Nuri perched atop a thin spindle of light in the center of the M80, the four-level, twenty-lane commercial artery that connected all seven GOSAZ urban cores, by physical traffic, fiber-optic, petroleum, water and power. She balanced there with one skate blade en pointe, and watched rendered sunlight refract through her avatar’s crystalline fingers.
Below her, thousands of drone-driven land trains, each one dozens of trailers deep, hummed along in harmony. Billions of tons of cargo.
Not virtual reality, augmented reality. CLU began life as the Heavy Rain military aggregation. Every digital map, photograph, video, and 3D capture ever created and clouded. Geolocated, stitched together and mapped into a 1:1 digital twin of the world, from global view to street level. Building to forest to canyon to desert. Every person, vehicle, microchipped toaster accounted for.
At zero-level, CLU was simply an enhanced view of the world. Nuri saw the M80 trains roar by with owner logos danc
Memnalar
the tulip poplar of deviantARTBruja
Literature
Bruja 9: Anti Alias
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Bruja 8: Overclock
Confluence Landscape Userbase was designed as a scalable, commercial version of the combat network Nuri used in CorpSec. Except anyone could get in with a connection and a subscription fee. That meant it was bloated, laggy and full of assholes. It also meant you couldn’t live without it. Just like meatspace.
The first commercial version went hot thirty years ago. Twenty years ago, the old internet was history. Nuri had never typed anything into a search engine in her life. Instead, she sent routines. Search apps, hunters, do-things, fetch-this, buy-that, all from the data curtain constantly in her visual field. Most people had one, their eyes glazing and refocusing on what floated in front of them, only in their mind’s eye. Nuri’s curtain carried about a hundred times more content than a regular person’s. A thousand times when she went tactical.
It was a simple surgery, pinprick injection behind one ear, another at the base of the neck. People did it at the mall
The first commercial version went hot thirty years ago. Twenty years ago, the old internet was history. Nuri had never typed anything into a search engine in her life. Instead, she sent routines. Search apps, hunters, do-things, fetch-this, buy-that, all from the data curtain constantly in her visual field. Most people had one, their eyes glazing and refocusing on what floated in front of them, only in their mind’s eye. Nuri’s curtain carried about a hundred times more content than a regular person’s. A thousand times when she went tactical.
It was a simple surgery, pinprick injection behind one ear, another at the base of the neck. People did it at the mall
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Literature
Bruja 7: Panic Room
Data broke in waves against the caged arena like high tide. Nuri’s green eye collected the feed, harvested it from the nanotech swimming in the crowd’s guts.
The women in the cage each bent, tensed, muscles corded, instructions from the chittering cortex rigs on their backs cracking through them like whips. They stalked each other like lionesses. Nuri and Marquez could see changes in the vitals, brainwaves, could see the enhancements spinning up and bodies overworking to compensate.
They’d been given ring names. Mojave, or at least his voice, called out each as she’d entered the ring. One with a red rig on her back grew claws. She was Bastet. Curved, braced titanium between each knuckle, enhanced speed. Bastet launched herself at Fury, a tattooed girl, green rig, with spiking adrenaline and strength bursts. Fury was sweating bullets and looking everywhere at once. She caught Bastet in mid-air and slammed her to the ground in a fluid motion. For a split second Fu
The women in the cage each bent, tensed, muscles corded, instructions from the chittering cortex rigs on their backs cracking through them like whips. They stalked each other like lionesses. Nuri and Marquez could see changes in the vitals, brainwaves, could see the enhancements spinning up and bodies overworking to compensate.
They’d been given ring names. Mojave, or at least his voice, called out each as she’d entered the ring. One with a red rig on her back grew claws. She was Bastet. Curved, braced titanium between each knuckle, enhanced speed. Bastet launched herself at Fury, a tattooed girl, green rig, with spiking adrenaline and strength bursts. Fury was sweating bullets and looking everywhere at once. She caught Bastet in mid-air and slammed her to the ground in a fluid motion. For a split second Fu
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Literature
Bruja 6: God Complex
It used to be an aircraft hangar, big enough for three C-130s to touch wingtips, occupying what used to be a GOSAZ emergency response airfield. Shot through with buckling tarmac and overgrown with brush, the airfield was now a fuselage graveyard, home only to coyotes and squatters.
Witch’s Night, the moon was pink and clouds scudded ugly across her. Nuri sat inside an empty air scrubber casing, itself inside the hangar, bolted just under the ceiling. She looked through the vent grille at the preparations below. Divebomb was setting up shop.
Divebomb was a guerilla venue. Not a place, a mobile concept. Sometimes it was a pitch-dark nightclub issuing patrons low-light goggles in the guts of a Venezuelan freighter in port. Sometimes it was a ten-minute obscene art gallery erupting in animated nanotattoos on the backs of a flash mob in the middle of the Cascade during the Christmas rush.
The collective had a Robin Hood reputation among the glitterati and the avant garde. Anti-corpora
Witch’s Night, the moon was pink and clouds scudded ugly across her. Nuri sat inside an empty air scrubber casing, itself inside the hangar, bolted just under the ceiling. She looked through the vent grille at the preparations below. Divebomb was setting up shop.
Divebomb was a guerilla venue. Not a place, a mobile concept. Sometimes it was a pitch-dark nightclub issuing patrons low-light goggles in the guts of a Venezuelan freighter in port. Sometimes it was a ten-minute obscene art gallery erupting in animated nanotattoos on the backs of a flash mob in the middle of the Cascade during the Christmas rush.
The collective had a Robin Hood reputation among the glitterati and the avant garde. Anti-corpora
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Literature
Bruja [interlude] - hexennacht
It used to be a GOSAZ emergency airfield, now an aircraft graveyard, and a haven for off-grid squatters.
The full moon glowed pink in the sky grime, and Nuri threaded her bike through without lights, her green eye bringing skeletal fuselages into view like great metal shipwrecks. She threw her leg over and hopped off, running the motorcycle up the cargo ramp of an old C-130 hulk. It creaked and banged with the wind. She knew the plane well, used it as an equipment drop often.
She leaned her bike against the side of the bay, threw a tarp over it and looked around. She had somewhere to be, but this place always made her pause. Wasn't that long ago when she'd stand alone, stock still, in cargo bays just like this, a couple miles over a drop zone, shuffling a toothpick from side to side between her lips, waiting for her go signal. Sometimes it wouldn't come, and she'd stand down for a long ride home. Sometimes the whole bay would go red, the cargo door would drop, then so would she, into t
The full moon glowed pink in the sky grime, and Nuri threaded her bike through without lights, her green eye bringing skeletal fuselages into view like great metal shipwrecks. She threw her leg over and hopped off, running the motorcycle up the cargo ramp of an old C-130 hulk. It creaked and banged with the wind. She knew the plane well, used it as an equipment drop often.
She leaned her bike against the side of the bay, threw a tarp over it and looked around. She had somewhere to be, but this place always made her pause. Wasn't that long ago when she'd stand alone, stock still, in cargo bays just like this, a couple miles over a drop zone, shuffling a toothpick from side to side between her lips, waiting for her go signal. Sometimes it wouldn't come, and she'd stand down for a long ride home. Sometimes the whole bay would go red, the cargo door would drop, then so would she, into t
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Literature
Bruja 5: Shadow Cat
Sound of a metal, segmented door rolling upward. Needs a hit of grease. Grunts of a man, tough but out of shape, with a lot of mileage on him.
“Hiiii, Gard-dog!” Girl’s voice, nine or ten. Sound of a chair squeaking, spinning.
Sound of the door rattling closed. Sound of a respirator’s elastic sliding off. Sound of a man’s heavy footsteps.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t with the ‘Hi, Gard-dog.’ I know you heard me coming. Could have opened the fucking door.”
“Aww. Don’t be poopy. What’d you bring to eat?”
“Thai.”
“A-gain?”
“Thai’s cheap. So’s my boss.”
“Yeah. Nothing I can do about that.”
Sound of the man walking up next to her, clearing a space on the workbench beside her. Sounds of parts, metal, lots of them.
“What is all this shit?”
“My STUFF. Well. Her stuff. You know.”
Sound of a bag hitting the workbench. S
“Hiiii, Gard-dog!” Girl’s voice, nine or ten. Sound of a chair squeaking, spinning.
Sound of the door rattling closed. Sound of a respirator’s elastic sliding off. Sound of a man’s heavy footsteps.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t with the ‘Hi, Gard-dog.’ I know you heard me coming. Could have opened the fucking door.”
“Aww. Don’t be poopy. What’d you bring to eat?”
“Thai.”
“A-gain?”
“Thai’s cheap. So’s my boss.”
“Yeah. Nothing I can do about that.”
Sound of the man walking up next to her, clearing a space on the workbench beside her. Sounds of parts, metal, lots of them.
“What is all this shit?”
“My STUFF. Well. Her stuff. You know.”
