving train.

I was waiting for the early morning TRAN to the AB12 rock in the Alpha Centauri. It was the rock right at the end of the line, where nobody had any business going to. But I had a job to do over there, and a job over there meant fixing the fuck ups of the incompetent staff. This was my first time going to AB12, the rock almost exclusively housed by the top 1 percent, the creamy layer. The trans-galactic rail network put that rock as a dead end. Those people didn’t like being disturbed, and everyone else reciprocated. So, my TRAN arrived, late as expected. As I was stepping from the grav-form to the compartment, I saw someone whom I recognized. Well, not recognize per say, but I knew him from somewhere. I saw him board the same compartment. Usually, I would have dropped this issue and concentrated on the work at hand. But this time was different.

The tethers engaged, making that characteristic whirring noise. The whirring noise was always accompanied by a jolt, like you would feel during earthquakes back in the day. But these were the only rough parts of the ride, if you will. Once the TRAN started to go, there was no noise, no vibration, just insane silence. Silence that I hadn’t noticed until that day.
After a few hours, I began to feel restless. The gears in the back of my mind were turning in overdrive. I just had to talk to the mystery dude! One can only stand seeing the same old scenery of well-lit advertisements on either side of the TRAN. But I decided to not go after some deliberation over the murder statistic associated with the TRAN on this particular route. So I started looking over magazines meant for the lobotomized masses, and continued the transformation towards becoming one of them.

The silence was maddening. I started to walk up and down the corridor to hear the sounds of my own footsteps. Minutes later I came back and started reading about how the United Socialist Alliance was about to be invaded for the fifth time in the decade. Now, I hated the USA as much as the next guy, but not even allowing the guys to repair the damage had just become a dick waggling contest amongst the Space Superpowers still operating on Earth. My political dissent was short lived, fractured by a fight going on two seats down. I loved the way the loud and unbecoming screams tore up the maddening silence. I wanted to join in, but I knew when to keep my mouth shut. I peeked from magazine, while pretending to read it. My mysterious friend was right in the middle of it. I saw him coming towards me; he had that look of recognition in his eyes as well. He started off the conversation and sat opposite me.

Tyler: Hey Jack! Remember me?

Jack: Sure!

I paused for a bit there, hoping he would reintroduce himself. I remembered him as the sort of person who would.

Tyler: I’m Tyler from your old office job! Damn, it’s been such a long time.

Jack: Sure has. How’s the soap business going?

Tyler just tapped his briefcase and smiled with a nod, as if to indicate that business was good.

Tyler: So, where are you headed?

Jack: AB12, they called me up for some technical issue.

Tyler: I’m headed the same way.

Tyler removed a vial of blood from his jacket.

Tyler: You know what this is?

Jack: Are you working as a medico or a lab rat or something?

Tyler: This is the cure for AIDS.

AIDS, just hearing it brought back memories of my early teen days. The biotechnology industry had made incredible strides in the past century or so. Immortality was within the reach of those who had the monetary and political means. Little more than a handful of people in the entire universe were from the pre 2000’s era. I was one of them, and so was Tyler. The mention of AIDS still felt like a hot slap to the face. A few centuries later, and we still didn’t have the cure. It was the only remnant of our diseased past, and the only one which all the research in the world wasn’t able to cure. Most of the scientists these days were either in the flavor development and marketing business, or in the pleasure enhancement business. So it did come as a surprise to me that this person had a vial of blood in his hands, proclaimed as the cure for AIDS.

Jack: How do you know for sure?

Tyler: It is a sure shot thing. I’m surprised that you didn’t ask me where I “stole” it from.

Jack: It’s not gentlemanly to assume.

Tyler looked at my union uniform stained with more chemicals than a soap factory. Then he gave a smirk.

Tyler: Sure. Is this gonna be your first time on the rock?

Jack: Yeah, though I have heard about it, and seen it on the internet.

Tyler: What section are you gonna be in once you get to the rock?

Jack: Probably the P sector, but I’m not too sure. Someone at the grav-form is supposed to pick me up.

Tyler: Someone you know?

Jack: Not really, probably just some liaison to the palace.

Tyler: That’s all that fuckin rock is, isn’t it? Reeks of bureaucracy and nepotism. No workers at all, so they have to import them from the dying Earth.

Jack: I know. The person who contacted me is apparently some big shot politician. I’ve heard that the guy has the largest contingency across the universal minorities.

Tyler: Fuck all that junk! That rock has the largest population of shitheads who rule 99% of the universe just sitting their smug little asses on that rock.

