Sharon grinned. The party was going wonderfully. She was a success, and she was popular. Beautiful people in gorgeous costumes swung casually back and forth in time to airy classical music; a sonata by Brahms. She surveyed the crowd as she descended the ornate grand staircase, slowly descending the red crushed velvet and rose petals. Swirling dresses parted as she crossed the floor, revealing a tall, handsome man with blue steel eyes, wearing a perfectly-pressed tuxedo. His eyebrows waggled charmingly as she approached, and a jocular smile revealed perfectly set, sparkling white teeth.
"Sharon! I'm having a lovely time. You really do throw a wonderful party. The Countess is so impressed she's asked if she could consult with you on her daughter's wedding plans. Oh! And the President has been looking for you. He said your plan for improving bipartisanship in the Senate is inspiring, and I believe he mentioned that you look rather fetching with the pearl necklace."
He paused to adjust his backpack
"Although I must say, I haven't been seeing you in class lately."
"What?" Somewhere in the distance, there was a sound like a violin string breaking.
"In class? It's finals week. I mean, you haven't been there in weeks. I wish I had your confidence, I mean, this is really hard material. If I wasn't studying eight hours a day I'd be totally unprepared, and you don't even come to class."
"Oh my god! Graduate-level Advanced Philosophical Calculus! I have it every Thursday, and I haven't been going! I'm screwed!"
She covered her mouth, leaning on the chalkboard. Her tooth was loose. Gingerly, she tugged on it, and it gave easily. It clattered to the ground, and she looked in the bathroom mirror. All of her teeth were loose! She tugged one out, and another, staring in horror as the sink slowly filled with her teeth. Her adult teeth, and she'd never get them back!
"Ms. Sharon?" It was the President. "I... oh. I see you're busy."
Nick sat innocently in the next seat on the bus, watching Sharon with interest as she groaned, her face pressed against the glass. She was furrowing her brow and biting her lip, and she looked cute. Scared out of her mind and confused, but cute. Carefully, he glanced around. The girls were in the back, reading magazines to kill time. Philo was chatting with the bus driver. Lisa and Kris were playing euchre, and everybody else was asleep. It had been a long bus ride.
Satisfied that everyone was busy, Nick carefully placed a hand on either side of Sharon's head, and lifted the headphones off her ears. He then slung them around his neck and lowered his hood over them. Notebook in hand, he watched as her expression calmed. The flush left her cheeks, and she relaxed. He made a note, adding "Malevolum" next to her reaction, then checking his playlist.
"Yup. Malevolum seems like a success."
"Huh? Nick? Is that you?" Sharon stirred, then shook her head as she woke up.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Saturday, August 13, 2011
The Police Force
Rodney Rourk rolled over in bed and glared at his alarm clock. It was 12:59AM. Before he could move, the digital face flickered, and his apartment filled with insistent buzzing. A bolt of lightning arced across the room, missing the clock and leaving a fourth scorchmark on the wall. The clock continued to buzz aggravatingly. Struggling out of bed, he stalked over to the clock, and wrenched it out of the wall.
Sitting on the side of his coffee table, he began getting dressed. The leotard was a trick because it was too tight--he was due for a new one, but he couldn't afford it. The heat wave had broken, but it was still too early to switch over to the combat boots. He was tired anyway; the climbing shoes would have to do. He tugged the strap of the Dynamo Trigger and tightened the utility belt over his blue and yellow jumpsuit. He surveyed his apartment as he straightened up. Empty takeout containers covered the kitchen table, a stack of crumpled letters and notices were beginning to spill out of the cushion of his favorite chair. A spider hung smugly from a poster of a handsome man in a mask. "Yeah. Really clever. My life is full of subtle metaphors." Standing, he pulled on his lightning-bold smile balaclava, and it was the Lightningrod Kid that climbed onto the fire escape.
"Anything tonight?" The Reticent Rodent settled into a folding chair next to him. The Lightningrod Kid shook his head.
"Just, you know. Some drunks. It's bar time. I was going to spark a guy, but I don't need another lawsuit, y'know? He only tipped over a moped." The Rodent nodded.
"You bring the Mother's Ear?"
"Yeah." The Reticent Rodent dropped the cheaply made ham radio onto the table. There was a hand-stenciled J on the lid, an artifact of the machine's original owner, the Justice.
"Don't know why I bother with the damn thing. Most places can't even use the Crybaby any more. You know I found out that Behnke Insurance will drop anybody with a working model Crybaby in-house? They don't want customers that deal with us." They lapsed into silence for a moment.
"Hey, you hear about the Detonatrix? She got off. Turns out half the evidence was contaminated because Captain Justice collected it and he refused to reveal his identity. He even stole a crucial piece of evidence so he could 'examine it on the Justice Computer'. Without all that stuff, they couldn't convict her of anything. Not a thing."
The Rodent snorted. "She's been involved in a dozen heists in the last two years. Heck, last week I busted her for blowing up parked cars down on Second Avenue. She said she just needed to unwind after the preliminary trial."
"I know, man. She's been operating a long time. I can't believe they can't pull any usable testimony anywhere. I mean, I was there when she worked for the Hurtful Stereotype and crashed the East High prom."
"You went to East back then? Holy crap, I bet you knew my... uh." The Reticent Rodent ran his hand across the back of his cowl.
"Nah, it's okay. I didn't go there; my girlfriend did. She broke up with me, though. I ditched her to fight some of the 'type's goons, and she thought I rabbited. It was ridiculous. I almost told her my secret identity just to get her back. "
The two superheroes sit in silence for a minute, leaning over the roof. The Reticent Rodent wiped his eyes.
"This sucks, man."
"What, about my ex or the Detonatrix going free?"
"No, yeah, that too. It's just that I got fired two days ago."
"You got fired? From what?" The Lightningrod Kid grimaced behind his balaclava. Obviously he wasn't getting fired from hanging out on rooftops in the middle of the night. C'mon, Rodney.
"My job. I mean, I was out here almost every night. I haven't gotten a good night's sleep since that kidnapping attempt of my-- of that woman I know. So my performance at work started suffering. I've been doing six hour patrols for three weeks because I can't sleep. I knew it was coming, and that just made it worse. Last week I caught a drug dealer and I hung him over the side of a building until he cried for his mommy, and the only reason I didn't drop him anyway was because Foxtrot pulled me back. I'm so tired, man."
The Lightningrod Kid looked at him. He had known the Reticent Rodent for as long as either of them had worn the mask. They had foiled bank robberies, museum heists, and more than one inexplicable plan to hold the city hostage with a weather machine. He'd never thought of RR as having a job or anything. Nobody asked--it was rude. No, it was worse than rude. It was suspicious, and capes were paranoid and violent. Most of them had tons of psychopathic personal enemies, not to mention lawsuits, summons, and probably a couple warrants. The less other people knew about you, the better, and it held true for what you knew about them. After all, if you knew something about someone else, you were a target, right? Psychopathic enemies and all. The Kid realized he'd never even wondered what RR might do for a living. That he might even have a life outside. Unsure of how to respond or what to do, he just clapped RR on the shoulder.
"You'll figure it out, man. This stuff passes."
"No, it doesn't. I thought about it, and I'm out. Done with this bullshit. I wanted to tell somebody. Let 'em know I'm okay before I retire."
There was a shrill cry, and a light on the Ear lit up. The Reticent Rodent slumped in his chair. "You kidding me? My last freaking night and we get a robbery in progress. What're the odds."
The robbery was the type that the Lightningrod Kid had gotten used to. Punks smashed in the window in a third-rate jewelry store. No evidence of planning, lots of yelling and ski masks.
Sitting on the side of his coffee table, he began getting dressed. The leotard was a trick because it was too tight--he was due for a new one, but he couldn't afford it. The heat wave had broken, but it was still too early to switch over to the combat boots. He was tired anyway; the climbing shoes would have to do. He tugged the strap of the Dynamo Trigger and tightened the utility belt over his blue and yellow jumpsuit. He surveyed his apartment as he straightened up. Empty takeout containers covered the kitchen table, a stack of crumpled letters and notices were beginning to spill out of the cushion of his favorite chair. A spider hung smugly from a poster of a handsome man in a mask. "Yeah. Really clever. My life is full of subtle metaphors." Standing, he pulled on his lightning-bold smile balaclava, and it was the Lightningrod Kid that climbed onto the fire escape.
"Anything tonight?" The Reticent Rodent settled into a folding chair next to him. The Lightningrod Kid shook his head.
"Just, you know. Some drunks. It's bar time. I was going to spark a guy, but I don't need another lawsuit, y'know? He only tipped over a moped." The Rodent nodded.
"You bring the Mother's Ear?"
"Yeah." The Reticent Rodent dropped the cheaply made ham radio onto the table. There was a hand-stenciled J on the lid, an artifact of the machine's original owner, the Justice.
"Don't know why I bother with the damn thing. Most places can't even use the Crybaby any more. You know I found out that Behnke Insurance will drop anybody with a working model Crybaby in-house? They don't want customers that deal with us." They lapsed into silence for a moment.
"Hey, you hear about the Detonatrix? She got off. Turns out half the evidence was contaminated because Captain Justice collected it and he refused to reveal his identity. He even stole a crucial piece of evidence so he could 'examine it on the Justice Computer'. Without all that stuff, they couldn't convict her of anything. Not a thing."
The Rodent snorted. "She's been involved in a dozen heists in the last two years. Heck, last week I busted her for blowing up parked cars down on Second Avenue. She said she just needed to unwind after the preliminary trial."
"I know, man. She's been operating a long time. I can't believe they can't pull any usable testimony anywhere. I mean, I was there when she worked for the Hurtful Stereotype and crashed the East High prom."
"You went to East back then? Holy crap, I bet you knew my... uh." The Reticent Rodent ran his hand across the back of his cowl.
"Nah, it's okay. I didn't go there; my girlfriend did. She broke up with me, though. I ditched her to fight some of the 'type's goons, and she thought I rabbited. It was ridiculous. I almost told her my secret identity just to get her back. "
The two superheroes sit in silence for a minute, leaning over the roof. The Reticent Rodent wiped his eyes.