Sound of a bag hitting the workbench. S
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Literature
Bruja 4: Lily Eyes
Nuri showered away the rain toxins, and soon was helmeted, coveralled and back on her bike, this time with a pack slung under her arm, silently weaving her way through the mass of autocabs and drone-driven land trains snaking their way down the elevated GOSAZ commuter arteries. She exited and descended along the edge of the Brick’s huddled mazes, following a drainage culvert until she reached a cluster of grey-green domes hugging each other like muddy soap bubbles.
Cemeteries existed only in history. Those left behind created their own reliquaries where they could. Nuri volunteered here, the Brick’s semi-public arboretum, and planted lilies. Each bloom was a memorial, and more besides.
A woman looked up, her smile sunny in a way the sky never was. Her headwrap rivalled an Akumi and Akari display for color. “Good morning Noori,” she said in a Haitian accent. She handed Nuri her usual trowel and gloves.
“Gaelle,” Nuri said. She couldn’t help bein
Cemeteries existed only in history. Those left behind created their own reliquaries where they could. Nuri volunteered here, the Brick’s semi-public arboretum, and planted lilies. Each bloom was a memorial, and more besides.
A woman looked up, her smile sunny in a way the sky never was. Her headwrap rivalled an Akumi and Akari display for color. “Good morning Noori,” she said in a Haitian accent. She handed Nuri her usual trowel and gloves.
“Gaelle,” Nuri said. She couldn’t help bein
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Literature
Bruja 3: Flush the Sky
In a special post-playoff promotion, the glass walls of the Cascade, the canyon of capitalism that formed the heart of the Gulf Orleans Special Administrative Zone, all went opaque. A drone swarm projected titanic images of bubblegum virtual-idol twins Akari Moment and Akumi Realize, excitedly blazing post-game analysis in chirpy, focus-group tested voices.
It was dawn, but the sullen, pink sun couldn’t compete with the perpetual industrial fog and the Akari and Akumi show on fire among the skyscrapers below.
Nuri tied back her hair against the buffeting wind, adjusted her respirator and popped out her right eye. She was tethered to the satellite array on top of the Arcadia Sophia Hotel. About thirty floors down was Star Player’s suite. She already had the lay of the land in her flashbank, knew it was about time for golden boy and his agent to have a post-surgery face-to-face over breakfast, or whatever baby food they were letting him eat, given his new kidneys.
Nuri put he
It was dawn, but the sullen, pink sun couldn’t compete with the perpetual industrial fog and the Akari and Akumi show on fire among the skyscrapers below.
Nuri tied back her hair against the buffeting wind, adjusted her respirator and popped out her right eye. She was tethered to the satellite array on top of the Arcadia Sophia Hotel. About thirty floors down was Star Player’s suite. She already had the lay of the land in her flashbank, knew it was about time for golden boy and his agent to have a post-surgery face-to-face over breakfast, or whatever baby food they were letting him eat, given his new kidneys.
Nuri put he
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Literature
Bruja 2: Brick Witchcraft
The stadium roof was a steel spider web, lit pink and red from above by digital sakura falling from a passing promo airship.
Nuri stood in silhouette against the giant springtime display behind her. Far below, pyros fired, bold colors reflecting from her left eye. A crowd roared. She shifted her weight, leaned against the metal support of the huge LEDs that craned over the stadium like wide-eyed insects. Final score. Somebody won, somebody lost.
Nuri clicked through her feed brought through her right eye. Money changing hands. She could see it pulse through the stadium like a heartbeat, fed through satellites, wire transfers, currency exchanges. She smiled a little as she confirmed one exchange. Why not? She was here anyway.
She clicked over to the social feeds, then VR, then news crawls, all the while watching her cameras. Killing time, until.
Her mouthpiece slid into place from her ear like a grass snake, and Gardener's voice crackled in, right on time as always. "Is he moving?"
Quic
Nuri stood in silhouette against the giant springtime display behind her. Far below, pyros fired, bold colors reflecting from her left eye. A crowd roared. She shifted her weight, leaned against the metal support of the huge LEDs that craned over the stadium like wide-eyed insects. Final score. Somebody won, somebody lost.
Nuri clicked through her feed brought through her right eye. Money changing hands. She could see it pulse through the stadium like a heartbeat, fed through satellites, wire transfers, currency exchanges. She smiled a little as she confirmed one exchange. Why not? She was here anyway.
She clicked over to the social feeds, then VR, then news crawls, all the while watching her cameras. Killing time, until.
Her mouthpiece slid into place from her ear like a grass snake, and Gardener's voice crackled in, right on time as always. "Is he moving?"
Quic
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Literature
Bruja
Mister Curses was Gina's threadbare, stuffed black cat made of old t-shirts. Her abuela made him as a gift two Halloween-birthdays ago. Now abuela was gone, Mom was passed out again on the couch, and it was just little Gina, Mister Curses, the blinking security status panel, and the gunfire beyond the door outside.
She clutched the floppy cat to her chest as the shouting started. She didn't know the language, but it wasn't English and it wasn't Spanish. She'd heard it before, the men who ran the building they lived in and collected money or other things from Mom used it all the time. They scared little Gina. They scared Mom too, but she tried not to show it.
After they scared Mom, Mom usually ended up the way she was now. On the couch. Needles on the floor.
The security panel was red. Gina knew that meant not to open the door. It meant the air was dangerous, or there were guns. She heard screaming, in the men's voices. Then nothing. She hugged Mister Curses.
She heard a w
She clutched the floppy cat to her chest as the shouting started. She didn't know the language, but it wasn't English and it wasn't Spanish. She'd heard it before, the men who ran the building they lived in and collected money or other things from Mom used it all the time. They scared little Gina. They scared Mom too, but she tried not to show it.
After they scared Mom, Mom usually ended up the way she was now. On the couch. Needles on the floor.
The security panel was red. Gina knew that meant not to open the door. It meant the air was dangerous, or there were guns. She heard screaming, in the men's voices. Then nothing. She hugged Mister Curses.
She heard a w
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Stand-alone Stories
Literature
The Pain Eater's Tale
Before the War of Wizards, the Red Raven Inn was a legend on the banks of the Elsa. You could hear the skirling of the violins along the water for miles. Now, the strings were silent, and even the voices were hushed of a night, as everyone listened for thunder.
Tonight, they heard it.
"Shhh!" Old Cahill admonished the patrons, and holds up his cane. As one, the grizzled old farmers and river boatmen closed their mouths and look up at the rafters. Barmaids paused, faces ashen.
Unmistakably, there it was, the distant peal of thunder. Of course, Cahill had been the first to hear. He always was.
Cahill frowned. "Girls. Set to. Close the windows. Men, help me outside if you don't have your own farms to see to."
Most of the patrons left in a hurry to their own farmsteads to set things ready. A couple remained. Soon, windows were locked tight, horses were stabled, every possible thing not nailed down was pulled inside and piled in the center of the room. The fire was doused. Every lante
Tonight, they heard it.
"Shhh!" Old Cahill admonished the patrons, and holds up his cane. As one, the grizzled old farmers and river boatmen closed their mouths and look up at the rafters. Barmaids paused, faces ashen.
Unmistakably, there it was, the distant peal of thunder. Of course, Cahill had been the first to hear. He always was.
Cahill frowned. "Girls. Set to. Close the windows. Men, help me outside if you don't have your own farms to see to."
Most of the patrons left in a hurry to their own farmsteads to set things ready. A couple remained. Soon, windows were locked tight, horses were stabled, every possible thing not nailed down was pulled inside and piled in the center of the room. The fire was doused. Every lante
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Literature
Unboxing
The children, as they always did, perched on the Stones for the Evening Telling. The Teller stood, face in white, Stick of Truths in his hands. When it was such, only the Teller could say stories and tell truths. All others were to stay silent unless called to respond. Even the Chief-In-The-Walls could not speak if he were in attendance, although tonight’s Telling was only for the children and Mums.
Behind the Teller, the Burning Mums tended the Telling Fire. It kept the Teller in silhouette, and the children’s faces sweaty with its heat, hotter than usual tonight. The girls especially scratched at the cloth over their mouths.
Further back, seated on wider Stones, the Mums heavy with child attended the Telling as well, mouths also covered.
Tonight, the Telling was of the Beginning, and the Teller was on a tear. He told, spittle flying, of death on the winds, of the Great Plagues that swept the world like a broom, leaving only dust and dead behind. WEH-POH-NY-ZED began the c
Behind the Teller, the Burning Mums tended the Telling Fire. It kept the Teller in silhouette, and the children’s faces sweaty with its heat, hotter than usual tonight. The girls especially scratched at the cloth over their mouths.
Further back, seated on wider Stones, the Mums heavy with child attended the Telling as well, mouths also covered.
Tonight, the Telling was of the Beginning, and the Teller was on a tear. He told, spittle flying, of death on the winds, of the Great Plagues that swept the world like a broom, leaving only dust and dead behind. WEH-POH-NY-ZED began the c
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Literature
Damned Kids
"You wanna see something cool, Peter?"
Marnie's hair was long, shaggy. She peered at me through it. Shy. Brown eyes behind black curtains.
Every time she said that, it was an adventure. Danny'd snicker at me. "Where'd she drag you off to this time, Pete? Catch a chicken and kill it? Pull the wings off butterflies?"