His hatred for the ruling class resonated with mine. Though I still tried to be rational about it.

Jack: Still haven’t left the anarchy behind, eh Tyler? What are you going there for anyways?

Tyler just tapped on the blood vial, and kept it inside the jacket pocket.

Tyler: To find a cure for AIDS, brother!

Jack: Why not go to some research planet then? Why that place?

Tyler: Sometimes you need to go far out to do what was to be done centuries ago.

I had heard something similar from this guy before, but I couldn’t quite remember when or in what context.

Jack: Whatever, man. Just don’t do something stupid.

Tyler: Sure, brother.

He said this just as we approached the last grav-form before the short stretch of distance to AB12. We saw the people who had a fight with Tyler pass us to the door, giving both of us looks of utter disgust. Tyler laughed.

Tyler: So insecure and disconnected, these religious nuts!

Jack: Is that what you had a fight over?

Tyler: No, it was over the vial of AIDS cure that I showed them.

Jack: So what, you show the vial, and they start screaming at you like you were some sort of modern day heretic? Somehow, I don’t believe that.

Tyler: I just told them that I was going to infect each and every one the political leaders on that damn planet with AIDS. Turns out, one of them has family on the rock, heh.

Jack: What the fuck? Is that your great plan for the cure for AIDS? How far off the rocker are you man? Don’t you remember how you barely escaped after the stunt you pulled last time?

Tyler: How do you know? You weren’t even there. Just like I take it you won’t be with time.
I came to a stark realization. I remembered when I last needed this guy, and when I disposed of him. I do not know why centuries later he decided to show up again. But the burden was mine. And this time I agree with him.

Jack: In a far off land, some other time, in some other dimension, this might have worked perfectly. But this time, there is no plan at all. Granted all the people on AB12 have grown decadent, but one thing they do have, is good security.

Tyler: I can’t believe that you still haven’t figured all of this out. You know the liaison waiting for you at the grav-form? You don’t remember him?

Suddenly, it all rushed back to me. A gust of memories withheld from me. It was project mayhem all over again. Except there was no soap to wipe it all clean this time.

The TRAN stopped with a jerk. Tyler and I stepped from the totally empty compartment to the grav-form. The liaison was the only one present on the grav-form. He gave us a smirk exactly how Tyler did it. I replied back with the same smirk.

After we left the grav-form and moved towards the vehicle, the TRAN blew up into a magnificent ball of fire. I hadn’t seen such a spectacle since the Great War a few centuries back. The TRAN was the only way off this rock. Now, to find the cure for AIDS.

Haha, cyan. A gaf rap/word battle thread would the, quite possibly, the funniest thing ever. It would have to stay organized though. Tourney-style.

Miri said:

Haha, cyan. A gaf rap/word battle thread would the, quite possibly, the funniest thing ever. It would have to stay organized though. Tourney-style.

Click to expand...

Hell yeah!

"Mother's day" or "Keep on breathing."





“Dear Ashlynn,

You asked me for inspiration; which I guess is your way of asking for permission to write about me and my little one. Feel free. But I would like you to speak in your own voice. Why do you hide in fiction? And no, I don't think it is do with distance- though you harp on about it. I think you are afraid of your emotions, like all the men in my life. So write about me in a tit-for-tat way. If my life is to be available for public consumption, then so must your life be.”


“Dear Eliza,

Of all life's great events, Saturday 13th March 20XX remains closest to my chest. It is the day I lost my best friend. It was just another day to him. We'd been drifting apart anyway but that day defined the credits. He was in his new car with his new friends, and it was perfectly okay for him to leave me standing in the rain. Like I said, it was just another day to him.”

“Dear Ashlynn,

It was bright and sunny outside, I was sat at the writing bureau; through the window, I could see Freddy tinkering with the car. The music was on, lightly in the background, (yes I know you don't write like that, but it gets me going). I think you sent me a text right about then. And I remember reading it, frowning. **** (Political march). Yeah, right, I'm gonna go six months pregnant. Now if it was a -Political- Run? Then yeah maybe... Severe morning sickness was by now normal protocol. Most days, I ran energy-less, in perpetual want for the sleep-station. Not for the first time that morning, I pulled down the laptop screen, and felt the baby kick....

That's about all I can manage for now. Write to me again please. I feel as if this is helping...”

“Dear Eliza,

Of all life's great events, Monday 23rd August 20XX remains closest to my chest. It is the last time I saw Olivia; I'm not sure whether she's the only person I've ever fallen in love with like you decry, as I don't believe love exists, but she came the closest.