"This sucks, man."
"What, about my ex or the Detonatrix going free?"
"No, yeah, that too. It's just that I got fired two days ago."
"You got fired? From what?" The Lightningrod Kid grimaced behind his balaclava. Obviously he wasn't getting fired from hanging out on rooftops in the middle of the night. C'mon, Rodney.
"My job. I mean, I was out here almost every night. I haven't gotten a good night's sleep since that kidnapping attempt of my-- of that woman I know. So my performance at work started suffering. I've been doing six hour patrols for three weeks because I can't sleep. I knew it was coming, and that just made it worse. Last week I caught a drug dealer and I hung him over the side of a building until he cried for his mommy, and the only reason I didn't drop him anyway was because Foxtrot pulled me back. I'm so tired, man."
The Lightningrod Kid looked at him. He had known the Reticent Rodent for as long as either of them had worn the mask. They had foiled bank robberies, museum heists, and more than one inexplicable plan to hold the city hostage with a weather machine. He'd never thought of RR as having a job or anything. Nobody asked--it was rude. No, it was worse than rude. It was suspicious, and capes were paranoid and violent. Most of them had tons of psychopathic personal enemies, not to mention lawsuits, summons, and probably a couple warrants. The less other people knew about you, the better, and it held true for what you knew about them. After all, if you knew something about someone else, you were a target, right? Psychopathic enemies and all. The Kid realized he'd never even wondered what RR might do for a living. That he might even have a life outside. Unsure of how to respond or what to do, he just clapped RR on the shoulder.
"You'll figure it out, man. This stuff passes."
"No, it doesn't. I thought about it, and I'm out. Done with this bullshit. I wanted to tell somebody. Let 'em know I'm okay before I retire."
There was a shrill cry, and a light on the Ear lit up. The Reticent Rodent slumped in his chair. "You kidding me? My last freaking night and we get a robbery in progress. What're the odds."
The robbery was the type that the Lightningrod Kid had gotten used to. Punks smashed in the window in a third-rate jewelry store. No evidence of planning, lots of yelling and ski masks.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Metaphors
The Kark settled comfortably on the creaking boards and regarded the room critically. A hole had been torn into the wall and part of the floor, leaving an opening that emptied out into one of Eblinfort's familiar, vertiginous avenues. The Kark idly pondered the strange architectural convention; small, shed-like buildings haphazardly tacked onto vast, wooden walls. From his vantage he could see dozens, leaning on thick supports over the inexplicable precipice.
He exhaled comfortably, and watched the blue column rise through the rafters. Little yellow flowers bloomed in the haze, then turned orange, and drooped. The sun blazed a magnificent, fiery red as it set over the vast panorama. Through the lone, narrow doorframe, the Kark could hear a vicious clank and hiss. The flat metal head snaked out on a sinewy neck, and slowly the body sidled behind it, metal claws scrabbling for purchase in the tight corridor. Finally it was framed by the doorway, hind legs pressed against the wall, front legs crouched to hurl its entire bulk against the still figure of the Kark. Shriveled petals drifted with smoke on a lazy breeze.
"Go ahead, jump. Not as though I have a bunch of time left, anyhow." Across the chasm, a red figure was dashing along a rooftop, pursued by hunched creatures struggling to level heavy rifles. The Kark put out his cigarette.
There was a gentle buzzing. The ghoul shifted its shoulders, causing its glassy-eyed rider to loll his head. Slowly, one huge claw extended into the room, and set down gently on the floor. Nothing happened. Suddenly, it hauled itself to its feet and jammed through the doorway, cracking the frame and leaving deep scores in the wood. Forepaws closed on leather-clad wrist, and the ghoul wrenched the Kark onto his back, pinning his arms. The flat head swiveled away, revealing a neck composed principally of glossy surgical implements. There was a flat slap, and the Kark's head was pinned to the floor under a strap. He kicked brutally against the machine's steel underbelly, rolling on his back to try and free his head. There was the gentle whirring of a circular saw, and a sickening crunch.
The saw stopped, and the head twisted back into position, casting around.
He exhaled comfortably, and watched the blue column rise through the rafters. Little yellow flowers bloomed in the haze, then turned orange, and drooped. The sun blazed a magnificent, fiery red as it set over the vast panorama. Through the lone, narrow doorframe, the Kark could hear a vicious clank and hiss. The flat metal head snaked out on a sinewy neck, and slowly the body sidled behind it, metal claws scrabbling for purchase in the tight corridor. Finally it was framed by the doorway, hind legs pressed against the wall, front legs crouched to hurl its entire bulk against the still figure of the Kark. Shriveled petals drifted with smoke on a lazy breeze.
"Go ahead, jump. Not as though I have a bunch of time left, anyhow." Across the chasm, a red figure was dashing along a rooftop, pursued by hunched creatures struggling to level heavy rifles. The Kark put out his cigarette.
There was a gentle buzzing. The ghoul shifted its shoulders, causing its glassy-eyed rider to loll his head. Slowly, one huge claw extended into the room, and set down gently on the floor. Nothing happened. Suddenly, it hauled itself to its feet and jammed through the doorway, cracking the frame and leaving deep scores in the wood. Forepaws closed on leather-clad wrist, and the ghoul wrenched the Kark onto his back, pinning his arms. The flat head swiveled away, revealing a neck composed principally of glossy surgical implements. There was a flat slap, and the Kark's head was pinned to the floor under a strap. He kicked brutally against the machine's steel underbelly, rolling on his back to try and free his head. There was the gentle whirring of a circular saw, and a sickening crunch.
The saw stopped, and the head twisted back into position, casting around.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Diagnosis
Kingsley lay on his back, completely silent except for ragged breathing. His chest ached and his throat whistled as he struggled to silence himself, listening for the familiar sounds of pursuit. There it was, pistons pumping, the arrhythmic thumping of footfalls, and the always-faint sound of buzzing static. Dust rained from the ceiling in time with the mechanical juddering. Then, there was a pause, and the keening static sharpened. Kingsley felt his lungs kicking and screaming, begging his mouth to open for just a tiny second. The roof groaned in relief, and the ghoul's mechanical cacophony faded. Kingsley inhaled deeply, then caught himself again, listening intently. He gratefully heaved a series of truncated, wheezing sighs.
He quickly took stock of the room. Spears of afternoon sunlight decorated the room, illuminating floating dust particles. There was a chair, and a mostly bare table. A cabinet leaned away from the table, slumped against the wall. Scraps of rotten felt hung from its face, revealing transistors and tubes inside. A pair of dials poked tantalizing from the face, below a line of numbers. Kingsley put his ear to the machine and gently turned one dial as far as it would go, then all the way back. Nothing happened. He tried the other, and nothing continued.
Kingsley idly adjusted the dials, and smiled dizzily. The dial smiled back. "Hi. Hey, listen, could you watch my back for me? I'm so tired. I haven't slept in days and it feels like I've been running for hours. I just need some rest." He stared at the machine, and, nodding in satisfaction, slumped to the floor fast asleep.
Hours passed. A chirrup of static startled Kingsley awake. Eye wide, he struggled to get on his feet. His arms flailed wildly. He was tangled! Something had caught him in a net. He nearly got his feet, stumbled, and hit the ground. Frantically, he rolled, kicking his legs wildly and overturning the table. In his peripheral vision he saw the dial. "You! You did this! You betrayed me! I trusted yo--"
Kingsley paused in mid-sentence, crouched halfway across the room. A small bird was looking at him from a roost behind the tattered felt. It chirruped and hopped to a tiny crossbeam, head tilted inquisitively, then fluttered away. His jacket lay in the middle of the floor, the buttons ripped where he'd struggled to escape them in a sleepy panic. Embarrassed, he pulled it on and tried to recover a sense of dignity in case anybody was watching
The wall on the far side of the room was different from the others. Kingsley pressed his palm against it, and it tipped over. There was a whispering sound. As Kingsley gingerly stepped over the demolished dividing wall, he saw stacks and stacks of paper. Paths with deep grooves had been carefully established; moveable walls, desks, and chairs had been conscripted into stemming the encroaching mounds. Machines mounted on stands and joists stood above the paper, stretching to make themselves seen, and past them was a square of darkness. Kingsley strove towards it with purpose.
"We're making progress. Put a door between you and it, then another door." The paper-whisper quiet was making him nervous. He picked his way through the stacks, pausing to inspect the mysterious instruments. Striated paper hung from little doors, imprinted with Ebling's familiar blocky language. Suddenly, there was a terrifying squawk, and the paper began moving. It fed jerkily out onto the floor, pulled by the weight of sheets fed out into the disarray. The trail of paper led outwards between stacks of yellowing paper, and spilled over the edge of a balcony into a vast atrium. Stacks graduated to heaps, and heaps to mountains. On the slopes of green bar, impressive trees groped along with gnarled roots. Continuous stationary blew in streamers from high windows and hung vinelike from balconies, and a light wind gently rustled the peaks.
Off-tune humming jarred Kingsley from his curiosity. He bit his lip and crouched, fighting the urge to rabbit for the door. His caution was rewarded; a tall figure slouched through the doorway, leaning heavily on a cart. Its eyes betrayed a now-familiar glow; the zombie bobbed his head in time with its own humming, swinging a thick cord that stretched from the side of its head to a canister. It drew up alongside one of the machines, and with a smooth motion jerked the end of the cable out of the cart and into a jack on the face. The machine began its litany of protest, and the scurrying paper trail fluttered over the edge. In the midst of the horrifying noise, Kingsley saw his opportunity and ducked low, slinking purposefully towards the exit.
"Ah! You nearly gave me a heart attack!" Kingsley froze. The zombie had rotated to face him, a hand on its chest.
"Don't creep about like that! You'll catch hell, sneaking up on a body like that. You're late, too, you know. You were supposed to come in here and give me a break. Do you know how long I've been here? Six hours. Six hours without a break!" The zombie pointed at a motionless clock mounted on the wall.
"I've been here, you know, getting the readings, recording result, entering in all these numbers. It's been exhausting, I don't mind telling you. Sometimes I don't think it's ever going to end. Seems like the clock hasn't moved an inch in ages." A spring ricocheted out of the clock and landed, spinning, at Kingsley's feet.