The whole town thought Marnie and her family were strange. Marnie was bullied at school. One time Danny shoved a cup of worms into her locker. Everybody thought that was real funny.
I didn’t. It was stupid. Marnie was just quiet. Her mom drank a lot, didn’t leave the house much. Her dad, well. He wasn't around.
Marnie drummed threadbare sneakers on my porch. One of her knees was scabbed.
"Sure," I said. We grabbed our bikes.
--
Marnie led me down a dirt road. She stopped, skidded up dust. I did the same. "There," she said, "We're going under the fence." She slipped her thumbs under the barbed wire and scooted under it like a raccoon. She held the wire up for me.
Marnie's hair was long, shaggy. She peered at me through it. Shy. Brown eyes behind black curtains.
Every time she said that, it was an adventure. Danny'd snicker at me. "Where'd she drag you off to this time, Pete? Catch a chicken and kill it? Pull the wings off butterflies?"
The whole town thought Marnie and her family were strange. Marnie was bullied at school. One time Danny shoved a cup of worms into her locker. Everybody thought that was real funny.
I didn’t. It was stupid. Marnie was just quiet. Her mom drank a lot, didn’t leave the house much. Her dad, well. He wasn't around.
Marnie drummed threadbare sneakers on my porch. One of her knees was scabbed.
"Sure," I said. We grabbed our bikes.
--
Marnie led me down a dirt road. She stopped, skidded up dust. I did the same. "There," she said, "We're going under the fence." She slipped her thumbs under the barbed wire and scooted under it like a raccoon. She held the wire up for me.
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Literature
Bruja 3: Flush the Sky
In a special post-playoff promotion, the glass walls of the Cascade, the canyon of capitalism that formed the heart of the Gulf Orleans Special Administrative Zone, all went opaque. A drone swarm projected titanic images of bubblegum virtual-idol twins Akari Moment and Akumi Realize, excitedly blazing post-game analysis in chirpy, focus-group tested voices.
It was dawn, but the sullen, pink sun couldn’t compete with the perpetual industrial fog and the Akari and Akumi show on fire among the skyscrapers below.
Nuri tied back her hair against the buffeting wind, adjusted her respirator and popped out her right eye. She was tethered to the satellite array on top of the Arcadia Sophia Hotel. About thirty floors down was Star Player’s suite. She already had the lay of the land in her flashbank, knew it was about time for golden boy and his agent to have a post-surgery face-to-face over breakfast, or whatever baby food they were letting him eat, given his new kidneys.
Nuri put he
It was dawn, but the sullen, pink sun couldn’t compete with the perpetual industrial fog and the Akari and Akumi show on fire among the skyscrapers below.
Nuri tied back her hair against the buffeting wind, adjusted her respirator and popped out her right eye. She was tethered to the satellite array on top of the Arcadia Sophia Hotel. About thirty floors down was Star Player’s suite. She already had the lay of the land in her flashbank, knew it was about time for golden boy and his agent to have a post-surgery face-to-face over breakfast, or whatever baby food they were letting him eat, given his new kidneys.
Nuri put he
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Literature
Bruja 2: Brick Witchcraft
The stadium roof was a steel spider web, lit pink and red from above by digital sakura falling from a passing promo airship.
Nuri stood in silhouette against the giant springtime display behind her. Far below, pyros fired, bold colors reflecting from her left eye. A crowd roared. She shifted her weight, leaned against the metal support of the huge LEDs that craned over the stadium like wide-eyed insects. Final score. Somebody won, somebody lost.
Nuri clicked through her feed brought through her right eye. Money changing hands. She could see it pulse through the stadium like a heartbeat, fed through satellites, wire transfers, currency exchanges. She smiled a little as she confirmed one exchange. Why not? She was here anyway.
She clicked over to the social feeds, then VR, then news crawls, all the while watching her cameras. Killing time, until.
Her mouthpiece slid into place from her ear like a grass snake, and Gardener's voice crackled in, right on time as always. "Is he moving?"
Quic
Nuri stood in silhouette against the giant springtime display behind her. Far below, pyros fired, bold colors reflecting from her left eye. A crowd roared. She shifted her weight, leaned against the metal support of the huge LEDs that craned over the stadium like wide-eyed insects. Final score. Somebody won, somebody lost.
Nuri clicked through her feed brought through her right eye. Money changing hands. She could see it pulse through the stadium like a heartbeat, fed through satellites, wire transfers, currency exchanges. She smiled a little as she confirmed one exchange. Why not? She was here anyway.
She clicked over to the social feeds, then VR, then news crawls, all the while watching her cameras. Killing time, until.
Her mouthpiece slid into place from her ear like a grass snake, and Gardener's voice crackled in, right on time as always. "Is he moving?"
Quic
Memnalar Memnalar
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39
Literature
Bruja
Mister Curses was Gina's threadbare, stuffed black cat made of old t-shirts. Her abuela made him as a gift two Halloween-birthdays ago. Now abuela was gone, Mom was passed out again on the couch, and it was just little Gina, Mister Curses, the blinking security status panel, and the gunfire beyond the door outside.
She clutched the floppy cat to her chest as the shouting started. She didn't know the language, but it wasn't English and it wasn't Spanish. She'd heard it before, the men who ran the building they lived in and collected money or other things from Mom used it all the time. They scared little Gina. They scared Mom too, but she tried not to show it.
After they scared Mom, Mom usually ended up the way she was now. On the couch. Needles on the floor.
The security panel was red. Gina knew that meant not to open the door. It meant the air was dangerous, or there were guns. She heard screaming, in the men's voices. Then nothing. She hugged Mister Curses.
She heard a w
She clutched the floppy cat to her chest as the shouting started. She didn't know the language, but it wasn't English and it wasn't Spanish. She'd heard it before, the men who ran the building they lived in and collected money or other things from Mom used it all the time. They scared little Gina. They scared Mom too, but she tried not to show it.
After they scared Mom, Mom usually ended up the way she was now. On the couch. Needles on the floor.
The security panel was red. Gina knew that meant not to open the door. It meant the air was dangerous, or there were guns. She heard screaming, in the men's voices. Then nothing. She hugged Mister Curses.
She heard a w
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Literature
In Lieu of Flowers
She knew it made her father sad, how she always looked backward. Jenne would spend her time, when she wasn't studying, or even when she was supposed to be studying, face pressed into the eyeset, looking at the feeds from the left-behind telescopes that still made their journeys, like breadcrumbs between here and Earth.
Her sister would slap the back of her head, tsk, then say something about the boy she'd been talking to over the wave. That one on Charon, maybe. Seemed like a different one every time.
Josephine was a kid. She didn't remember Mom. She had no reason to look through Jenne's eyeset at the grainy feeds. Had no reason to glance over at the small box on the shelf, the one that the man from the Company had brought to Dad, along with the letter.
Jenne had looked up the procedure on her own when Dad evaded her questions. About how they bagged the remains, froze them, then vibrated them into powder. About how they vented the moisture into space. What was left was collected
Her sister would slap the back of her head, tsk, then say something about the boy she'd been talking to over the wave. That one on Charon, maybe. Seemed like a different one every time.
Josephine was a kid. She didn't remember Mom. She had no reason to look through Jenne's eyeset at the grainy feeds. Had no reason to glance over at the small box on the shelf, the one that the man from the Company had brought to Dad, along with the letter.
Jenne had looked up the procedure on her own when Dad evaded her questions. About how they bagged the remains, froze them, then vibrated them into powder. About how they vented the moisture into space. What was left was collected
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Literature
Interossicular Space
It wasn't that May's parents didn't love her, or wouldn't miss her.
She could no longer go to school, and every tutor and nanny they brought home just couldn't stop chewing or move slowly enough to do the job. And the breathing. May's parents went through training, used circular techniques, never did anything strenuous around May. Diet, house, everything was a cushion. Nothing clicked, knocked, groaned or collided with anything else. May's folks had the act down cold.
But anyone else, no matter the training, always that one time they'd forget and sigh, and May would clamp her hands to ears and make that face. Her silent scream. Then the shot and the pills and the worried faces over sign language. On and on. Years. Eighteen.
It was a blessing, almost, that day the Diplomatic Corps hovercraft arrived. They had contacted May's parents, done advance work. The craft rode in on a gentle cushion of air, and the Corps visitors disembarked wearing booties, gloves and bodysuits. No footsteps. Ta
She could no longer go to school, and every tutor and nanny they brought home just couldn't stop chewing or move slowly enough to do the job. And the breathing. May's parents went through training, used circular techniques, never did anything strenuous around May. Diet, house, everything was a cushion. Nothing clicked, knocked, groaned or collided with anything else. May's folks had the act down cold.
But anyone else, no matter the training, always that one time they'd forget and sigh, and May would clamp her hands to ears and make that face. Her silent scream. Then the shot and the pills and the worried faces over sign language. On and on. Years. Eighteen.