It was results day, and she got 3 As' as expected. She didn't bother asking me what I got; I just stood there gawking. It was clear that I had pissed her off on one too many occasions. I must admit, I thought for a while, that our 'thing' was a figment of my imagination. I thought she liked me. But I didn't say anything. And, I reasoned, good for her she moved on.

However, she came to see me later when everybody else had left. She found me alone, by the trees, next to the tennis courts. She asked me what I got. I said:
An A and two Es.
-A in Eng Lang I suppose. Did you get 100% percent in the end?
No.
-E's in?
Psychology and History.
-Mind if I sit here? Trying to escape the crowd.
Free country. I said smiling.

We sat without much conversation for about half an hour. I was reading Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. She did that thing she does with me sometimes; which used to annoy the crap out of me. She took my left headphone/earpiece out my ear (without asking!) and put it in her own ear, and listened to my music.

I read till the end of the chapter, and got up to leave; she decided to leave as well.

-Bye Ashes. I have this funny feeling that we will never meet again. Do you? Not me and you of course. Just in general. All of us. Going far and wide and all that.
Perhaps. I don't know.
-If we don't meet again. Have a good life yeah...

I looked at her funny then. There was this moment right then. The glisten of a tear in her eye. Right at that exact moment. We didn't say anything; it just suddenly struck me that perhaps, on her part, the feelings were not a puddle so to speak, or like a pond in my case, but a lake or something entirely deeper, wider, and more vast in scope. What was I doing Eliza letting her go? I don't know. Still to this day, I don't know."

“Dear Ashlynn,

I went to hospital because my cramps were getting bad. I don't want to talk about what happened there, if that's all right. I... haven't the strength. I'm sorry I can't do this. Please do still write.”

“Dear Eliza,

Of all life's great events, Wednesday 31st December 20XX remains closest to my chest. My life was going great and things were pretty damn good. My sister's life was going to shit though. I had never experienced poverty, and truth be told I didn't think it was possible in the west... in London... in England. Her landlord was on the verge of kicking her out; six bills lay on the table; a court order on the sofa. She was crying her heart out. Money, I learnt, is the oil that runs our daily economies.
She had debts to her eye balls, not due to expenditure, but because of her degree. And she will hate me for writing about this; nobody is happy to have their worries and their money problems plastered across forums for others to see.
Poverty in London is when one cannot afford to put food on the table. She either
had to pay the bills,
or
put food on the table and go to jail.

She wouldn't take my money, so I didn't know what to do. I was the villain somehow. I felt as if it was all my fault somehow. Words were useless. My money was useless. And I too felt useless. The problem with reality, is that you can't escape from it. I couldn't write things better.
She told me that she had considered suicide. Life without my twin scared the hell out of me.”

“Dear Ashlynn,

Thank you for your last letter....”

“Dear Eliza,

Of all life's great events, Friday 26th xxxx 20XX, remains closest to my chest. I was amongst the first to arrive at the Exx Cxxxxxth residence. The photographers took their pictures whilst I slipped in. A boy and a girl, both around twelve, sat on the lower bunk of a bunk-bed. The living room housed their parents' dead bodies zipped into body bags, and the rope from which they had hung themselves was still latched upon the ceiling fan. Everybody went about their business; some were shocked, and others gossiped. Apart from taking their statement, nobody sat down to talk with the children.
Forget their story.
Nobody asked them how they were feeling.
They sat alone in a sea of adults, watching them with prying eyes. Their story was an ephemeral one; a front page news headline. Tomorrow, I realized, they would be yesterday's news.”

“Dear Ashlynn,

I use to take everything for granted until my little one died on the birth table. It changed the way I looked at everything. I was like a soldier returning from war. Everything was different. The actual process of my little one dying, felt like it was happening to somebody else. The tragedy was numb to me. I could have died on that table myself, but I seemed so insignificant to the little one. I remember a moment of silence. If I believed in a soul, I would have said that it had left me alone.

The aftermath? You saw what I did to the apartment; I had cried and I cried and I cried, and nothing helped. I felt as if I was going to be miserable for the rest of my life. I started by smashing the plasma on the wall. What is the point of a TV, if you don't have a family to sit in front of it watching? The book cases, the vases, the wine glasses, everything.