"I tell you they work my fingers to the bone, without any thanks. Nobody cares! Nobody appreciates me! I've been putting collecting the results all day, but I don't think they've sent someone down from cataloging to pick them up at all. Until I saw you there, I thought I was completely alone in this place. Had half a mind to just go home. Leave a note for the supervisor and just go home. Anyway, listen, I'll be back in a few. I just need to pop out, stretch the old legs, you know." The cable clicked out, and into the cart, and the zombie scuttled away.
As soon as it reached the door, Kingsley dashed to the balcony. The paper would probably soften his fall of he jumped. So there was an option. He considered trying to climb back through the hole in the roof. There was a mechanical clatter and for an instant Kingsley could see the ghoul as clear as day in his head, metal claws gleaming, sinewy neck twisting the head back and forth. Kingsley took a running leap. As the paper became more legible, Kingsley began to ponder the wisdom of his decision. Paper crumpled as he connected with the first peak, rolling down the side amidst flapping, ripping sheets. The paper avalanched, and again Kingsley wondered if hole would have been a wiser decision. Finally he came to a stop, rivers of paper still flowing into the valley. The balcony looked far away, although Kingsley rarely trusted his depth perception any more.
The zombie came bursting out onto the balcony, yelling inaudibly from his position and shaking his fist. The amicable yellow glow was red-tinged now. "Ripped... lazy ba... running out on the job... unsorting... stacks!"
Kingsley stumbled away, struggling to right himself on the paper. Streams of papers drifted past, words shouting noiselessly at him.
He quickly took stock of the room. Spears of afternoon sunlight decorated the room, illuminating floating dust particles. There was a chair, and a mostly bare table. A cabinet leaned away from the table, slumped against the wall. Scraps of rotten felt hung from its face, revealing transistors and tubes inside. A pair of dials poked tantalizing from the face, below a line of numbers. Kingsley put his ear to the machine and gently turned one dial as far as it would go, then all the way back. Nothing happened. He tried the other, and nothing continued.
Kingsley idly adjusted the dials, and smiled dizzily. The dial smiled back. "Hi. Hey, listen, could you watch my back for me? I'm so tired. I haven't slept in days and it feels like I've been running for hours. I just need some rest." He stared at the machine, and, nodding in satisfaction, slumped to the floor fast asleep.
Hours passed. A chirrup of static startled Kingsley awake. Eye wide, he struggled to get on his feet. His arms flailed wildly. He was tangled! Something had caught him in a net. He nearly got his feet, stumbled, and hit the ground. Frantically, he rolled, kicking his legs wildly and overturning the table. In his peripheral vision he saw the dial. "You! You did this! You betrayed me! I trusted yo--"
Kingsley paused in mid-sentence, crouched halfway across the room. A small bird was looking at him from a roost behind the tattered felt. It chirruped and hopped to a tiny crossbeam, head tilted inquisitively, then fluttered away. His jacket lay in the middle of the floor, the buttons ripped where he'd struggled to escape them in a sleepy panic. Embarrassed, he pulled it on and tried to recover a sense of dignity in case anybody was watching
The wall on the far side of the room was different from the others. Kingsley pressed his palm against it, and it tipped over. There was a whispering sound. As Kingsley gingerly stepped over the demolished dividing wall, he saw stacks and stacks of paper. Paths with deep grooves had been carefully established; moveable walls, desks, and chairs had been conscripted into stemming the encroaching mounds. Machines mounted on stands and joists stood above the paper, stretching to make themselves seen, and past them was a square of darkness. Kingsley strove towards it with purpose.
"We're making progress. Put a door between you and it, then another door." The paper-whisper quiet was making him nervous. He picked his way through the stacks, pausing to inspect the mysterious instruments. Striated paper hung from little doors, imprinted with Ebling's familiar blocky language. Suddenly, there was a terrifying squawk, and the paper began moving. It fed jerkily out onto the floor, pulled by the weight of sheets fed out into the disarray. The trail of paper led outwards between stacks of yellowing paper, and spilled over the edge of a balcony into a vast atrium. Stacks graduated to heaps, and heaps to mountains. On the slopes of green bar, impressive trees groped along with gnarled roots. Continuous stationary blew in streamers from high windows and hung vinelike from balconies, and a light wind gently rustled the peaks.
Off-tune humming jarred Kingsley from his curiosity. He bit his lip and crouched, fighting the urge to rabbit for the door. His caution was rewarded; a tall figure slouched through the doorway, leaning heavily on a cart. Its eyes betrayed a now-familiar glow; the zombie bobbed his head in time with its own humming, swinging a thick cord that stretched from the side of its head to a canister. It drew up alongside one of the machines, and with a smooth motion jerked the end of the cable out of the cart and into a jack on the face. The machine began its litany of protest, and the scurrying paper trail fluttered over the edge. In the midst of the horrifying noise, Kingsley saw his opportunity and ducked low, slinking purposefully towards the exit.
"Ah! You nearly gave me a heart attack!" Kingsley froze. The zombie had rotated to face him, a hand on its chest.
"Don't creep about like that! You'll catch hell, sneaking up on a body like that. You're late, too, you know. You were supposed to come in here and give me a break. Do you know how long I've been here? Six hours. Six hours without a break!" The zombie pointed at a motionless clock mounted on the wall.
"I've been here, you know, getting the readings, recording result, entering in all these numbers. It's been exhausting, I don't mind telling you. Sometimes I don't think it's ever going to end. Seems like the clock hasn't moved an inch in ages." A spring ricocheted out of the clock and landed, spinning, at Kingsley's feet.
"I tell you they work my fingers to the bone, without any thanks. Nobody cares! Nobody appreciates me! I've been putting collecting the results all day, but I don't think they've sent someone down from cataloging to pick them up at all. Until I saw you there, I thought I was completely alone in this place. Had half a mind to just go home. Leave a note for the supervisor and just go home. Anyway, listen, I'll be back in a few. I just need to pop out, stretch the old legs, you know." The cable clicked out, and into the cart, and the zombie scuttled away.
As soon as it reached the door, Kingsley dashed to the balcony. The paper would probably soften his fall of he jumped. So there was an option. He considered trying to climb back through the hole in the roof. There was a mechanical clatter and for an instant Kingsley could see the ghoul as clear as day in his head, metal claws gleaming, sinewy neck twisting the head back and forth. Kingsley took a running leap. As the paper became more legible, Kingsley began to ponder the wisdom of his decision. Paper crumpled as he connected with the first peak, rolling down the side amidst flapping, ripping sheets. The paper avalanched, and again Kingsley wondered if hole would have been a wiser decision. Finally he came to a stop, rivers of paper still flowing into the valley. The balcony looked far away, although Kingsley rarely trusted his depth perception any more.
The zombie came bursting out onto the balcony, yelling inaudibly from his position and shaking his fist. The amicable yellow glow was red-tinged now. "Ripped... lazy ba... running out on the job... unsorting... stacks!"
Kingsley stumbled away, struggling to right himself on the paper. Streams of papers drifted past, words shouting noiselessly at him.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
For a moment Celie just felt weightless, hanging in space. There was no sound and no feeling, just the sickening realization that she'd been pitched out of the window. Kingsley and the Kark leaned after her, arms outstretched, mouths moving noiselessly. Hadn't she been here before? She definitely remembered the falling.
Sensation got its bearings and suddenly Celie felt wood. And pain. Her arm was broken, and from the feel of it, so was at least one rib. The dispassionate analysis of her own body's frailties made her feel better, and the pain at least let her know that she was alive; few people were better acquainted with the dead's threshold for unfeeling. She righted herself and peered around in the gloom. A canopy of floors hung high in the air over her, supported by flimsy beams and columns loaded with arches and superfluous looking hoses and pipes. A pool of light descended from the cracks where the building above was leaning out of the way, its supports bent at vast multi-edged hinges. She set one hand on the boardwalk that had broken her fall and bones, and leaned back to look for her friends. A pack of cigarettes landed at her feet, and the rushing sound of two bodies falling through space.
Kingsley landed heavily in a falling roll. Celie was impressed, it didn't look as though he'd broken anything. Out in the water there was a splash and muffled cursing. The Kark became visible, bobbing amongst concentric rings. "M' cigs make it okay?" He began swimming towards them, and overhead there was a cacophony of creaks and crunches. Their former hideout suddenly swung, supports straightening and columns leaning back into place. Huge arms descended from its neighbors and gentled worked it back into place, sealing up the tiny portal of light.
Sensation got its bearings and suddenly Celie felt wood. And pain. Her arm was broken, and from the feel of it, so was at least one rib. The dispassionate analysis of her own body's frailties made her feel better, and the pain at least let her know that she was alive; few people were better acquainted with the dead's threshold for unfeeling. She righted herself and peered around in the gloom. A canopy of floors hung high in the air over her, supported by flimsy beams and columns loaded with arches and superfluous looking hoses and pipes. A pool of light descended from the cracks where the building above was leaning out of the way, its supports bent at vast multi-edged hinges. She set one hand on the boardwalk that had broken her fall and bones, and leaned back to look for her friends. A pack of cigarettes landed at her feet, and the rushing sound of two bodies falling through space.
Kingsley landed heavily in a falling roll. Celie was impressed, it didn't look as though he'd broken anything. Out in the water there was a splash and muffled cursing. The Kark became visible, bobbing amongst concentric rings. "M' cigs make it okay?" He began swimming towards them, and overhead there was a cacophony of creaks and crunches. Their former hideout suddenly swung, supports straightening and columns leaning back into place. Huge arms descended from its neighbors and gentled worked it back into place, sealing up the tiny portal of light.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Animals to use
Kutchicetus
Eight foot long, furred icthyophage precursor to whales.
Hoe-tusker
Early swampland elephant with backward-curving tusks and short trunk
Gomphothere
Swampland elephant with shovel-like lower teeth
Thalassocnus
Swimming sloth.
Megatherium
Giant Ground Sloth
Doedicurus
Spike-tailed armadillo precursor
Glyptodont
Heavily armored armadillo precursor
Terror birds
Carnivorous, bipedal birds up to seven feet tall. Some may have communicated by clapping their beaks open and shut.