It was a blessing, almost, that day the Diplomatic Corps hovercraft arrived. They had contacted May's parents, done advance work. The craft rode in on a gentle cushion of air, and the Corps visitors disembarked wearing booties, gloves and bodysuits. No footsteps. Ta
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Literature
Not Today
It was time.
Between the serving periods. The shuffling lines thinned back to just a few stragglers, the older ones mostly. Sister Elene knew by their feet, mostly wrapped up in oilskin against the constant wet. She'd done the same, as much for the quiet as for keeping out the salted mud. She discarded her apron, grabbed her pack, a roughspun hooded robe and her lantern from their hiding place in the back of the storeroom. Under the robe, she belted on the knife. It pulled at the scars, her chest felt like strips of leather.
Elene wanted to look at the knife, say the prayer, but no time. It had to be now. She knew where he'd be, knew he'd be alone if that kid's information was right.
That kid. He went by Talent around here. Permanently-tousled brown hair, toes that pointed inward. A smile half sly and half shy. She'd lied to the kid, told him she wanted information on a lost straggler who never made bedcheck. She at least wanted to find the poor soul and bring him his rations.
Part of
Between the serving periods. The shuffling lines thinned back to just a few stragglers, the older ones mostly. Sister Elene knew by their feet, mostly wrapped up in oilskin against the constant wet. She'd done the same, as much for the quiet as for keeping out the salted mud. She discarded her apron, grabbed her pack, a roughspun hooded robe and her lantern from their hiding place in the back of the storeroom. Under the robe, she belted on the knife. It pulled at the scars, her chest felt like strips of leather.
Elene wanted to look at the knife, say the prayer, but no time. It had to be now. She knew where he'd be, knew he'd be alone if that kid's information was right.
That kid. He went by Talent around here. Permanently-tousled brown hair, toes that pointed inward. A smile half sly and half shy. She'd lied to the kid, told him she wanted information on a lost straggler who never made bedcheck. She at least wanted to find the poor soul and bring him his rations.
Part of
Memnalar Memnalar
26
58
Literature
Always-on
Paris::15d since last chat::0 New Messages
For months, I'd see her at the clinics for our injections, and online in the therapeutic forums. She kept the same odd hours as me. The others managed to find work on a routine schedule. Think-driving sanitation units, working the inbound tech support lines. Workaday, like regular humans. Safe.
Not us. We were always-on. It had been that way in the Gideon pilot pod, when we were all wired together, our minds fused into a single mosaic. I was intuition, stay a step-ahead of the enemy, guessing the next ten moves.
She was the logic center. She did the math. She was a cascade of formulae, speaking in burn calculations, fire rates, weapon heat signature ratios. She gave me the info I needed to make my lucky guesses.
The others got downtime during the long burns, then activated for combat. Not us. We were always-on.
Somewhere along the line, we got too old. All Gideon children get too old. Too big for the pods, too slow to adapt to the upgra
For months, I'd see her at the clinics for our injections, and online in the therapeutic forums. She kept the same odd hours as me. The others managed to find work on a routine schedule. Think-driving sanitation units, working the inbound tech support lines. Workaday, like regular humans. Safe.
Not us. We were always-on. It had been that way in the Gideon pilot pod, when we were all wired together, our minds fused into a single mosaic. I was intuition, stay a step-ahead of the enemy, guessing the next ten moves.
She was the logic center. She did the math. She was a cascade of formulae, speaking in burn calculations, fire rates, weapon heat signature ratios. She gave me the info I needed to make my lucky guesses.
The others got downtime during the long burns, then activated for combat. Not us. We were always-on.
Somewhere along the line, we got too old. All Gideon children get too old. Too big for the pods, too slow to adapt to the upgra
Memnalar Memnalar
21
21
Literature
Grommets for Hanging
The buildings so tightly packed that the roofs became a city unto themselves, new roofs erected from detritus hauled up from the streets below, built by human versions of same. Old rooftop was floor space now, shingled and tar-papered carpet subfloor under layers of cardboard bedding and lean-tos and currogated shacks thrown up against exhaust vents. The sun was blocked by endless tarpaulin of vinyl sheeting stitched with baling wire and shoestring and power cables from obsolete machines, held aloft by whatever the roof dwellers could prop up.
Cymbal was picking mushrooms under the blue light cast from noon sun filtered through the vinyl overhead. It had once hung on a commercial blimp advertising perfume, clear blue water in a crystal vial fashioned to look like intertwined lovers. Now the blue lovers were mildewed. Cymbal wiped dung from her gloves and hoisted her bag of harvest. It was lighter than she'd like.
She felt a furry brush at her ankle, and an impatient mreaow. Pud
Cymbal was picking mushrooms under the blue light cast from noon sun filtered through the vinyl overhead. It had once hung on a commercial blimp advertising perfume, clear blue water in a crystal vial fashioned to look like intertwined lovers. Now the blue lovers were mildewed. Cymbal wiped dung from her gloves and hoisted her bag of harvest. It was lighter than she'd like.
She felt a furry brush at her ankle, and an impatient mreaow. Pud
Memnalar Memnalar
17
31
Literature
Trunk Line
I watched the secondary pressure dial climb, ever closer to the primary. I kicked the lock away from the lever in the floor, the only one in the cabin unmarred from constant use.
"You sure about this?" I asked her. Hundredth time, easy. "You damned sure?"
She rumbled under me. Four blasts on the whistle, her assent. Firebox glowed as she primed her flames.
Didn't need me anymore.
Cabin door clanged open. Frost blew in like his namesake, slammed the door behind him, wheeled the seals closed. I glanced back at him.
"You're bleeding."
"Took one in the shoulder. Drones can't aim for shit. We're holding them two cars down from the coal, don't know how long we can keep them..."
"Don't need to, now."
He looked at me. I looked at the firebox. She was beyond the need for coal. Beyond the need for greasy hands in black gloves on levers, squinted eyes poring over dials.
Dials.
Primary and secondary matched. It was time.
I reached for the gleaming lever.
Frost yelled something, slammed into me as
"You sure about this?" I asked her. Hundredth time, easy. "You damned sure?"
She rumbled under me. Four blasts on the whistle, her assent. Firebox glowed as she primed her flames.
Didn't need me anymore.
Cabin door clanged open. Frost blew in like his namesake, slammed the door behind him, wheeled the seals closed. I glanced back at him.
"You're bleeding."
"Took one in the shoulder. Drones can't aim for shit. We're holding them two cars down from the coal, don't know how long we can keep them..."
"Don't need to, now."
He looked at me. I looked at the firebox. She was beyond the need for coal. Beyond the need for greasy hands in black gloves on levers, squinted eyes poring over dials.
Dials.
Primary and secondary matched. It was time.
I reached for the gleaming lever.
Frost yelled something, slammed into me as
Memnalar Memnalar
10
21
Literature
Prima Nocta
It doesn't happen how you think it does.
You're probably strung out, ducked into the wrong alley to hit the pipe. It waited there, watching you, biding time until you were good and fucked before ripping a new hole in your throat. Maybe your thigh if it's in a rush. You spray out all over the wall, all over yourself, all over it. You just see yellow eyes, fucking foot-long tongue lapping you up, and then nothing.
But then, something. Maybe you smell dogshit, old take-out containers, dried-out tampons and whatever else people threw away along with you. You reach up and around, wipe the maggots off your face. You find a door up there, push it open. Daylight. It feels like a blowtorch on your hand, and you smell your skin bubbling away as the lid falls closed.
No, you didn't smell it. You tasted it. Tasted your skin burning, just like you're tasting this dumpster and the filth you're swimming in.
Maybe you sleep.
Maybe you wake up just in time to hear the truck grab hold of your roac
You're probably strung out, ducked into the wrong alley to hit the pipe. It waited there, watching you, biding time until you were good and fucked before ripping a new hole in your throat. Maybe your thigh if it's in a rush. You spray out all over the wall, all over yourself, all over it. You just see yellow eyes, fucking foot-long tongue lapping you up, and then nothing.
But then, something. Maybe you smell dogshit, old take-out containers, dried-out tampons and whatever else people threw away along with you. You reach up and around, wipe the maggots off your face. You find a door up there, push it open. Daylight. It feels like a blowtorch on your hand, and you smell your skin bubbling away as the lid falls closed.
No, you didn't smell it. You tasted it. Tasted your skin burning, just like you're tasting this dumpster and the filth you're swimming in.
Maybe you sleep.
Maybe you wake up just in time to hear the truck grab hold of your roac
Memnalar Memnalar
25
43
Literature
Air-Fueled
Winter tore hell through the camp, and Serpentine blew into her palms so she could feel the dice in them. Old Taggert gestured at her with a bottle. She nodded at him as she blew. He poured, held up the glass. A half-rusted drone snatched it, buzzed its way to Serp, and sloshed half the drink on the floor before dropping it in front of her. She grabbed it, made a show of downing it, and kept blowing.
Across the floor, Paydirt sat puffing away on a three-tined pipe that smelled like creosote and dry moss. Around Paydirt sat the Payday Gang, sharpening knives, polishing pistols and looking tougher than Serp knew they were.
"You gonna throw those, doll," Paydirt said around his pipe, "Or you want I should give you something else to blow on?"