It was the darkest of dark nights. I haven't told you this already, but at the end of it all, I just ran out onto the streets, bare foot; I was going crazy; and I'd let go completely. It was raining like it hadn't for years. Freddy chased after me. And I just wanted to run until my legs gave way. Freddy caught up with me on Southwark Bridge. Or maybe it was London Bridge? I'm not sure. And he just pulled me in and just held onto me so tightly. And I remember him saying, break down girl, break down as much as you want. I'll be right there. Waiting to fix you up again when you're ready. This is my story and I get to write the ending, you hear?
Huh, what does a mechanic know about literature? I remember saying. And I remember him laughing. And we just sat on the floor in the rain crying. That is something I will not forget Ashes.
Love is a great thing Ashes. Life can hurt. By god can it hurt. And something beyond even that. But there was light at dawn for me, I hope, the same for others.

Oh look at me sobbing away, you must think so little of me; always crying at a moment's notice. Sorry.”


“Dear Eliza,

Of all life's great events, Sunday 3rd April 20XX remains closest to my chest. I'd left my pen on the writing table and had gone outside to have a look at the city on my doorstep. I looked at everything differently. The light cast on the building in shade, the tramp sleeping in the cold on the pavement, the children playing in the playgrounds, the people going to work. I walked along the pavement observing the world at large; then withdrew my wallet at a flower stand. It was a modest bunch, mum doesn't like extravagant stuff. I walked passed Lloyd’s Bank, and I felt an impulse take hold of me. I emptied my saving account; it didn't have much, so it was symbolic more than anything else.
It took another ten minutes on the DLR to get to my mum's place. I never really thought about what my mum, or any mother goes through when she raises a kid. It's not like I can ever repay the debt in real terms, but it just kind of struck me how awe inspiring mothers can be. I spent more money on my X360 and PS3 last year than I ever have on my mother. It actually feels bizarre to me to give my mum money, but she has bills too, and a hard life all things considered. I could very easily make her life better. Your mother did bring you into existence, I said to myself.
Mum didn't accept the money, even though she needed it, but she thanked me for the flowers. And then she did the thing all mums do, she told me to put my feet up, as she went to make tea. She's hopeless she is, my mum.
Take care,
Ashlynn

Ps. When are you coming back to London?"

"Dear Ashlynn,

Freddy was talking about coming to see ya the other day, and it got me thinking. It was funny that you sent a letter through the snail mail, hardly anyone does that any more. But I guess it puts the distance between us into context, doesn't it? Speaking of which, time is also another way of creating distance, isn't it? I still think about my little one... but your god daughter is a handful, I will admit. Stella made me a fingerprinted handcrafted mother's day card, which made me go dopey eyed in the way only parents can get. I've put it up on the fridge and everything.
...
I don't know what else to say really. I hear you've been having very nice weather in London. Why not go outside and enjoy the rain, eh?
love,
Eliza"


The End.

Ship To Hell (~1910 words)

You could make stains out of a busload of people. You could bunko little old ladies out of their life savings. You could rip the panties off your neighbor while her husband is in the other room. A string of murders all along the Sea of Tranquility is messy, but if that’s your bag, just don’t try that on me. If you think you can get me before I get you, then let’s hash that out and see. If you got the stick and the balls, I’m up to the challenge. Sure, you could take a freight train to hell, but the best way (now I’m not admitting to having tried any other way) is the slowest: a bottle of Venusian ale and a pan of brownies on the concourse of a snail-moving luxury dirigible over the plains of Mars.

Of course, it doesn’t help when a rich guy’s guts are strewn around the pool.

The captain puts me to the task. I’m not a cop, but I told him that I used to be and that I was now a private dick. Pretend dick, more like it. I was bored, and the captain jumped at the chance. His security team was just a bunch of Lhoerans, and we all know that the expression ‘a hair smarter than a Lhoeran’ isn’t a compliment. Lhoerans are dumb. As for the balloon detective who usually handled these things, well, he caught a dose of Archimedean flu, which made him not only super-smart but also super-smug and super-intolerable. Couple that with a hemorrhaging brain, and he was jettisoned in a pod en route to the nearest hospital. The first clue to not screw around with a Denebian is your brain oozing out of your nostrils. Put a magnifying glass to that, Sherlock. In this day and millennium, you have got to know your venereal diseases.

And so, after telling me the finer differences between a balloon and a dirigible, the captain agreed to my services and held out his hand for me to shake. Like gentlemen, I suppose. I sneezed in mine. My mom always told me not to hold in a sneeze or you’ll never be Director General of Earth. Yeah, I don’t really remember what my mom said, but I needed to sneeze anyway. I think he just let me play detective because he didn’t really care. There wasn’t anyone else anyway, and I was the soberest of the candidates. Of course, the truth is I’ve been in the tank since last Phobos rise.

Besides I have a deerstalker hat that I’m itching to wear. I look good in plaid. The game, she is bare-breasted and afoot.