Eight foot long, furred icthyophage precursor to whales.
Hoe-tusker
Early swampland elephant with backward-curving tusks and short trunk
Gomphothere
Swampland elephant with shovel-like lower teeth
Thalassocnus
Swimming sloth.
Megatherium
Giant Ground Sloth
Doedicurus
Spike-tailed armadillo precursor
Glyptodont
Heavily armored armadillo precursor
Terror birds
Carnivorous, bipedal birds up to seven feet tall. Some may have communicated by clapping their beaks open and shut.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Those Meddling Kids
The object of the game is to find the treasure hidden somewhere on each map. While you're searching, however, meddling kids are not only also trying to find the treasure but they're trying to apprehend you. As a result, you must also try to frighten them into giving up the search and give you time to find the treasure for yourself. Careful, though, if they get it together for long enough they may try to spring traps on you!
Different meddling kids are afraid of different things and have different degrees of resilience. Some will run away from a mouse; others won't flee until a man in an eight foot tall monster costume bum rushes them. Kids in a group are harder to frighten. Convince them to split up and misdirect them in order to make them more susceptible to your fear attacks.
Props
Props set a tone for your interlopers and can creep them out. Effectively combining them with a costume can increase its believability and scare away kids. Using the wrong ones can punch holes in your identity and make them more credulous. Certain props produce effective results regardless of use.
Wacky Mirror
Coffin
Quote-unquote Gypsy
Red Herring
Patsy
Traps
Traps can separate and misdirect kids.
Rotating Bookcase
Trap Door
Automatic Ghost Projector
False signage
Collapsing Stairs
Easy Reach Light Switch
One-way locking doors
Meddling Kids
The Leader--He's guaranteed to make any group he's in split up to investigate multiple hallways. Easy to frighten when alone, but meeting an ally will strengthen his resolve.
The Amorous Couple--These two will sneak off to make out. Have a high threshold for terror while together but easy to spook if separated.
The Ditz--She'll pull a lever, push a button, and stand on a trap door. If there is a trap in the room she's guaranteed to find it and activate it. Careful leaving active traps around that you don't want her to spring!
The Plucky Girl Detective--Unflappable, difficult to scare, and practically impervious to many traps. Separate her from the group as soon as possible. Pair her with a Brothers Sleuth to make her more vulnerable to your tricks.
The Unsinkable Slacker--Low threshold for fear but rallies quickly. Careful when chasing him, he may be a decoy!
The Brothers Sleuth--These two are most effective when working together. Their ability to notice traps is high unless there's a girl in the group.
The Gumshoe--Reversed fear modifier; will immediately leave unless frightened. Lead him away from suspicious clues as quickly as possible.
Different meddling kids are afraid of different things and have different degrees of resilience. Some will run away from a mouse; others won't flee until a man in an eight foot tall monster costume bum rushes them. Kids in a group are harder to frighten. Convince them to split up and misdirect them in order to make them more susceptible to your fear attacks.
Props
Props set a tone for your interlopers and can creep them out. Effectively combining them with a costume can increase its believability and scare away kids. Using the wrong ones can punch holes in your identity and make them more credulous. Certain props produce effective results regardless of use.
Wacky Mirror
Coffin
Quote-unquote Gypsy
Red Herring
Patsy
Traps
Traps can separate and misdirect kids.
Rotating Bookcase
Trap Door
Automatic Ghost Projector
False signage
Collapsing Stairs
Easy Reach Light Switch
One-way locking doors
Meddling Kids
The Leader--He's guaranteed to make any group he's in split up to investigate multiple hallways. Easy to frighten when alone, but meeting an ally will strengthen his resolve.
The Amorous Couple--These two will sneak off to make out. Have a high threshold for terror while together but easy to spook if separated.
The Ditz--She'll pull a lever, push a button, and stand on a trap door. If there is a trap in the room she's guaranteed to find it and activate it. Careful leaving active traps around that you don't want her to spring!
The Plucky Girl Detective--Unflappable, difficult to scare, and practically impervious to many traps. Separate her from the group as soon as possible. Pair her with a Brothers Sleuth to make her more vulnerable to your tricks.
The Unsinkable Slacker--Low threshold for fear but rallies quickly. Careful when chasing him, he may be a decoy!
The Brothers Sleuth--These two are most effective when working together. Their ability to notice traps is high unless there's a girl in the group.
The Gumshoe--Reversed fear modifier; will immediately leave unless frightened. Lead him away from suspicious clues as quickly as possible.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Aliens
Aliens are a fascinating phenomena, because they're so uniquely boring. For the most part, they appear to be simple caricatures of humans. They often contain the most basic, elemental structures: the eyes and the mouth, a head separated from the trunk by a neck, and four limbs arranged for bipedal motion and freeing the hands for independent manipulation.
The idea that people are not alone in the universe is not a strange one, it's quite old. The idea that humans are the dunces of the interstellar community is not strange either. Naturally humans don't have readily available space travel of any kind, so it seems only natural that extraterrestrials would visit us, instead of vice versa. It seems only natural that aliens would develop along the same path we did. People striving to get really creative may take familiar elements and add them to humanity to create plausible aliens.
Generally, it's taken for granted that aliens are more advanced than us simply because it makes their arrival easier to explain and more dramatic to boot. However, the Earth had life on it for hundreds of millions of years without seeing intelligent life. Practically speaking, most extraterrestrials probably regarded having multiple cells as frivolity and went back to celiating in puddles of liquid oxygen or something. Less practical but more interesting, there may be planets that have no truly sapient life at all, home to an eternal Triassic age.
On the other hand, perhaps these aliens are quite intelligent, but held back by an environmental barrier. Aquatic Earth species like dolphins have proven to be intelligent, but discovering the recipe for rocket fuel would be quite a trick if your planet is waist deep in water. Or it could be that the planet never suffered a carboniferous period. Perhaps the structure of the plants and animals would be such that their biodegredation couldn't be traced or wouldn't eventually produce petroleum, or the atmosphere is unusually, dangerously explosive.
And the senses! There is a vast array of things that can be sensed, and even more varieties of organizing the way they're sensed, and even if I were to list them all it's guaranteed I haven't thought of everything. For one, we tend to call anything dealing with light "sight", and such sight obeys the same rules of sight for our eyes. Could a species be naturally sensitive to radio waves? To radiation?
Vocalizations are a big part of most species on Earth; animal ur-languages seem to appear practically out of the woodwork. As a result, aliens often speak clear English with colorful racial accents and dialects. One book I read when I was a child challenged the status quo with species that communicated partially in the manual manipulation of warts on its body. This was quite a concept, and it continues to be, because unusual forms of communication feel like they should be an alien mainstay. Why everything in the universe must communicate by way of squeezing air through meat is a mystery. Perfectly mundane animals in the world generate and manipulate electricity (humans, for example)--it wouldn't be too farfetched for species to communicate by electrifying one another, or exchanging specially developed ambient microbes, or altering the nature of their reflective skin. Scent conversations could be expected in species built to appreciate it. Even if an alien were to use sound to communicate, it needn't be attached to his respiratory and digestive system, and their method of modulating those sounds needn't be cords in the throat attached to the ol' chest billows.
The idea that people are not alone in the universe is not a strange one, it's quite old. The idea that humans are the dunces of the interstellar community is not strange either. Naturally humans don't have readily available space travel of any kind, so it seems only natural that extraterrestrials would visit us, instead of vice versa. It seems only natural that aliens would develop along the same path we did. People striving to get really creative may take familiar elements and add them to humanity to create plausible aliens.
Generally, it's taken for granted that aliens are more advanced than us simply because it makes their arrival easier to explain and more dramatic to boot. However, the Earth had life on it for hundreds of millions of years without seeing intelligent life. Practically speaking, most extraterrestrials probably regarded having multiple cells as frivolity and went back to celiating in puddles of liquid oxygen or something. Less practical but more interesting, there may be planets that have no truly sapient life at all, home to an eternal Triassic age.
On the other hand, perhaps these aliens are quite intelligent, but held back by an environmental barrier. Aquatic Earth species like dolphins have proven to be intelligent, but discovering the recipe for rocket fuel would be quite a trick if your planet is waist deep in water. Or it could be that the planet never suffered a carboniferous period. Perhaps the structure of the plants and animals would be such that their biodegredation couldn't be traced or wouldn't eventually produce petroleum, or the atmosphere is unusually, dangerously explosive.
And the senses! There is a vast array of things that can be sensed, and even more varieties of organizing the way they're sensed, and even if I were to list them all it's guaranteed I haven't thought of everything. For one, we tend to call anything dealing with light "sight", and such sight obeys the same rules of sight for our eyes. Could a species be naturally sensitive to radio waves? To radiation?
Vocalizations are a big part of most species on Earth; animal ur-languages seem to appear practically out of the woodwork. As a result, aliens often speak clear English with colorful racial accents and dialects. One book I read when I was a child challenged the status quo with species that communicated partially in the manual manipulation of warts on its body. This was quite a concept, and it continues to be, because unusual forms of communication feel like they should be an alien mainstay. Why everything in the universe must communicate by way of squeezing air through meat is a mystery. Perfectly mundane animals in the world generate and manipulate electricity (humans, for example)--it wouldn't be too farfetched for species to communicate by electrifying one another, or exchanging specially developed ambient microbes, or altering the nature of their reflective skin. Scent conversations could be expected in species built to appreciate it. Even if an alien were to use sound to communicate, it needn't be attached to his respiratory and digestive system, and their method of modulating those sounds needn't be cords in the throat attached to the ol' chest billows.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Another Place
Celie ambled calmly down a wide street. As they'd strayed further and further away from the mountains, the buildings had gotten taller, more gaunt, and better preserved. There was still a sensation of desolation. Whole buildings appeared to have been emptied, their contents piled haphazardly on the street. Rusted machines of indeterminate purpose scattered the street. It looked as though there had been a fire sale, or perhaps just a fire.