She smiled at him. There were a hundred thousand League notes on the table. About a week's haul for Paydirt, but a whole season's runs for Serp. She was good for it, if you counted the Aphrodite.
Her dad's ship before her. Hers now. Aphrodit
Across the floor, Paydirt sat puffing away on a three-tined pipe that smelled like creosote and dry moss. Around Paydirt sat the Payday Gang, sharpening knives, polishing pistols and looking tougher than Serp knew they were.
"You gonna throw those, doll," Paydirt said around his pipe, "Or you want I should give you something else to blow on?"
She smiled at him. There were a hundred thousand League notes on the table. About a week's haul for Paydirt, but a whole season's runs for Serp. She was good for it, if you counted the Aphrodite.
Her dad's ship before her. Hers now. Aphrodit
Memnalar Memnalar
3
17
Literature
Mechanic's Blues
I'm getting grease on my sandwich when she walks in. The whole hangar pretends to be busy while throwing glances at her.
She looks around, finds me, smiles. She's walking my way, but her eyes are all for her baby. I've been pulling extra shifts getting her baby ready to fly.
There's a monkey on her shoulder. It leaps off, and scrambles into the cockpit.
She tosses her goggles on top of my workbench, brushes a braid away from her shoulder. "How's she look?"
Perfect, I want to say, but that wasn't the question. "I patched your oil leak, unstuck your throttle problem. Had to replace your altimeter, but I told you that."
"Yeah, you told me that." Her eyes are brown. Could've sworn they were blue. They're blue in my dreams.
Those brown eyes are turning the ship over and over. My eyes? Well, I guess they're doing ungentlemanly things, but they snap back to attention when she speaks.
"Am I loaded?" she says.
I shake my head, grinning. "Yeah. The clockguns are all bolted in and to
She looks around, finds me, smiles. She's walking my way, but her eyes are all for her baby. I've been pulling extra shifts getting her baby ready to fly.
There's a monkey on her shoulder. It leaps off, and scrambles into the cockpit.
She tosses her goggles on top of my workbench, brushes a braid away from her shoulder. "How's she look?"
Perfect, I want to say, but that wasn't the question. "I patched your oil leak, unstuck your throttle problem. Had to replace your altimeter, but I told you that."
"Yeah, you told me that." Her eyes are brown. Could've sworn they were blue. They're blue in my dreams.
Those brown eyes are turning the ship over and over. My eyes? Well, I guess they're doing ungentlemanly things, but they snap back to attention when she speaks.
"Am I loaded?" she says.
I shake my head, grinning. "Yeah. The clockguns are all bolted in and to
Memnalar Memnalar
7
33
Literature
Ashen
I'd just finished cleaning the silt out of the last generator and dropped it back into the water when Pit found me.
"Up and running?" he asked.
"Spinning away. Lot of minerals in these rivers down here. Lot more than up on the surface. Fucks up the works."
Pit nodded. "Least there's no snow down here."
I didn't get into it with him. Last time we went topside, Pit left a hand in that snow. If I closed my eyes, I could still smell the skin melting. "You need something?"
Pit looked past me, toward my boy. Jacob. He was scrubbing away at a filthy generator part, or at least pretending to be.
I gritted my teeth, then looked at Jacob. He looked back, with huge eyes that didn't miss much. So much of his mother there.
"Head out, kid," I said. "Take these last couple generators with you. Take 'em up to Zeb for cleaning, we can't do nothing for 'em down here."
After my kid was gone, Pit came down to business.
"There's a nooge up top," he said. "Crazy fucker walked right up to the picket line. Sa
"Up and running?" he asked.
"Spinning away. Lot of minerals in these rivers down here. Lot more than up on the surface. Fucks up the works."
Pit nodded. "Least there's no snow down here."
I didn't get into it with him. Last time we went topside, Pit left a hand in that snow. If I closed my eyes, I could still smell the skin melting. "You need something?"
Pit looked past me, toward my boy. Jacob. He was scrubbing away at a filthy generator part, or at least pretending to be.
I gritted my teeth, then looked at Jacob. He looked back, with huge eyes that didn't miss much. So much of his mother there.
"Head out, kid," I said. "Take these last couple generators with you. Take 'em up to Zeb for cleaning, we can't do nothing for 'em down here."
After my kid was gone, Pit came down to business.
"There's a nooge up top," he said. "Crazy fucker walked right up to the picket line. Sa
Memnalar Memnalar
18
26
Poetry
Literature
Citizens
They ignored their City's gleaming towers,
her rose-hued walls,
her sparkling streets,
her abundance.
They had eyes only for the other across the plain.
It was not until
her towers rusted,
her walls fell,
her people starved,
That they found the other across the plain
was a mirage.
her rose-hued walls,
her sparkling streets,
her abundance.
They had eyes only for the other across the plain.
It was not until
her towers rusted,
her walls fell,
her people starved,
That they found the other across the plain
was a mirage.
Memnalar Memnalar
11
12
Literature
Harvey's Halloween
There were a lot more trick or treaters this year.
Lot more spider mans, wonder womans,
little astronauts in their pressure suits,
more moms and dads carrying the helmets after a few blocks
this year.
This year, spider man is going to a new school,
one taking on lots of new spider mans,
and wonder womans,
and astronauts,
with the same teachers carrying the extra load
this year.
This year, wonder woman's mom washed her
magic lasso
with her school clothes
in a washing machine fixed up
by students, and dried them on a pole welded
by students and
maybe they'll be able to move out of this shed
this year.
This year, little astronauts spacewalked for candy
around the piles of fence that aren't fence anymore
but little mountains of weeds and lumber and dead vine chicken wire,
maybe the trucks and ones driving the trucks
working extra-long shifts
along with the mosquitoes
will pick up all the pieces
this year.
This year, there was a hurricane.
Wind, high water and rain
where whole towns used to
Lot more spider mans, wonder womans,
little astronauts in their pressure suits,
more moms and dads carrying the helmets after a few blocks
this year.
This year, spider man is going to a new school,
one taking on lots of new spider mans,
and wonder womans,
and astronauts,
with the same teachers carrying the extra load
this year.
This year, wonder woman's mom washed her
magic lasso
with her school clothes
in a washing machine fixed up
by students, and dried them on a pole welded
by students and
maybe they'll be able to move out of this shed
this year.
This year, little astronauts spacewalked for candy
around the piles of fence that aren't fence anymore
but little mountains of weeds and lumber and dead vine chicken wire,
maybe the trucks and ones driving the trucks
working extra-long shifts
along with the mosquitoes
will pick up all the pieces
this year.
This year, there was a hurricane.
Wind, high water and rain
where whole towns used to
Memnalar Memnalar
10
28
the office I hold
Memnalar
9
33
Literature
crystalline
Counting days
sparkling water
clear eyes
seeing daylight
but not the other guy
so far.
sparkling water
clear eyes
seeing daylight
but not the other guy
so far.
Memnalar Memnalar
3
13
Literature
ark nemesis
Came out of the sand,
wind blowing hot
ruffling his hat brim
No wings.
They had wings, we thought,
but the Good Book
never said anything about that.
Just a long chain
A long chain,
A chain as long as we've been here
crawling across His skin
until today.
A long chain,
holding a big box
tight
on his back,
pine,
fine grain,
if you've a mind
for detail.
Along his chest,
leather.
He pulled it,
Sam Colt
in each claw,
and he dared the horizon
Draw,
you Sons of
Sons of
Bitches,
And as we started,
we ended,
rats, crawling over the dirt
scrambling
for water
for sun
for a dark hole away from
the storm
we'd made.
One
by one
by one he raised his hands
and squeezed
and turned that wheel
amidst the gun
never stopping,
never running dry
and the box on his back
held there by the chain,
every link our lives,
put there since the start,
every link we died
until the box was full.
And then one day,
one drunk in a dark room
encased by clay
wrote it down as a flood
of water
when two by two every beast of the
wind blowing hot
ruffling his hat brim
No wings.
They had wings, we thought,
but the Good Book
never said anything about that.
Just a long chain
A long chain,
A chain as long as we've been here
crawling across His skin
until today.
A long chain,
holding a big box
tight
on his back,
pine,
fine grain,
if you've a mind
for detail.
Along his chest,
leather.
He pulled it,
Sam Colt
in each claw,
and he dared the horizon
Draw,
you Sons of
Sons of
Bitches,
And as we started,
we ended,
rats, crawling over the dirt
scrambling
for water
for sun
for a dark hole away from
the storm
we'd made.
One
by one
by one he raised his hands
and squeezed
and turned that wheel
amidst the gun
never stopping,
never running dry
and the box on his back
held there by the chain,
every link our lives,
put there since the start,
every link we died
until the box was full.
And then one day,
one drunk in a dark room
encased by clay
wrote it down as a flood
of water
when two by two every beast of the
Memnalar Memnalar
4
9
Literature
Zero One
So choose.
To take what we will,
we will take
a knife to your child's throat
to stay warm in youngblood.
To serve the will which keeps us,
we keep safe
from enemies foreigndomestic
as long as we stay told.