I get my hat, and I get the right tilt on it. Now to get started. But it comes to me that I don’t really know what to do. I mean, what I know about the whole stroke of the law is a small sliver, usually after they’ve done the legwork to find me.

So I start where I usually start. But I hit another wall: there’s no booze in my cabin. I turn things upside down and all around. How could I be out of my ale? The universe is a grand tragedy. Some guy is dead, and I can't get a buzz going. I wonder if it’s considered a good bender if you can’t remember it at all. Damn.

I hit the bar. But they’re out of my favorite. Venusian ale always reminds me of mom. I mull things over with some cheap Kalla ink on the rocks. It tastes like space donkey piss and reminds me nothing of mom. But it gives me a quick buzz and lets me focus for a spell.

Jeffers Mulligan was dead. He was rich. He was powerful. He had clean teeth. He was a big dick. Well, not physically, so they say. But everyone hated him. He had a wife but still groped countless women. He talked down to the wait staff. He took a dump on the shuffleboard course. He was loud. He was eternally drunk. He thought his credits could buy his way out of any trouble. Of course, aboard this ship, it’s a weird ecosystem of limp-wristers surrounded by an underbelly trying to wank off a few credits from them. Mulligan may have had big stones, but who knows who has bigger ones?

I think I remember seeing him around. He had a smug smile that I wanted to wipe off his face. But it’s hard to tell as I look at the corpse. They couldn’t keep the Brumbrums away from Mulligan. First glance says the Brumbrums did it, but they’re karmic vegetarians. Of course, they can say what they want, but they’re basically scavengers, meaning if some corpse happens to come along, then it’s buffet time. But they don’t actively kill. In fact, Brumbrums are mentally wired in such a way that they actually die if they do kill someone. This helped us when we went to war with them. Our Schrödinger catbombs decimated them. Of course, it was a weird war. We had no casualties.

Apparently, the gossip was wrong. Mulligan’s genital was quite big. It looks like he was in the middle of coitus when he was shot in the chest. Someone didn’t have enough time to dump the body over the sides. That’s what I would have done. Might have freaked the hell out of the poor colony farmers down below. Frankly, I think I’m just gonna accuse everyone of the murder and see how they react.

I go to the easiest target I could find. See, if I can get laid, then I can sweep this whole murder thing aside for a bit. But for an easy target, she isn’t so easy. The lesson to take from this is that you try to get laid before accusing her of murder. She slaps me.

I think my nose is bleeding.

I get this red gas giant, a gaseous humanoid being, to admit that he was really a red dwarf wearing lifts. I bring him nearly to tears, that is, if he could condensate. But it doesn’t get me closer to the killer. I think I need a refill of booze. I think I’m a kind drunk.

I get my first useful bit of information from a Kalla squid parasite attached to a wildebeest. It gives me a good lead on Venusian ale. I repay its compliance by not sucking on it for its ink like it’s a teat.

“You talked to me already,” says this Centipedean alien. He’s a former business partner of the victim and got swindled out of millions of credits by Mulligan.

“I did?” I reply. I don’t really recall. Maybe they all just look alike to me.

I must be tired. And sober. I get a little turned on by this tongue flicking in my ear. She’s one of Mulligan’s mistresses and also a female Kurcham, an alien that looks like a zebra with the sloping head of an aardvark. But I don’t know what brings me to my senses more: that she’s a Kurcham or that Mulligan had her in his stable. But I keep her in mind as a suspect; Mulligan might have been in his final throes with her.

This Xeneq lady that Mulligan harassed tempts me, too. “Mmm, baby, let me excite your particles,” she says. Of course, her species emits microwave radiation from her body. I quickly retreat. I fear for my groin. I don’t think interspecial relations are in my wheelhouse.

Later, a porter finds me. He’s this blob thing with a radio box around something like a neck. A squeaky voice comes from the radio box.

“Sir, captain informs that a flight pod missing,” says the porter.

I don’t answer. I wonder if the killer is already gone. But something in my gut tells me that’s not the case.

“Are okay?” he asks.

“What?” I say. “What do you mean?”

“Smell thing,” he says. “It’s leak.”

I wipe my nose. Blood. My nose is bleeding again. I sneeze, and a spritz of red dissipates into the Martian sky.