She paused. A woman was comfortably sleeping in a large chair. From the look of her she'd been at it quite a long time; ivy curled over the back of the chair and draped itself in leafy boas and dirt loosely speckled her face. Anyone in a chair so comfortable as to become part of the foliage shouldn't be disturbed, by Celie's medical instinct tugged gently on her collar. She approached, slowly, and stretched out a hand. Suddenly, the chair uprooted itself and scuttled away on spindly metal legs, trailing bits of ivy. It settled back down a few feet away.
Celie caught up with it, and it indignantly rose up again and ducked away crabwise.
She paused. A woman was comfortably sleeping in a large chair. From the look of her she'd been at it quite a long time; ivy curled over the back of the chair and draped itself in leafy boas and dirt loosely speckled her face. Anyone in a chair so comfortable as to become part of the foliage shouldn't be disturbed, by Celie's medical instinct tugged gently on her collar. She approached, slowly, and stretched out a hand. Suddenly, the chair uprooted itself and scuttled away on spindly metal legs, trailing bits of ivy. It settled back down a few feet away.
Celie caught up with it, and it indignantly rose up again and ducked away crabwise.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
The Problem
Recently I read, or at least started to read, "Escape from Terra". It's a sci-fi webcomic with a pretty clear allegorical message that eventually put me off of it and sent me searching for less heavy political fare.
It plays heavily with minarchy and libertarian themes overlying a sort of meeting between Gene Roddenberry and Joss Whedon. The future is home to a post-capitalist One Earth government; the bureaucratic socialist collective plays the role more traditionally left to Empires, while the protagonists live in an anarchistic mining colony.
The protagonist is an auditor for the Earth government and reflexively expresses much of their bias against the freedom loving anarchists. Earthlings are painfully politically correct, regard any sort of competition as barbaric. They apparently regard capitalism with the same distaste, fear, and hatred that can be found amongst victims of the Fordian society of Brave New World.
The Belters, in an effort to illustrate to the protagonist the errors of his ways, decide to take him to a zero-atmosphere hockey game. It's basically space played in an arena with no atmosphere, meaning the players have to wear heavy protected suits; high sticking can expose the victim to explosive decompression and the perpetrator to the wrath of the other players. There is no need for referees, because rule breaking carries such heavy consequences and penalties that nobody would ever dare break the rules.
A problem immediately and obviously presented itself: with no oversight or opportunity for redress, any rules broken result immediately in painful death. The Belter society is heavily armed, citing the modern defense of the second amendment; e.g. that the potential for every bystander to be an armed combatant quells crime. It occurred to me that a well-armed society like this would have a problem trying to kill a rule-breaker, especially since he's suddenly surrounded by people who would, by social convention, gladly be his murderers.
The protagonist complains that the rules are unnecessarily barbaric if someone were to break the rules, at which point someone smugly points out that nobody broke the rules. The implication is heavy--nobody ever breaks the rules if you make the penalty sufficiently punishing. Which struck me as strange--people in professional sports are badly wounded quite frequently without anyone ever breaking the rules. It's the nature of sports, especially contact sports as violent as hockey, that people periodically get injured. It seems to me that the potential for equipment malfunctions coupled with the violent nature of the sport could make the sport a good shade of deadly by accident.
Of course, all this is predicated on the idea that the punishment is doled out immediately by incensed players concerned for their own safety; opponents won't stand for it because they could be next, and teammates don't stand for it because they could be the target of equal retribution, meaning that bad luck and malevolence are punished the same way with no oversight. That was pretty horrifying--the idea that one could be slain in cold blood over something as trifling as an accident in a hockey match.
Then something worse came to mind. What if it wasn't an emotional decision made on-the-spot as a unit? Was the comic suggesting that a group of individuals could detain another individual they felt had "done wrong" and summarily execute him? Not just could, but would?
Then of course there's the idea of automatic murder from a fictive standpoint. There are only a few teams, and presumably everybody knows everybody else. Opponents in small, dedicated leagues generally do. Teammates on closely knit amateur teams ought to. Some of the players are brothers, so they obviously do. And they'd participate in what is apparently the only punishment method in this version of hockey, which is killing the offending player, no matter who he is?
The arc ends with protagonist (naturally) enthralled and invigorated by the sport, deprived of any kind of competition by Earth's obsession with fairness and lack of competitive spirit. It's part of the chain that leads the protagonist to accept the anarchist culture. At some point, he's even given a banner which seems like a show of good faith until it's explicitly stated by the cast that it's meant to bring him derision and shame him into returning to the anarchist state. Nobody is forcing him to do anything, but they're manipulating events so that has to come back.
And these people are apparently the heroes of the tale.
It plays heavily with minarchy and libertarian themes overlying a sort of meeting between Gene Roddenberry and Joss Whedon. The future is home to a post-capitalist One Earth government; the bureaucratic socialist collective plays the role more traditionally left to Empires, while the protagonists live in an anarchistic mining colony.
The protagonist is an auditor for the Earth government and reflexively expresses much of their bias against the freedom loving anarchists. Earthlings are painfully politically correct, regard any sort of competition as barbaric. They apparently regard capitalism with the same distaste, fear, and hatred that can be found amongst victims of the Fordian society of Brave New World.
The Belters, in an effort to illustrate to the protagonist the errors of his ways, decide to take him to a zero-atmosphere hockey game. It's basically space played in an arena with no atmosphere, meaning the players have to wear heavy protected suits; high sticking can expose the victim to explosive decompression and the perpetrator to the wrath of the other players. There is no need for referees, because rule breaking carries such heavy consequences and penalties that nobody would ever dare break the rules.
A problem immediately and obviously presented itself: with no oversight or opportunity for redress, any rules broken result immediately in painful death. The Belter society is heavily armed, citing the modern defense of the second amendment; e.g. that the potential for every bystander to be an armed combatant quells crime. It occurred to me that a well-armed society like this would have a problem trying to kill a rule-breaker, especially since he's suddenly surrounded by people who would, by social convention, gladly be his murderers.
The protagonist complains that the rules are unnecessarily barbaric if someone were to break the rules, at which point someone smugly points out that nobody broke the rules. The implication is heavy--nobody ever breaks the rules if you make the penalty sufficiently punishing. Which struck me as strange--people in professional sports are badly wounded quite frequently without anyone ever breaking the rules. It's the nature of sports, especially contact sports as violent as hockey, that people periodically get injured. It seems to me that the potential for equipment malfunctions coupled with the violent nature of the sport could make the sport a good shade of deadly by accident.
Of course, all this is predicated on the idea that the punishment is doled out immediately by incensed players concerned for their own safety; opponents won't stand for it because they could be next, and teammates don't stand for it because they could be the target of equal retribution, meaning that bad luck and malevolence are punished the same way with no oversight. That was pretty horrifying--the idea that one could be slain in cold blood over something as trifling as an accident in a hockey match.
Then something worse came to mind. What if it wasn't an emotional decision made on-the-spot as a unit? Was the comic suggesting that a group of individuals could detain another individual they felt had "done wrong" and summarily execute him? Not just could, but would?
Then of course there's the idea of automatic murder from a fictive standpoint. There are only a few teams, and presumably everybody knows everybody else. Opponents in small, dedicated leagues generally do. Teammates on closely knit amateur teams ought to. Some of the players are brothers, so they obviously do. And they'd participate in what is apparently the only punishment method in this version of hockey, which is killing the offending player, no matter who he is?
The arc ends with protagonist (naturally) enthralled and invigorated by the sport, deprived of any kind of competition by Earth's obsession with fairness and lack of competitive spirit. It's part of the chain that leads the protagonist to accept the anarchist culture. At some point, he's even given a banner which seems like a show of good faith until it's explicitly stated by the cast that it's meant to bring him derision and shame him into returning to the anarchist state. Nobody is forcing him to do anything, but they're manipulating events so that has to come back.
And these people are apparently the heroes of the tale.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Linguistic Doodles
"You idiot! They weren't done eating! You nearly cost me a tip!"
"They both got up, took their coats, and left! How was I to know they hadn't finished?"
Rob the busboy was furiously arguing with Jenny the waitress. The rest of the staff didn't want to intercede; it was a professional spat and a lover's quarrel beside and neither took kindly to someone taking sides.
"You always do this! You never listen!"
"You didn't tell me anything, you dumb--" the next word suggested that it was no longer, strictly speaking, a lover's quarrel. They stood, separated by the fuming wall of hate that blossoms quickly between virulently former lovers. They were then briefly separated by a carving knife, which twanged suggestively from the exertion of burying itself an inch into the grimy paneling on the wall above the Soup station.
Nearby, the sous chef was pointedly whistling as he flipped sizzling chicken-chunks with a theatrically large chef's knife. He whistled in a way meant to suggest innocence and nonchalance but which underscored the whistler's complete lack of either. He nodded without looking up as both quarrelers found something better to do with his time.
The head chef stormed furiously into the kitchen, drawn by the sound of employees not working and (more to the point) putting his customers off their meal. "What in the--" he began, then noticed that nobody appeared to be fighting. A better head chef wouldn't let that stop him, and would have simply kept on shouting until he found something worth shouting about, which was never hard and good for the circulation. Cartleback Switchby was not a better chef, lacking the sort of reputation that shouting necessary, and as such was terribly out of practice at it. He whirled around desperately and eyeballed the sous chef. The sous chef took no notice and instead levered his knife sideways, flipping over a row of onions and possibly a bit of the pan with them. The head chef drew himself up, inflated his lungs, and the onions obediently turned under the flashing steel again. He deflated slightly. "Must you always use knives? We have plenty of spatulas."
This sort of thinking was lost on the sous chef, who considered any cooking implement that wouldn't double as a hanging offense to be a tad prissy. "Sir? I've always gotten on fine with knives. I've got m' chef's knife, my parer, my cleaver, my carver" (he paused here to hold up the carving knife, which he hadn't retrieved but was nevertheless resting comfortably in his colossal palm) "my bread knife, soup knife, steak knife, and of course, chopknives." He jerked a thumb at a pair of thin metal implements which appeared to be knives finely sharpened to needles.
The sous chef smiled pleasantly, and his boss nodded cautiously. Then he desperately left to yell at someone, anyone, who was unarmed. The sous chef watched him go, his hands going about the day's work, doling out portions of chicken with a serving knife.