So choose.
Take your
guns, or
take your
indenture.
We'll wait.
To take what we will,
we will take
a knife to your child's throat
to stay warm in youngblood.
To serve the will which keeps us,
we keep safe
from enemies foreigndomestic
as long as we stay told.
So choose.
Take your
guns, or
take your
indenture.
We'll wait.
Memnalar Memnalar
4
1
Literature
Watered down
I asked the old sailor
as he sucked on suds
my coin had brought him,
I asked again
the question that had brought me.
Yea, he spat.
He didn't say Aye,
Yea, you whelp, I saw one once.
Hair like the sun topping the waves
at dawn,
Scales like the calmest blue
around the islands where coconuts grow,
and speaking of coconuts, she had...
But what happened, I pressed him,
another coin down, another glass down,
'We'd gone down,' he said, a Spring gale
ripped our sails, and sent us breaking
over the breakers on the Eastern coast,
rocks like teeth, the Devil's tits.
I coughed at the color.
Another coin down.
And the man went on.
Water was black, he said, wiping
beer from stubble
"I followed the bubbles up," but something grabbed
him then.
What, I leaned forward, was it, man?
It was black as night, I told you whelp
it grabbed my foot, I gulped a mouth of
sea and yanked my knife from my sheath
and stabbed.
And hit nothing,
and then I saw her.
Her? I half stood, and he smiled, and tapped his glass
n
as he sucked on suds
my coin had brought him,
I asked again
the question that had brought me.
Yea, he spat.
He didn't say Aye,
Yea, you whelp, I saw one once.
Hair like the sun topping the waves
at dawn,
Scales like the calmest blue
around the islands where coconuts grow,
and speaking of coconuts, she had...
But what happened, I pressed him,
another coin down, another glass down,
'We'd gone down,' he said, a Spring gale
ripped our sails, and sent us breaking
over the breakers on the Eastern coast,
rocks like teeth, the Devil's tits.
I coughed at the color.
Another coin down.
And the man went on.
Water was black, he said, wiping
beer from stubble
"I followed the bubbles up," but something grabbed
him then.
What, I leaned forward, was it, man?
It was black as night, I told you whelp
it grabbed my foot, I gulped a mouth of
sea and yanked my knife from my sheath
and stabbed.
And hit nothing,
and then I saw her.
Her? I half stood, and he smiled, and tapped his glass
n
Memnalar Memnalar
5
14
Literature
gin ration
The boards in this dive,
soaking up my blood
just like they soaked up dad's
and granddad's before him,
and it's like they say.
Thicker than water,
'cause water would clean up
easier.
soaking up my blood
just like they soaked up dad's
and granddad's before him,
and it's like they say.
Thicker than water,
'cause water would clean up
easier.
Memnalar Memnalar
2
4
Literature
I reckon
Weeds tumble
over my headstone
until the Day.
one Day
a man was weary
too many mouths, too
hungry, loud
decided to shut them mouths
for better or worse
one Day
a general made a truce
swords to plows, but
orders are orders
decided to take that land
for better or worse
one Day
a rich man laid track
hands and hammers, all
crossed the sea for pay
but bullets are cheaper
for better or worse
one Day
Weeds tumble
into a broken hole
next to my headstone
Got my bullets,
Got my orders,
And I'm hungry
And for better or worse,
Hell's coming along.
over my headstone
until the Day.
one Day
a man was weary
too many mouths, too
hungry, loud
decided to shut them mouths
for better or worse
one Day
a general made a truce
swords to plows, but
orders are orders
decided to take that land
for better or worse
one Day
a rich man laid track
hands and hammers, all
crossed the sea for pay
but bullets are cheaper
for better or worse
one Day
Weeds tumble
into a broken hole
next to my headstone
Got my bullets,
Got my orders,
And I'm hungry
And for better or worse,
Hell's coming along.
Memnalar Memnalar
3
6
Literature
bicycle mortuary
We rode together once
but I've no time for you now,
so I've hanged you
to forget you,
as the air leaves you
rarefied.
Rust in peace.
but I've no time for you now,
so I've hanged you
to forget you,
as the air leaves you
rarefied.
Rust in peace.
Memnalar Memnalar
6
8
Literature
Easterween
Don't they get it
how six feet
of white fur
sharp teeth
dead eyes
terrifies
how no shadow
under the stairs compares?
how six feet
of white fur
sharp teeth
dead eyes
terrifies
how no shadow
under the stairs compares?
Memnalar Memnalar
2
16
Literature
alarm
Welcome to another perfect day aboard the Citizen Ship!
Our sun is bright, and our temperature is just-fine.
Do we have enough points for window privileges?
Don't forget to redeem them, the lot resets at the
end of the cycle,
and we wouldn't want to miss the sunlight
that we have programmed for us.
Have we had a chance to listen to
the newest shout?
It's all over the Wave Net, and
we want to be first with the news!
Infant Recycling is at an all-time high!
Thirty-two million units of contraband were incinerated
last quarter!
We will all receive an extra Yummy Pill in celebration.
We will all have a pleasant light-period! Productivity Is Law! Law Is Life!
Our sun is bright, and our temperature is just-fine.
Do we have enough points for window privileges?
Don't forget to redeem them, the lot resets at the
end of the cycle,
and we wouldn't want to miss the sunlight
that we have programmed for us.
Have we had a chance to listen to
the newest shout?
It's all over the Wave Net, and
we want to be first with the news!
Infant Recycling is at an all-time high!
Thirty-two million units of contraband were incinerated
last quarter!
We will all receive an extra Yummy Pill in celebration.
We will all have a pleasant light-period! Productivity Is Law! Law Is Life!
Memnalar Memnalar
0
9
Literature
Overheard on Pinterest
Original document
showing coat of arms given to Joan of Arc
and other styrofoam structures
to make them look like best office prank.
I'd just die.
London Leather Briefcase
flesh and blood just like any other animal.
Packaged in plastic they hang on retail shelves
one of the longest underwater caves in Texas
Mysteriously Beautiful Abandoned Places
Maryland mom charged with stabbing murders
OMG the cuteness!
showing coat of arms given to Joan of Arc
and other styrofoam structures
to make them look like best office prank.
I'd just die.
London Leather Briefcase
flesh and blood just like any other animal.
Packaged in plastic they hang on retail shelves
one of the longest underwater caves in Texas
Mysteriously Beautiful Abandoned Places
Maryland mom charged with stabbing murders
OMG the cuteness!
Memnalar Memnalar
1
3
Literature
#footprints
Two lanes up
two lanes down,
crispy brown in between
where once were couples
pointing cameras
at kids and dogs and
buttercup dogwood
dandelion bluebonnets.
All gone ghosts,
but for twin rubber lines
and online timelines.
two lanes down,
crispy brown in between
where once were couples
pointing cameras
at kids and dogs and
buttercup dogwood
dandelion bluebonnets.
All gone ghosts,
but for twin rubber lines
and online timelines.
Memnalar Memnalar
1
0
Literature
war priest's tale
Before, I was a war-priest.
I know what you've been told.
You heard about spiked maces and
tattered robes,
dented armor and a necklace of runes
smeared in the blood of enemies.
Heathens.
Monsters.
I belted on the mace.
It hung rusting like a old man's balls.
I used it once,
to mash rotten corn into pulp
from one of the few fields Milord hadn't burned.
My robes were tattered, oh they were
torn to shreds
by wind and snow, miles of thorns
and egg-laying flies.
My armor saved me once,
from a starving farmer's dagger.
He wanted my tattered robes
and my rotten meal.
The runes about my sunburned neck,
were caked in red and brown
smeared there
by my dying countrymen,
pleading with me
to ease their passing
to forgive them
for what brought them to this field
or from which they ran.
Heathens.
Monsters.
They flocked to me,
Before, when I was a war-priest.
I know what you've been told.
You heard about spiked maces and
tattered robes,
dented armor and a necklace of runes
smeared in the blood of enemies.
Heathens.
Monsters.
I belted on the mace.
It hung rusting like a old man's balls.
I used it once,
to mash rotten corn into pulp
from one of the few fields Milord hadn't burned.
My robes were tattered, oh they were
torn to shreds
by wind and snow, miles of thorns
and egg-laying flies.
My armor saved me once,
from a starving farmer's dagger.
He wanted my tattered robes
and my rotten meal.
The runes about my sunburned neck,
were caked in red and brown
smeared there
by my dying countrymen,
pleading with me
to ease their passing
to forgive them
for what brought them to this field
or from which they ran.
Heathens.
Monsters.
They flocked to me,
Before, when I was a war-priest.
Memnalar Memnalar
3
18
Literature
vaprous
You'll have to look close
to notice the ghost, but it
will always see you.
to notice the ghost, but it
will always see you.
Memnalar Memnalar
3
4
Webcam
 |
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I've JUST arrived from the future, ladies and cyborgs, and I have WINNERS to announce for the Flash Forward Fiction Contest 3019!
A universe of thanks to neurotype and SRSmith, who judged the entries for this contest! Competition was as stiff as a freeze-dried protein supplement, but HERE ARE YOUR WINNERS...