Nights on Mars always seem like someone’s watching you. I can’t sleep. I remember the tip from the Kalla squid. I head down into the bowels of the dirigible. The screws of the drive propellers are loud, but people having a good time are even louder. I take a peek. No one told me tonight is “upper class gets to screw the ship’s crew” night. It’s a weird orgy. Lots of the hoity-toity vacationers are sandwiched between some of the roughest and tumblest of the deckhands and porters. Piles and piles of people doing some freaky stuff. I see someone having his way with a woman and apparently a humandroid, almost identical to her, one of those freaky sex clones grown from a test tube and usually physically enhanced for your pleasure. I hope that’s champagne spraying around.

I find the Venusian ale that I came for. I sit against the wall and take a swig of the bottle. Mulligan would probably be the first in line to take advantage of all of this depravity. What a dick.

I wake up. My clothes are intact. My orgy virginity remains unbroken.

There I am on the deck of the dirigible. A wind kicks. I hold my hat down. Fresh Mars air makes me want to vomit. I think the altitude is getting to me. Olympus Mons dwarfs the dirigible. People on the deck ooh and aah. Perspective. Maybe that volcano is where I need to see things from. Outside looking in.

Maybe I did it.

Huh…

Did I?

“Sir!” The blobby porter approaches me. “Captain informs second pod missing!”

The shot echoes and bursts my chest. The blobby porter comes to my aid. The porter’s radio box comes to life.

“I’m hijacking this shlomo’s radio,” says a voice. “Hey, oh! Just gotta tell you: I win!”

Bleeding out.

“I bet you remember now,” says the voice. “I’m releasing the mental blocks that wormed up your nose into your brain.”

The game. I met him aboard the dirigible. We were bored. He was a dick. He bragged about being a good hunter for sniping Retegan bearboars stuck in pens. I scoffed. It snowballed from there. You kill me before I kill you. That was the game. If you got the stick and the balls, I’m up to the challenge.

He used a humandroid to fake his death. He left the corpse, so I would see it. He thought my guard would go down, so he could kill me. But Martian nights make me paranoid. All he could do was let the memory worms creep into my brain. Once I forgot the game, I would be easy pickings.

The radio box comes alive again.

“I wish I could see your stupid face dying on the deck,” he says.

“Heh, you’re a bit far off,” I say.

He’s startled. I knock his rifle from his hands before he can even turn around to see me. I punch him a few times. Bloody up his nose to return the favor.

“I used your own trick,” I say. “The thing about memory worms is that they can’t block out strong memories. Venusian ale makes me think of mom.”

I kick him off the side of Olympus Mons and watch his body break as he tumbles down. I win. And I solve this case. I did it.

I blinked. I was surrounded by people. To my left stood a tall dark-skinned man. His dull brown eyes were focused intently on me. Sitting to my right was beautiful fair woman. Her hand grasped my own. Red rings around her eyes and dried tears adorned her face. Between the two was another man dwarfed by the one flanking him, an unnatural shade of grey in his hair clearly an aesthetic preference rather than a symptom of age. None looked out of their twenties.

“Hello,” said the man on the left. “Do you recognize any of us?” I glanced around at the trio once more.

“No,” I replied.

“Ok, good. Now,” he said, holding up his hands. An image materialized in the air.

“Can you tell me what this is?” he continued. A small furry animal danced around in the air.

“That’s a cat. A kitten really.” The people looked pleased. The image shifted to a dense swarm of satellites surrounding a giant star.

“Do you know what this is?”

“It’s a Dyson Swarm.”

“What kind of people would you expect to find around one of them?”

“I wouldn’t, they’re all dream collectives, hedonists or berserker factories. Now can I ask you some question?”

“Of course,” he replied. The others remained motionless.

“Who are you, where am I, and who am I?”

“I am Jacob, he is Richard and she is Andromeda. We are all currently on-board the Theseus, two-point-five astronomical units from a dying star. As for whom you are, well, that’s not for us to decide.” He turned to Andromeda and gave her an encouraging look.

“I know this must be confusing, but we’re just here to greet you. There’s a message waiting for you in the observatory that will clarify your situation,” she said.

“Call up the schematics if you get lost. Oh, and make sure you say hello to Desmond on the way down. He’s in aquaculture,” said Richard, his voice a smooth baritone.

* * *

The Theseus was large. A mobile Island Three habitat, it stretched into the distance, the land strips complementary to the one I was on just barely visible against the starless sky above me. Lights lining walkways activated as I neared them, the ones behind lingering for a few moments before returning to sleep. Each step towards my destination was accompanied by the slight tug of acceleration in the opposite direction. The silence and darkness blended to form an atmosphere that was simultaneously calming and unnerving. I hadn’t seen a single person since reaching the surface, the occupants of the vast structure evidently not fond of sub-zero temperatures only tolerable thanks to the total absence of wind.