"They both got up, took their coats, and left! How was I to know they hadn't finished?"
Rob the busboy was furiously arguing with Jenny the waitress. The rest of the staff didn't want to intercede; it was a professional spat and a lover's quarrel beside and neither took kindly to someone taking sides.
"You always do this! You never listen!"
"You didn't tell me anything, you dumb--" the next word suggested that it was no longer, strictly speaking, a lover's quarrel. They stood, separated by the fuming wall of hate that blossoms quickly between virulently former lovers. They were then briefly separated by a carving knife, which twanged suggestively from the exertion of burying itself an inch into the grimy paneling on the wall above the Soup station.
Nearby, the sous chef was pointedly whistling as he flipped sizzling chicken-chunks with a theatrically large chef's knife. He whistled in a way meant to suggest innocence and nonchalance but which underscored the whistler's complete lack of either. He nodded without looking up as both quarrelers found something better to do with his time.
The head chef stormed furiously into the kitchen, drawn by the sound of employees not working and (more to the point) putting his customers off their meal. "What in the--" he began, then noticed that nobody appeared to be fighting. A better head chef wouldn't let that stop him, and would have simply kept on shouting until he found something worth shouting about, which was never hard and good for the circulation. Cartleback Switchby was not a better chef, lacking the sort of reputation that shouting necessary, and as such was terribly out of practice at it. He whirled around desperately and eyeballed the sous chef. The sous chef took no notice and instead levered his knife sideways, flipping over a row of onions and possibly a bit of the pan with them. The head chef drew himself up, inflated his lungs, and the onions obediently turned under the flashing steel again. He deflated slightly. "Must you always use knives? We have plenty of spatulas."
This sort of thinking was lost on the sous chef, who considered any cooking implement that wouldn't double as a hanging offense to be a tad prissy. "Sir? I've always gotten on fine with knives. I've got m' chef's knife, my parer, my cleaver, my carver" (he paused here to hold up the carving knife, which he hadn't retrieved but was nevertheless resting comfortably in his colossal palm) "my bread knife, soup knife, steak knife, and of course, chopknives." He jerked a thumb at a pair of thin metal implements which appeared to be knives finely sharpened to needles.
The sous chef smiled pleasantly, and his boss nodded cautiously. Then he desperately left to yell at someone, anyone, who was unarmed. The sous chef watched him go, his hands going about the day's work, doling out portions of chicken with a serving knife.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Describing the Kark
"He's getting ready to go in. We're gonna need a trap runner. Where's that guy? The mil'try guys said the brought some some savage to take lumps for the pencil pushers."
The Kark gave a broad, alchemical smile. With it, he could transmute lead into solid terror. Slowly his hands seemed to take on a life of their own. Thumbs like hammers moved slowly and deliberately amongst the fingers, pressing or lifting; pops and cracks accompanied each alien gesture. There was something uncomfortably prophetic in those noises. The dockhands shifted, and somehow, the Kark's smile got broader.
The Kark gave a broad, alchemical smile. With it, he could transmute lead into solid terror. Slowly his hands seemed to take on a life of their own. Thumbs like hammers moved slowly and deliberately amongst the fingers, pressing or lifting; pops and cracks accompanied each alien gesture. There was something uncomfortably prophetic in those noises. The dockhands shifted, and somehow, the Kark's smile got broader.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Unspecific Tirade That Has Nothing To Do With Football
There were no artists in this group. That is to say, there was no one who valued the aesthetic of the thing on its own merits. It was a strange contradiction then, when five men who by all rights didn't give a flat damn about the way things looked, got out of a sleek, very expensive black car, dressed in suits so black that light took one look and called a holiday. There was no disguising their embarrassingly good looks and painfully affable natures. For five men who didn't care a lick about the look of the thing, they looked good.
One of them glanced up the street.
Standing there, on the corner, not watching them so much as seeing them by accident, was an artist. A man who cared quite deeply about the look of the thing, and very little else. When he noticed the glance and recognized its owner, he adjusted his baggy, outsize coat and second hand scarf, then shot them a look of scorn. It rebounded and made a very confused pigeon spend the evening concerned that it may have "sold out".
The five men sat together, smiling pleasantly. "Can we fit any more ads in, enjoy the refreshing taste of Pepsi?" Queried one, pausing to smile broadly and reveal grills which read Eat at Joe's.
"This message is brought to you by Pizza Hut. I think we could maybe require fans to color coordinate outfits and form giant advertisements." suggested a second. "You know, like everyone in seats 1A, 2B, and 3C wear black, some others wear white, BAM, Nike ad. Just do it."
"Gentlemen, has it occurred to you that in our crass hunt for funds, we've corrupted any pretense of this being a down-to-earth cultural experience?" The others looked at him expectantly, and he wiped his brow uncomfortably. After a few seconds, he choked out "Ford! They're... uh, good trucks." and quickly sat back down.
Glances were exchanged. A fellow on the end of the row seemed to consider what he had said, stopped choking his complimentary coed, zipped up his pants, and addressed the group. "Look, guys, some of our franchises have bigger followings than major religions. We're not just a cultural experience, we're a culture. We're practically the culture. And I'd like to thank God and the Lord Jesus Christ for everything that I have." Several members of the group nodded appreciatively. Not at what he'd said--they hadn't been listening because it wasn't them talking-but he'd been tapping out "Axe Body Spray--women will fuck you like it's actually a good decision" in Morse Code on the table with an ostentatious ring. "So I say that we don't need to apologize for what we are! We're everything American there can possibly be, thanks to our brave men and women in uniform." One of the men had stood up and removed his hat in preparation for the national anthem. "So I say no! We deserve every penny we get, or could potentially get, and at no point will the glitz and spectacle ever outweigh the value that game itself has as a metaphor for... for..." He paused, and the room was silent except for the low drone of someone humming the Star Spangled Banner. "For whatever it is it stands for!" "Home of the brave!"
He paused reflectively. "Play ball!"
One of them glanced up the street.
Standing there, on the corner, not watching them so much as seeing them by accident, was an artist. A man who cared quite deeply about the look of the thing, and very little else. When he noticed the glance and recognized its owner, he adjusted his baggy, outsize coat and second hand scarf, then shot them a look of scorn. It rebounded and made a very confused pigeon spend the evening concerned that it may have "sold out".
The five men sat together, smiling pleasantly. "Can we fit any more ads in, enjoy the refreshing taste of Pepsi?" Queried one, pausing to smile broadly and reveal grills which read Eat at Joe's.
"This message is brought to you by Pizza Hut. I think we could maybe require fans to color coordinate outfits and form giant advertisements." suggested a second. "You know, like everyone in seats 1A, 2B, and 3C wear black, some others wear white, BAM, Nike ad. Just do it."
"Gentlemen, has it occurred to you that in our crass hunt for funds, we've corrupted any pretense of this being a down-to-earth cultural experience?" The others looked at him expectantly, and he wiped his brow uncomfortably. After a few seconds, he choked out "Ford! They're... uh, good trucks." and quickly sat back down.
Glances were exchanged. A fellow on the end of the row seemed to consider what he had said, stopped choking his complimentary coed, zipped up his pants, and addressed the group. "Look, guys, some of our franchises have bigger followings than major religions. We're not just a cultural experience, we're a culture. We're practically the culture. And I'd like to thank God and the Lord Jesus Christ for everything that I have." Several members of the group nodded appreciatively. Not at what he'd said--they hadn't been listening because it wasn't them talking-but he'd been tapping out "Axe Body Spray--women will fuck you like it's actually a good decision" in Morse Code on the table with an ostentatious ring. "So I say that we don't need to apologize for what we are! We're everything American there can possibly be, thanks to our brave men and women in uniform." One of the men had stood up and removed his hat in preparation for the national anthem. "So I say no! We deserve every penny we get, or could potentially get, and at no point will the glitz and spectacle ever outweigh the value that game itself has as a metaphor for... for..." He paused, and the room was silent except for the low drone of someone humming the Star Spangled Banner. "For whatever it is it stands for!" "Home of the brave!"
He paused reflectively. "Play ball!"
Thursday, February 3, 2011
The Races of the Continent
The Living:
The Anemics hate and fear death, far more than the death cult to which the principal cast belongs. Long term users and abusers of blood serum. Blood serum is potent medicine: Anemics can suffer fairly traumatic injuries with less pain, survive more serious injuries, succumb to shock less frequently, and survive disease and infection easily. Originally developed to keep wounded soldiers alive until stronger medicine or surgery could arrive. Lasting weakness and tremors often ended soldiering careers, making it unpopular with career soldiers but popular with conscripts. It followed users out of wars and into civilian life, where it became passingly common household narcotic. Anemia was briefly fashionable until it was discovered that it inhibited ambulat mortis and it was banned. Users turned to blood theft to craft their medicine, driving themselves to the edge of civilization. When the plagues started, the Anemics were protected by their addiction but against the human element were easily overpowered. They persist and diversify today behind the mountains, small packs hunting for amongst the Eblinish ruins and and southerly foothills.
The Living/Dead?
Judges are the remains of an orthodox Eb death cult devoted to immortality through unlife. The final ablutions saw them sitting in the Shroedinger Mandorla, which either kills them or doesn't. There's no way to know until they're taken from the Mandorla, but they continue talking and moving to some degree while they're in the chair (often indefinitely) and until their status can be ascertained they remain in limbo and in their chair, which they quite like. At some point they acquired a fellowship of knowledge, and share quite intimately in each other's company. How they became cerebrally entangled is anyone's guess because nobody observed it happening and the Judges are quite keen on not being observed too thoroughly lest somebody observe their death and collapse the superposition.