FIRST PLACE:
Version 10 by SubjugatedSandwich wins:
- Six Month Core Membership courtesy communityrelations
- Six Month Core Membership courtesy SRSmith
- Digital painting commission by Domaex
- 500 Points courtesy Memnalar
- 300 Points courtesy BlackBowfin
SECOND PLACE:
Fishin' by Tobaeus wins:
- Three Month Core Membership courtesy communityrelations
- Three Month Core Membership courtesy SRSmith
- Digital painting commission by Domaex
- 300 Points courtesy Memnalar
- 150 Points courtesy BlackBowfin
THIRD PLACE:
Space Toilet by NamelessShe wins:
- Three Month Core Membership courtesy communityrelations
- Three Month Core Membership courtesy SRSmith
- 100 Points courtesy Memnalar
- 50 Points courtesy BlackBowfin
IN ADDITION:
- ALL winners' pieces will be published (with each author's permission, of course) to 365tomorrows, an online publication with the goal of publishing one piece of Science-Fiction flash-fiction every day, every year. Courtesy SRSmith, editor.
- ALL contest entrants (not just winners, entrants) may receive a detailed critique of their contest entry from neurotype if they wish. Just send her a request by private note.
Many thanks to all entrants, judges and prize donors! These contests cannot happen without all of you!
Until next time, who knows what the future holds?
Skin by Dan Leveille
Activity
Why yes, I did just double-post the contest result journal, because I am a moron who doesn't know how group journals work after 12 years on this damn website, apparently. Apologies for the confusion. I deleted the first post. Same content. Same winners. Congratulations and love to all.
I've JUST arrived from the future, ladies and cyborgs, and I have WINNERS to announce for the Flash Forward Fiction Contest 3019!
A universe of thanks to neurotype and SRSmith, who judged the entries for this contest! Competition was as stiff as a freeze-dried protein supplement, but HERE ARE YOUR WINNERS...
FIRST PLACE:
Version 10 by SubjugatedSandwich wins:
- Six Month Core Membership courtesy communityrelations
- Six Month Core Membership courtesy SRSmith
- Digital painting commission by Domaex
- 500 Points courtesy Memnalar
- 300 Points courtesy BlackBowfin
SECOND PLACE:
Fishin' by Tobaeus wins:
- Three Month Core Membership courtesy communityrelations
- Three Month Core Membership courtesy SRSmith
- Digital painting commission by Domaex
- 300 Points courtesy Memnalar
- 150 Points courtesy BlackBowfin
THIRD PLACE:
Space Toilet by NamelessShe wins:
- Three Month Core Membership courtesy communityrelations
- Three Month Core Membership courtesy SRSmith
- 100 Points courtesy Memnalar
- 50 Points courtesy BlackBowfin
IN ADDITION:
- ALL winners' pieces will be published (with each author's permission, of course) to 365tomorrows, an online publication with the goal of publishing one piece of Science-Fiction flash-fiction every day, every year. Courtesy SRSmith, editor.
- ALL contest entrants (not just winners, entrants) may receive a detailed critique of their contest entry from neurotype if they wish. Just send her a request by private note.
Many thanks to all entrants, judges and prize donors! These contests cannot happen without all of you!
Until next time, who knows what the future holds?
Skin by Dan Leveille
349 deviations
Today, we bring you a sampling of genre-specific resources, old and new, from your fellow deviants. Clearly there's something here on dA for everyone!
The block party is ending today! But you are still invited to participate in the forum games, read the features, check out the Daily Deviations, and watch out for the winners of the contests! We hope you had a great week! We'd love to hear your thoughts on the event over in this poll! 
Before the War of Wizards, the Red Raven Inn was a legend on the banks of the Elsa. You could hear the skirling of the violins along the water for miles. Now, the strings were silent, and even the voices were hushed of a night, as everyone listened for thunder.
Tonight, they heard it.
"Shhh!" Old Cahill admonished the patrons, and holds up his cane. As one, the grizzled old farmers and river boatmen closed their mouths and look up at the rafters. Barmaids paused, faces ashen.
Unmistakably, there it was, the distant peal of thunder. Of course, Cahill had been the first to hear. He always was.
Cahill frowned. "Girls. Set to. Close the windows. Men, help me outside if you don't have your own farms to see to."
Most of the patrons left in a hurry to their own farmsteads to set things ready. A couple remained. Soon, windows were locked tight, horses were stabled, every possible thing not nailed down was pulled inside and piled in the center of the room. The fire was doused. Every lantern and candle snuffed.
Then, they waited. In darkness and silence. The thunder grew nearer. Lightning flashed outside. They could see it through the tiny spaces in between the slats in the window boards.
Red lightning.
Inga, the youngest of the maids, buried her face in old Mary's shoulder as the latter stroked her hair. "Shhh, shhh," Mary comforted her. "It will be gone, soon."
Old Cahill paced like a trapped wolf, swinging his stick impatiently, as if he could drive off the storm just with the force of his fear.
Then they all heard it. A voice outside. A child.
They all pretended to ignore it, but it kept on. It was a voice they knew.
"Knute," Inga sobbed, looking up from Mary's shoulder. "That's Knute! You know how he likes to sneak out of a night and search for lightning bugs!"
"That damned, slow-witted..." Cahill grumbled, gripping his cane.
Inga looked at him desperately. "We...we have to go out and get him! Be...before the storm..."
Cahill growled, waving his cane in her direction. "Like hell we will, foolish child! You know what happens when the red storms come. It's far too late to set foot outside now!" Cahill's face was drenched in sweat. Everyone remembered what happened to Cahill's wife Muriel during such a storm, not two summers hence, when he had seen the red lightning up close. The village had buried an empty coffin in the churchyard, one among many before they put an end to the sad practice.
Mary held Inga tighter. "Cahill, maybe it isn't too late. The thunder isn't so loud yet. And Knute is frantic, listen to him! That boy is all Karla has left!"
Cahill clenched his jaw and listened at the barred windows, his hands on the shutters as if he expected them to burst inward. What Mary said was true. Of all the wives in the village, Karla had sacrificed the most to the War. Four sons, a husband, and her left leg.
"Dammit, woman. Don't speak to me of sacrifice!" he hissed.
Mary looked around the room at the men. Farmhands and stable boys without lands of their own. They looked away, scared or cowed by Cahill's silence. She spat on the floor. "Then I will go."
She gently extracted herself from Inga and stood.
Cahill protested, but Mary was adamant. Inga wanted to go with her, but Mary would not allow it. "I'll move faster without you, dear child. But I'll have to bring Knute back here. It's too far to Karla's door, judging by how close he sounds."
Just then, a great flash of red lightning cut through the slats in the windows, and a crash of thunder followed. Fat raindrops began smacking against the roof and the sides of the inn. Knute began to shriek.
"Too close! I forbid you to leave!" Cahill growled.
Mary stood in his face. "And I warned you what would happen if you used that word with me again. Now move."
She stared. Slowly, Cahill shook his head and shifted aside. Mary grabbed her oiled cloak from the hook, swung it about her shoulders and slid the deadbolts free. The sound of hard rain and the smell of oily iron filled the room.
Cahill's hand gingerly rose, and sought Mary's. "Hurry. Come back."
Mary looked into his clouded, white eyes. She squeezed, then pulled her hood over her, ducked, and ran, pausing only to grab a length of rope from the horse-trough outside. She pounded thick, acrid water with every footfall. She tried to ignore the stumps where she knew there had been old trees her entire life. She passed a pile of rubble that had once been a well from which she'd drawn water as a girl.
From the edge of her vision, she saw one. It dropped from the sullen clouds, lithe and serpentine, silhouetted against a flash of red lightning. Mary looked away just as it snaked around a stray woodcart, and the terrible noise suggested heavy lumber being crushed and wadded like a fist-full of dried hay.
She found Knute. He bawled and whimpered at the bottom of the drainage ditch in the center of the village, now rapidly filling with the oily runoff from the storm. Mary knew right where to find him. She didn't have to look at the old oak tree nearby to know what had happened. It was his favorite. He climbed it like a raccoon. Climbing was the one thing he was good at. Climbing down was not.
"Knute! Knute! It's Ol' Mary from the Raven come to get you! I'll be a minute, dear!" She had no idea if Knute heard her over the thunder or his own cries, but she didn't pause to see. She lashed the rope around the old tree, knotted it, then tied the other end around her waist, using it to lower herself into the ditch, her feet slipping in the mud and the rocks. She found Knute with one arm lodged between two thick roots jutting out into the ditch from the old oak, and the other wrapped around a drenched kitten that was probably white in dry weather. Both were crying. Mary looked down. Knute's ankle was broken at an ugly angle, the skin was already dark.
Mary braced her feet as well as she could against the mud. Water was rushing against her, cold and oily, rising. "Knute, lad! I'm gonna grab hold of you, and try to climb up! Reach out around my waist now, hear?" But he didn't, over his wailing and the rain. She reached out for him, but he only shreiked, drawing his knee with the hurt foot up against him, threatening to tumble down into the water.