The transport hub woke and prepared to traverse the strip. I stepped aboard the maglev car, my implants silently communicating intent. It jerked forward suddenly, and then smoothly settled into its top speed.

* * *

Aquaculture was situated at the front most portion of the ship, or the back if you define the rear as the location of the main engines. They were at that moment in the middle of the decade long deceleration process demanded by traveling at such fractions of c. The large grey wall in front of me turned transparent, a veritable ocean opening up before me. Dead coral and underwater buildings littered the artificial seafloor, stretching around that end of the vessel. The only motion from within came from an octopus that was making its way towards the transparent barrier, evidently interested in the disturbance caused by my presence. I called up the local map without thought, the motions coming to me a though I’d performed them a thousand times before. This was the correct location, but there wasn’t another person for miles. Something was tapping on the wall behind me. I turned to see the cephalopod; the irregular surface of its soft, sand-coloured skin was pressed against the vitrine barrier. A single eye tracked me, the layout of what could be called its head preventing it from training both on a single point. A status display appeared in my field of view. I was taken aback – it was negotiating communications with me.

What are you doing here? The words remained in the air for a brief moment, disappearing as my eyes scanned them.

“I was told to come here to meet Desmond,” I said aloud somewhat awkwardly.

You have found him.

“You aren’t exactly what I was expecting.”

What were you expecting? A dolphin perhaps?

“I was more expecting a man.”

Then why were you surprised? His face twitched.

“A human man. Are you always this difficult?”

I’m not as easy as that little blonde thing you had attached to your arm for the last century, if that’s what you mean He raised a tentacle into up and mimed a pumping motion.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Of course you don’t. That person doesn’t exist anymore. It didn’t stop her from crying about it.

“Who? Andromeda?”

I better not say anything more about that. Don’t want to steal your thunder. I looked at him quizzically.

“Is anybody on this ship going to tell me anything?”

Eventually.

“Where is everybody? I haven’t seen another soul since I woke up.”

They’re in all sorts of places. I don’t have much information on the ones that aren’t onboard the Theseus though. I frowned.

“That’s not what I meant. Why haven’t I seen anybody else? Surely there’s more than just the five of us.”

There isn’t enough power to sustain waking activities for more than a handful of people at a time. Look, you should probably just get to the observatory and play the message.

“Who is this message from, anyway?”

It’s from you. Who else?

* * *

The observatory was a familiar place, although I couldn’t quite recall ever being there before. Telepresence and external optical sensors made the room not only redundant, but also quite dangerous – letting radiation in to see out means no appreciable shielding. That said, it had a certain charm to it. Situated well past the main habitats, the room did not have any appreciable gravity, simulated or otherwise. I kicked off a wall, enjoying the feeling of weightlessness for a few moments. As I reached the other side near a series of reconstructed ancient telescopes, something triggered. A man appeared, projected in front of me.

“Hello,” the recording said. I stood in silence. “This recording will be the only record of me that endures past my lifespan. You might have worked out by now that I have chosen to undergo a death-of-personality. What you probably don’t know is why. I, or you, or this body, has been alive in one form or another for a very long time. We’re not sure exactly how long, but our best guess pegs it at about three-point-two by ten to the twenty-first seconds. This ship, the Theseus, is en route to a dying star. But it isn’t just any star; it’s the last star we will ever be able to reach. Thermodynamics is a cold bitch. We’ve been around since before we were forced to flee Sol, although I certainly don’t remember that. What I do know is that every 5 gigaseconds or so, we purge our memories. Not just you and me, everybody on this ship. If it wasn’t for that, we’d probably have been tired of living an eternity ago. Just trading one death for another I suppose.” He walked across the floor and gazed out a port hole on the wall.
“Andromeda,” he continued. “Love of my life, and many thousands before that. We leapfrog. The memory wipes, you know? We never get done at the same time, so one of us always remembers.” He shook his head “That squid fucker Desmond always hated that soppy shit. He’s a good man though, don’t get me wrong. Oh, and last order of business, you’ll need to think of a name for yourself. It’s kind of a tradition – we never get to learn what the name of our previous incarnation was. I never was good with these things, so I’ll just sign off now before I ramble any further.”

The room went silent.

I appologize for the late entry.

I also preemptively appologize for broken tags, typos etc. Didn't really get much of a chance to proof the thing.

Cyan said:

Hell yeah!

Click to expand...

Yeah, I really want to do one. I'll put it all together once I get the moment, which'll probably be within the next week or so.