The Dead
Ghouls are machines that haven't quite got the hang of living yet. Designed with a significant portion of their controls accessible only to a human rider, they also have internal controls that lack the processing power necessary to work properly. As a result, a riderless ghoul clatters about dumbly looking for a fresh body whose hands and brains can be safely integrated into the whole. Once the ghoul has control over the rider's brain (and, by proxy, access to its limbs) he becomes capable of operating himself at maximum effectiveness. Residual memories from the rider may trick ghouls into behaving as though they are their deceased rider, and the machines often become amusing patchworks of whichever brains they can remember being connected too. Reside in a remarkably tidy corner of Ebling,
The Anemics hate and fear death, far more than the death cult to which the principal cast belongs. Long term users and abusers of blood serum. Blood serum is potent medicine: Anemics can suffer fairly traumatic injuries with less pain, survive more serious injuries, succumb to shock less frequently, and survive disease and infection easily. Originally developed to keep wounded soldiers alive until stronger medicine or surgery could arrive. Lasting weakness and tremors often ended soldiering careers, making it unpopular with career soldiers but popular with conscripts. It followed users out of wars and into civilian life, where it became passingly common household narcotic. Anemia was briefly fashionable until it was discovered that it inhibited ambulat mortis and it was banned. Users turned to blood theft to craft their medicine, driving themselves to the edge of civilization. When the plagues started, the Anemics were protected by their addiction but against the human element were easily overpowered. They persist and diversify today behind the mountains, small packs hunting for amongst the Eblinish ruins and and southerly foothills.
The Living/Dead?
Judges are the remains of an orthodox Eb death cult devoted to immortality through unlife. The final ablutions saw them sitting in the Shroedinger Mandorla, which either kills them or doesn't. There's no way to know until they're taken from the Mandorla, but they continue talking and moving to some degree while they're in the chair (often indefinitely) and until their status can be ascertained they remain in limbo and in their chair, which they quite like. At some point they acquired a fellowship of knowledge, and share quite intimately in each other's company. How they became cerebrally entangled is anyone's guess because nobody observed it happening and the Judges are quite keen on not being observed too thoroughly lest somebody observe their death and collapse the superposition.
The Dead
Ghouls are machines that haven't quite got the hang of living yet. Designed with a significant portion of their controls accessible only to a human rider, they also have internal controls that lack the processing power necessary to work properly. As a result, a riderless ghoul clatters about dumbly looking for a fresh body whose hands and brains can be safely integrated into the whole. Once the ghoul has control over the rider's brain (and, by proxy, access to its limbs) he becomes capable of operating himself at maximum effectiveness. Residual memories from the rider may trick ghouls into behaving as though they are their deceased rider, and the machines often become amusing patchworks of whichever brains they can remember being connected too. Reside in a remarkably tidy corner of Ebling,
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Not-People
Celie leaned against the chimney, surveying the decrepit city. The Kark was establishing a perimeter, and she watched has the constant thundercloud of tobacco smoke drifted above him. There was no telling what he'd meant by "establishing a perimeter" but she suspected the flimsy platforms that had once raised new parts of the city above everything else were worse for the wear afterward; the Kark had a very terminal approach to home defense. Kingsley was being useful in his own way, getting the lay of the land. He was a remarkably proactive coward and believed that an intimate knowledge of escape routes was the best possible method of warding off the briefest possible futures. She agreed with him but admiration didn't suit the slender valet.
Eb rose around them in all directions, shambling dumbly off into the distance like a zombie, she thought. The city looked well preserved in spite of its emptiness; a few buildings had charred looks around the windows that suggested they had been gutted by fire, but every exterior was just a little grubby. Even where planks had been ripped from the wall or windows broken, it looked almost orderly. It looked less dead and more like the home of a league of extremely ambitious gardeners and somehow that made the entire place just a little bit more off. Back home, there were scholarly debates about the nature of the continent. When explorers had arrived, they had found towns, she remembered, much like this one, but it was widely held by scholars that they had been abandoned for two hundred years at least. This place looked as though the milkman had only stopped coming around the week before.
Her eyes rested on a stout tower in the middle distance that defied the trope. Its roof was gone, leaving bare and damaged supports and the wooden siding had been stripped off in places. Looking through one of the windows, was a person. Celie stared. A man. Mind racing, she pointed at him. "Hey!"
The Kark looked up from an improvised booby trap as Celie dashed along the railway, gesticulating wildly. "There was a man! A person!" She was pointing, and the Kark followed her finger. Then he shaded his eyes and looked towards the sun. He patted her sympathetically on the shoulder. Celie wheeled back towards the damaged building. There was no one there.
"I saw someone!" They both stopped as Kingsley arrived, waving his broken opera-glasses frantically and pointing. "A guy! He was sitting in a tower." He paused dramatically, then, impatient for his friends to draw the correct conclusion, offered it: "There might be more! We ought to do something."
The Kark shifted from Celie's motherly concern for a lost stranger to Kingsley's healthy xenophobia. Kingsley's eye narrowed and his arms crossed. "I meant we ought to batten hatches, leave the rake in the lawn, and man the spider holes."
Soon he crossed his arms and leaned against a rooftop shed as the other two assessed the tower, deliberately ignorant of his muttering. The buildings nearest it had been razed (the Kark approved) and in the murky water far, far below, the sunken-ship skeletons could be seen twisted nearly beyond recognition. The pipes that seemed omnipresent in Eb, large enough the Kark suspected they could allow him to walk in unbent, appeared in full force here; they represented the only connection between the tower and the surrounding architecture. Creeping tendrils disguised each, and they might have been disguised as the trunks of massive trees had the occasional valve not risen above the greenery. The Kark looked appraisingly at the building. "It's the perfect hiding spot. Already defended, practically, no way in except a few easily-controlled locations. If that guy doesn't want us in, we're not getting in."
There was a soft noise, which five eyes followed to its source. A round-faced man with a broken nose was visible over the the fence that divided the flat roof from the next building. Celie broke into a smile, one hand preventing Kingsley from breaking into a run. "Rickman, I knew that was you! King, Kark, remember? He was our radio operator back at the camp! Rickman! How did you get here? We've been wandering for weeks! You must be exhausted, wearing all that radio equipment still! Look here you've got..."
Celie stopped. Pickman had not smiled in recognition. Not so much as blinked; his entire body shifted to allow his eyes to follow her as she'd approached. She stiffened and began to back up. Pickman's chest was almost perfectly still. "Pickman?"
He rose bodily over the fence atop a massive quadrupedal machine. Oily metal hands scrabbled for purchase on the wooden roof, levering its steel frame clumsily upward. The hindquarters jerked forward, and it lurched sideways, inserting itself between the Kark and Celie. The machine came to a hissing stop and noisily settled into a sitting position.
Pickman watched Celie dispassionately, his head cocked at an impossible angle. The Kark twitched his right hand, deciding to feign a punch to see what happened. There was an imperceptible blur of activity from Rickman's hands. The metal beast's neck snaked around and its flat, painted face regarded the Kark threateningly, daring him to move.
Eb rose around them in all directions, shambling dumbly off into the distance like a zombie, she thought. The city looked well preserved in spite of its emptiness; a few buildings had charred looks around the windows that suggested they had been gutted by fire, but every exterior was just a little grubby. Even where planks had been ripped from the wall or windows broken, it looked almost orderly. It looked less dead and more like the home of a league of extremely ambitious gardeners and somehow that made the entire place just a little bit more off. Back home, there were scholarly debates about the nature of the continent. When explorers had arrived, they had found towns, she remembered, much like this one, but it was widely held by scholars that they had been abandoned for two hundred years at least. This place looked as though the milkman had only stopped coming around the week before.
Her eyes rested on a stout tower in the middle distance that defied the trope. Its roof was gone, leaving bare and damaged supports and the wooden siding had been stripped off in places. Looking through one of the windows, was a person. Celie stared. A man. Mind racing, she pointed at him. "Hey!"
The Kark looked up from an improvised booby trap as Celie dashed along the railway, gesticulating wildly. "There was a man! A person!" She was pointing, and the Kark followed her finger. Then he shaded his eyes and looked towards the sun. He patted her sympathetically on the shoulder. Celie wheeled back towards the damaged building. There was no one there.
"I saw someone!" They both stopped as Kingsley arrived, waving his broken opera-glasses frantically and pointing. "A guy! He was sitting in a tower." He paused dramatically, then, impatient for his friends to draw the correct conclusion, offered it: "There might be more! We ought to do something."
The Kark shifted from Celie's motherly concern for a lost stranger to Kingsley's healthy xenophobia. Kingsley's eye narrowed and his arms crossed. "I meant we ought to batten hatches, leave the rake in the lawn, and man the spider holes."
Soon he crossed his arms and leaned against a rooftop shed as the other two assessed the tower, deliberately ignorant of his muttering. The buildings nearest it had been razed (the Kark approved) and in the murky water far, far below, the sunken-ship skeletons could be seen twisted nearly beyond recognition. The pipes that seemed omnipresent in Eb, large enough the Kark suspected they could allow him to walk in unbent, appeared in full force here; they represented the only connection between the tower and the surrounding architecture. Creeping tendrils disguised each, and they might have been disguised as the trunks of massive trees had the occasional valve not risen above the greenery. The Kark looked appraisingly at the building. "It's the perfect hiding spot. Already defended, practically, no way in except a few easily-controlled locations. If that guy doesn't want us in, we're not getting in."
There was a soft noise, which five eyes followed to its source. A round-faced man with a broken nose was visible over the the fence that divided the flat roof from the next building. Celie broke into a smile, one hand preventing Kingsley from breaking into a run. "Rickman, I knew that was you! King, Kark, remember? He was our radio operator back at the camp! Rickman! How did you get here? We've been wandering for weeks! You must be exhausted, wearing all that radio equipment still! Look here you've got..."
Celie stopped. Pickman had not smiled in recognition. Not so much as blinked; his entire body shifted to allow his eyes to follow her as she'd approached. She stiffened and began to back up. Pickman's chest was almost perfectly still. "Pickman?"
He rose bodily over the fence atop a massive quadrupedal machine. Oily metal hands scrabbled for purchase on the wooden roof, levering its steel frame clumsily upward. The hindquarters jerked forward, and it lurched sideways, inserting itself between the Kark and Celie. The machine came to a hissing stop and noisily settled into a sitting position.