Look out for it writer-GAF. I'll drop a line in whatever challenge thread that's going at the time.

hey miri
your very
smelly

f 'n f

Dresden said:

hey miri
your very
smelly

f 'n f

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Dresden, it'll be later, we'll bang then. A vicious lover in the sack, I'll take your game, and hang ten--words--not my toes, that's dirty. That would probably just upset you, then you'd probably just try to hurt me.

Dresden - So Distant, the Sense of Pain
ZephyrFate - Inside the Heart, There is Frost
John Dunbar - First Tragedy, Then Farce (ineligible, please read and crit anyway)
Copernicus - This Forum is My Ride
ianp622 - 30/10
Miri - Policy: Prevention
crowphoenix - About an Untaken Adventure
Tangent - Freedom
Cyan - Far Away Lands: A Rap Battle
False Witness - New East
AnkitT - The Cure
Ashes1396 - "Mother's day" or "Keep on breathing"
DumbNameD - Ship To Hell
ThoseDeafMutes - Cold, Unhappy, Far-off Places

Dresden - put together well, and written with your usual flair; but I've read this kind of thing before. I find the style, the rhetorical devices, dull and dimwitted. And though this is better than others; it's not much better.

Zephyr - isn't a tanto a knife? so why call it a tanto knife? clumsy use of 'insterstice' as well. And this continues throughout. Overwrought. And possibly made what could have been a good story, melodramatic. I'll read this again later, because I didn't get it.

J.D. - You could have easily cut the piece down to a third. There was so much conversation, and pointless conversation at that in the first segment. It was a great story apart from being illegible - due to laziness I guess. Shame on you J.D. This was a winner I felt.

Copernicus - Could do with a few more words.

ianp622 - The numbers to me implied an autistic connection, which then didn't make sense with the relationship aspect, nor the strong resonance with feelings and emotions. Thus it wasn't autistic, which made me wonder what the numbers were about. It was a decent effort, and I liked it fwiw; but a longer piece may have done it justice. Perhaps.

miri - Liked the experimentation. Very quirky. It could fit in a short story collection perhaps, or one part of a longer novel, but as a standalone piece, I lost interest very quickly i.e. the gimmick effect faded pretty quickly. I only read till the end because I had to critique it. Would be better off as a poem I think.

I'm using the American military knife, which is called a 'tanto knife'. Not the Japanese tantō.

There's an American version? ah figures then.

crowphoenix - Impressively detailed, and very stoic ish prose. Multi-layered and very believable. I could relate to the story, and appreciated a very endearing comment on the human condition. Excellent effort. Easy A. But you can do better.
ps. the names feel familiar... the tree story?

Tangent - Was going along with this story swimmingly well. Enjoying the story, as you do, till the 'sex scene'. lol. I couldn't stop laughing... of all the unexpected things... lol.. Okay back to the story. Have to actually finish it now.
...
ooh very clever. Very clever indeed. PETA represent. A good argument was made tangent. Short, but good story.

Cyan - It was cool at first, but grew lame quickly. It was silly season stuff, but I liked it my favourite line were these:

Bored of the rings, your story strings a Brit pastiche beginning
With a Gollum ex machina ending, and a bunch of midgets winning.

Ashes1396 said:

crowphoenix - Impressively detailed, and very stoic ish prose. Multi-layered and very believable. I could relate to the story, and appreciated a very endearing comment on the human condition. Excellent effort. Easy A. But you can do better.
ps. the names feel familiar... the tree story?

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Yeah, it's the same bunch. This is another creative non-fiction piece. I also agree that I could have done more to improve how it was written. There were a couple pretty rough patches here and there. I did my best to smooth them out, but I wasn't able to give it the attention it deserved.

False Witness - A few slip ups in grammar, but the main point in contention is the drawing out of names. Too many names were introduced in a flutter at the end, resulting in needless confusion. Otherwise a fine story. If this is your first entry, it was a very good debut.

AnkitT - A noticeable of improvement from your previous effort, prose, wise, but still a lot of work needed. But perhaps British grammar is different from other parts of the world, so maybe, I'm being unfair. Having said that J.D. 'claims' English is his second language, so, between both of you, I'd say you need to work on that or need to emulate a more literary style, rather than your colloquial conversational style; as you dialect is interfering in your story telling. Again, this implies bias from my side. Native Indian audiences, might be completely indifferent.
Anyways, liked the social commentary. I liked what you did with conversation. simple but effective.
Story started getting interesting, but I don't know what happened at the end there. You've ended with an explosion a few times now. I found it funny. Don't really know if that was intentional. p.s your grammar always seems to be better in the second half. Maybe you are a better writer when you just free your self up a bit.