Pickman watched Celie dispassionately, his head cocked at an impossible angle. The Kark twitched his right hand, deciding to feign a punch to see what happened. There was an imperceptible blur of activity from Rickman's hands. The metal beast's neck snaked around and its flat, painted face regarded the Kark threateningly, daring him to move.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Sand Painting
The dark room contained nothing but windows and three weary people. The window looked out into some manner of courtyard, ringed with other dark windows. Through the higher windows came telescoping arms, chains, and sluices. Where windows were not large enough to accommodate the passage of ramshackle devices, they had been roughly modified (in the impatient fashion of people who by rights shouldn't be tinkering with anything) and were really just gaping holes. The miscellaneous industrial facets supported a sort of vast column that looked entirely too complex. Claustrophobic Kingsley naturally regarded the sky with interest, and the haphazard machine rose invitingly upwards like towards the open yellowing sky. His feet had long ago mastered the concept of "floor" and he had always deferred to their expertise, while his eyes (eye, he thought bitterly) became familiar with higher ground. This floor, however, was singular in his experience in that it was comprised entirely of colored sand, swirling in a mad tableau beneath the bunched arms of the mechanism.
The sand stacked design over design, and here and there the designs had shattered in disarray. A falling cog had disturbed the design and was sunk, now, halfway under what appeared to be a turquoise hand, or a very stylized head with an elaborate headdress. Celie marveled at the designs, silently noting the shapes in the paint. The Kark stood with arms crossed, waiting for his friends to notice the systematic sinks in the sand where it flowed through windows below the surface.
The machine whirred to life with a sawing grind. A column of metal arms jerked against one another, each trying to drag its own direction. They were arranged at cross purposes, and from the look of it by contractors who either didn't know or didn't like the other, and each one positive that it was in the right; the whole machine shook helplessly as higher, more delicate mechanisms began to accrue force the lower limbs were refusing to expend. Finally, there was a pop and one of the arms began to fold on itself, the other arms juddering and stretching behind it. The fine rush of sand followed, forming a red line that dashed across a rampant blue griffin (or malformed cactus, perhaps?). As the line progressed, the color changed, red to black.
Suddenly, a sluice slipped from a high window and jammed into the side of the column, the rushing of sand louder. For a moment it overflowed and dribbled white sand over the edges. A coiled spring near the edge ground in protest, then popped from the body of the sand-pouring column and into an empty window.
There was a cough for attention behind them, which erupted into a notably more violent fit. "Kark! Let him down." Celie emphatically pointed, and the huge man shoved an unfamiliar face forward. Bald and dusty, the short figure looked from smiling Celie to Kingsley's scarred grimace. His head turned slightly, and through one eye he watched the Kark become a silhouette pointedly illuminated by the exit.
"You cannot be here, trespassers!" He stammered at Celie. "This place is a sacred site! You must not tarnish the--" the bent man paused, then peered out at the rushing sand. "The Sand Oracle." He whispered, as though afraid to upset the flow.
"Sacred? Sacred how?" Celie held up a finger to prevent Kingsley rhyming.
"The Oracle precords the entirety of the known world! So it shall be, so it is, in the sand!" He gesticulated grandly through the window. When none of the audience looked, he gesticulated again.
"The machine was installed by the Giants, and began to record the events of everything that will ever happen! Starting with the end of the Universe, and working backwards. We fearfully await the day when it begins to record the present, for truly that shall mark the halfway point of Existence! The coming of middle times draws ever nearer! Harken unto the sand!" Weakly, he pointed again. It was difficult to impress people when your prophecies prophesied the noon of man.
The Kark nodded slowly. "Good story, dome polish. Anyway, what're the chances of you letting us leave quietly if I were to decide against adding you to your divine magilla? Answer fast." His brow flattened over his eyes, and the weight of them shrank the little monk.
There was a blood-curdling shriek and the clanking paces of ghouls in the corridor, and the Kark spun around to seize the door and slam it shut. At the same time, the monk lunged forward, grabbing Celie's arm and twisting it behind her back. An impractically curvy ceremonial dagger pressed against her throat. "Threaten Durk, will you?" He shrieked. The Kark looked at him, then tilted his head at the closing sound of metal on metal.
Moments later Durk hurtled out the window, his knife forgotten, with the Kark and Celie above him. They landed heavily on the sand; Celie and the Kark scrambled up quickly through the loosely flowing sand, but Durk remained absolutely still, his eyes staring widely. Kingsley stood gingerly on the window, then dropped gently to the sand. Above them, the machine ground to a halt, the sand flowing from the funnel came hushed, and Kingsley heard, from somewhere near the darkening sky above, the familiar sounds of someone shouting "Kill them! Quickly!" while wearing pointy shoes. He was sure there were pointy shoes involved.
Kingsley waded through a drawing of a dragon or party of eels to the middle of the arena, and began urgently leaping for one of the arms grasping the funnel. It retracted, rising up the pit and out of his grasp. He glared at it for a moment, then turned to his friends. The Kark was already waist deep in the sand and Celie was tugging on his wrist. A chain became taut above, and the central column swung suddenly toward them. Kingsley grabbed the side and held tight, dragging his body furiously in front of a deepening gash. The machine hauled as hard as it could against him, the metal arms rattling as they reached for Celie. The Kark was now neck deep in sand. Kingsley watched in disbelief as the Kark's hand shifted, and tugged Celie under. The sands parted.
The sand stacked design over design, and here and there the designs had shattered in disarray. A falling cog had disturbed the design and was sunk, now, halfway under what appeared to be a turquoise hand, or a very stylized head with an elaborate headdress. Celie marveled at the designs, silently noting the shapes in the paint. The Kark stood with arms crossed, waiting for his friends to notice the systematic sinks in the sand where it flowed through windows below the surface.
The machine whirred to life with a sawing grind. A column of metal arms jerked against one another, each trying to drag its own direction. They were arranged at cross purposes, and from the look of it by contractors who either didn't know or didn't like the other, and each one positive that it was in the right; the whole machine shook helplessly as higher, more delicate mechanisms began to accrue force the lower limbs were refusing to expend. Finally, there was a pop and one of the arms began to fold on itself, the other arms juddering and stretching behind it. The fine rush of sand followed, forming a red line that dashed across a rampant blue griffin (or malformed cactus, perhaps?). As the line progressed, the color changed, red to black.
Suddenly, a sluice slipped from a high window and jammed into the side of the column, the rushing of sand louder. For a moment it overflowed and dribbled white sand over the edges. A coiled spring near the edge ground in protest, then popped from the body of the sand-pouring column and into an empty window.
There was a cough for attention behind them, which erupted into a notably more violent fit. "Kark! Let him down." Celie emphatically pointed, and the huge man shoved an unfamiliar face forward. Bald and dusty, the short figure looked from smiling Celie to Kingsley's scarred grimace. His head turned slightly, and through one eye he watched the Kark become a silhouette pointedly illuminated by the exit.
"You cannot be here, trespassers!" He stammered at Celie. "This place is a sacred site! You must not tarnish the--" the bent man paused, then peered out at the rushing sand. "The Sand Oracle." He whispered, as though afraid to upset the flow.
"Sacred? Sacred how?" Celie held up a finger to prevent Kingsley rhyming.
"The Oracle precords the entirety of the known world! So it shall be, so it is, in the sand!" He gesticulated grandly through the window. When none of the audience looked, he gesticulated again.
"The machine was installed by the Giants, and began to record the events of everything that will ever happen! Starting with the end of the Universe, and working backwards. We fearfully await the day when it begins to record the present, for truly that shall mark the halfway point of Existence! The coming of middle times draws ever nearer! Harken unto the sand!" Weakly, he pointed again. It was difficult to impress people when your prophecies prophesied the noon of man.
The Kark nodded slowly. "Good story, dome polish. Anyway, what're the chances of you letting us leave quietly if I were to decide against adding you to your divine magilla? Answer fast." His brow flattened over his eyes, and the weight of them shrank the little monk.
There was a blood-curdling shriek and the clanking paces of ghouls in the corridor, and the Kark spun around to seize the door and slam it shut. At the same time, the monk lunged forward, grabbing Celie's arm and twisting it behind her back. An impractically curvy ceremonial dagger pressed against her throat. "Threaten Durk, will you?" He shrieked. The Kark looked at him, then tilted his head at the closing sound of metal on metal.
Moments later Durk hurtled out the window, his knife forgotten, with the Kark and Celie above him. They landed heavily on the sand; Celie and the Kark scrambled up quickly through the loosely flowing sand, but Durk remained absolutely still, his eyes staring widely. Kingsley stood gingerly on the window, then dropped gently to the sand. Above them, the machine ground to a halt, the sand flowing from the funnel came hushed, and Kingsley heard, from somewhere near the darkening sky above, the familiar sounds of someone shouting "Kill them! Quickly!" while wearing pointy shoes. He was sure there were pointy shoes involved.
Kingsley waded through a drawing of a dragon or party of eels to the middle of the arena, and began urgently leaping for one of the arms grasping the funnel. It retracted, rising up the pit and out of his grasp. He glared at it for a moment, then turned to his friends. The Kark was already waist deep in the sand and Celie was tugging on his wrist. A chain became taut above, and the central column swung suddenly toward them. Kingsley grabbed the side and held tight, dragging his body furiously in front of a deepening gash. The machine hauled as hard as it could against him, the metal arms rattling as they reached for Celie. The Kark was now neck deep in sand. Kingsley watched in disbelief as the Kark's hand shifted, and tugged Celie under. The sands parted.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
idea for a story: 1
An archeological dig examining a culture where magic was used exclusively for enhancing appearance.
1) Clothes that are bigger inside than out, to disguise unsightly guts
2) Men so interested in "male enhancement" that the species died out
--from overexpansion?
--bloodloss?
--narcissism?
3) Women so obsessed with youth that the young women don ugly shawls, high buns, and makeup fashioned to look like wrinkles
Story ends with observer sneaking off with spellbook and suspicious pants bulge.
1) Clothes that are bigger inside than out, to disguise unsightly guts
2) Men so interested in "male enhancement" that the species died out
--from overexpansion?
--bloodloss?
--narcissism?
3) Women so obsessed with youth that the young women don ugly shawls, high buns, and makeup fashioned to look like wrinkles
Story ends with observer sneaking off with spellbook and suspicious pants bulge.
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