Mary grit her teeth. "Dammit, lad!" Knute, love him, was a simple boy, and too scared and too in pain now to listen to her.
She saw more of them, above. Reaching down, long and black against the red lightning. Searching. Mary had to get back to the inn with the boy. It was only a matter of time before they were caught by one of them.
Mary sucked in her breath. She would have to do it, then. She hadn't in years, not since the War. I'm older now, she thought. What will it do to me?
Couldn't think about it now. She planted her feet, gripped the rope, and held her free hand out toward Knute's broken ankle, palm up, and concentrated. She began to tremble. Her teeth began to vibrate, to hurt. Her tongue began to burn, her eyes to water with hot tears. She became a furnace.
Meanwhile, Knute had stopped shrieking. Instead, he stared, open-mouthed. His ankle erupted in white smoke that ignored the driving rain and heavy wind. The smoke covered his foot, and underneath were strange sounds, as if bones were clicking together. But Knute only watched in rapt fascination, as if he felt nothing. Slowly, as the clicking continued, the white smoke turned to red, then from red to black.
Then the black smoke began to roil and spin away from Knute's foot and gather into Mary's palm, like a small storm in her hand. It left behind an ankle in perfect condition. Knute wiggled his foot, wide-eyed, glancing back and forth from it to the smoke, as the kitten continued to wail and the storm tossed everything around them.
Then, without ceremony, Mary opened her mouth and shoved the swirling ball of smoke into it, keeping her hand in place, swallowing again and again until every bit was gone. It went down like wet fur and hot coals. She choked twice, but she kept from vomiting.
Knute stared, wide-eyed, but they had no time. "Knute! Grab onto me!" Mary yelled, her voice now ragged and gravelly. To her relief, he wrapped one arm around her, his other still tight around the kitten. "Hold on now, I'll have to climb!"
But then, something wrenched them both against the mud of the ditch. Mary looked up. To her horror, one of them, the thickest one she had ever seen, had coiled around the trunk of the old oak.
She had never seen one up close before. Mary had expected, what? Scales? Like a snake? But no, it was more like a great, black, pulsing earthworm. Ancient limbs cracked and snapped from the tree like twigs as it wound around the trunk and tightened. One of the limbs broke in half, hanging dangerously over Mary and Knute's heads, swinging in the wind, lit up red time and again in between stretches of darkness.
Mary cradled Knute's head against her shoulder, and tried to climb again, only to realize she was rising, and not by any effort of her own, just as she and Knute were covered by a rain of mud amidst a terrible roar of torn earth. The oak was being ripped from the ground, and she was still tied to it!
"There they are, Cahill!" It was Inga's voice, shouting over the din. "In the old ditch! Good gods, they're tied to the-"
"I can hear it, girl!" Cahill yelled back, "Take the axe! Can you reach them?"
"You idiots!" Mary screamed from under the rain of mud as she and Knute slowly rose, "What the hell are you doing?"
"Saving you, you mule! Inga! Can you reach them? Inga!"
"I..I don't...I can't."
"It's okay, girl, it's okay! Are they still touching the ground?"
"What?"
"Quickly, girl! Are they still touching the ground?"
"Yes! They're still in the ditch!"
Mary gasped. "You old fool! You haven't done that in-"
"COVER THE BOY'S EARS, MARY! You too, Inga! NOW."
The thunder was tremendous, the roar of the wind and the rain was like fury, but it was nothing compared to what happened when old Cahill knelt and put his palm to the ground, the veins in his temples pulsing. It was like a bell tolling in Hell. It swept through the earth, into both Knute and Mary, chattering their teeth and vibrating their bones. They couldn't move.
The thing dragging the tree from the ground paused, just a moment, as the tone traveled across the ground and up the roots and the trunk of the tree. It was like time stood still.
Old Caleb smiled, and snatched the axe from an astonished Inga, who stood like a statue. Caleb picked his way carefully toward the tree, and as confidently as though he could see it as clear as a summer's day, he brought the axe home on the rope and severed it in one swing.
Then the tone came back to him.
Cahill fell to the ground, hard. "Cahill!" Inga screamed, and ran toward him. The tree rose toward the clouds.
"Inga!" Cahill growled, coughing up blood, "Get...get Mary and the boy. Help them."
Inga nodded, and ran to the ditch, where Mary was struggling to drag herself out of the ditch, with near-hysterical Knute clinging to her back for dear life.
When they had cleared the ditch, Inga scolded Knute. "I told you never to go off by yourself in these storms again! Your mother needs you, foolish boy!"
He held the kitten out to her. It was sopping wet and mewling.
"I got him for you. It was up the tree. You...you were sad when your old cat went to sleep and didn't wake up, so I got him for you."
Inga stared in disbelief. "Knute..."
Mary raised her eyes to the sky and yelled, "Can we have this moment inside, children!" She shoved both of them back towards Cahill, shaking her head. They ran towards the old man.
Not fast enough.
Mary wondered then, and would wonder for years afterward, if he had known. If he had suspected that it was doing the kinds of things she and Cahill and others of their kind did - like his wife did - that attracted the red storms and the things within them, like bloodhounds.
Perhaps he counted on it. Perhaps that's why he sent Inga as far from him as possible at that last moment. Perhaps he wanted to be with Muriel again. Perhaps he was just tired of living in darkness.
Mary thought of all these things at once as she wrapped her arms around Inga and Knute so they didn't have to watch the thing take old Cahill up into the storm.
They didn't bury an empty coffin next to Muriel's. It was no longer the custom. Instead, Inga had the idea of planting two oak saplings near the spot where the old one once stood.
Mary got the village together, and they agreed to a lookout. A storm-watch, in shifts, for as long as the red storms lasted. They put up a watch-tower, the first of several. It didn't take much discussion on what would be the signal. Soon, a big, brass bell hung in the first tower, with no shortage of volunteers to fill shifts to ring it if red lightning was sighted on the horizon.
Cahill's Watch was born.
Mary thought of the name.
But then, something wrenched them both against the mud of the ditch. Mary looked up. To her horror, one of them, the thickest one she had ever seen, had coiled around the trunk of the old oak.
She had never seen one up close before. Mary had expected, what? Scales? Like a snake? But no, it was more like a great, black, pulsing earthworm. Ancient limbs cracked and snapped from the tree like twigs as it wound around the trunk and tightened. One of the limbs broke in half, hanging dangerously over Mary and Knute's heads, swinging in the wind, lit up red time and again in between stretches of darkness.
Mary cradled Knute's head against her shoulder, and tried to climb again, only to realize she was rising, and not by any effort of her own, just as she and Knute were covered by a rain of mud amidst a terrible roar of torn earth. The oak was being ripped from the ground, and she was still tied to it!
"There they are, Cahill!" It was Inga's voice, shouting over the din. "In the old ditch! Good gods, they're tied to the-"
"I can hear it, girl!" Cahill yelled back, "Take the axe! Can you reach them?"
"You idiots!" Mary screamed from under the rain of mud as she and Knute slowly rose, "What the hell are you doing?"
"Saving you, you mule! Inga! Can you reach them? Inga!"
"I..I don't...I can't."
"It's okay, girl, it's okay! Are they still touching the ground?"
"What?"
"Quickly, girl! Are they still touching the ground?"
"Yes! They're still in the ditch!"
Mary gasped. "You old fool! You haven't done that in-"
"COVER THE BOY'S EARS, MARY! You too, Inga! NOW."
The thunder was tremendous, the roar of the wind and the rain was like fury, but it was nothing compared to what happened when old Cahill knelt and put his palm to the ground, the veins in his temples pulsing. It was like a bell tolling in Hell. It swept through the earth, into both Knute and Mary, chattering their teeth and vibrating their bones. They couldn't move.
The thing dragging the tree from the ground paused, just a moment, as the tone traveled across the ground and up the roots and the trunk of the tree. It was like time stood still.
Old Caleb smiled, and snatched the axe from an astonished Inga, who stood like a statue. Caleb picked his way carefully toward the tree, and as confidently as though he could see it as clear as a summer's day, he brought the axe home on the rope and severed it in one swing.
Then the tone came back to him.
Cahill fell to the ground, hard. "Cahill!" Inga screamed, and ran toward him. The tree rose toward the clouds.
"Inga!" Cahill growled, coughing up blood, "Get...get Mary and the boy. Help them."
Inga nodded, and ran to the ditch, where Mary was struggling to drag herself out of the ditch, with near-hysterical Knute clinging to her back for dear life.
When they had cleared the ditch, Inga scolded Knute. "I told you never to go off by yourself in these storms again! Your mother needs you, foolish boy!"
He held the kitten out to her. It was sopping wet and mewling.
"I got him for you. It was up the tree. You...you were sad when your old cat went to sleep and didn't wake up, so I got him for you."
Inga stared in disbelief. "Knute..."
Mary raised her eyes to the sky and yelled, "Can we have this moment inside, children!" She shoved both of them back towards Cahill, shaking her head. They ran towards the old man.
Not fast enough.
Mary wondered then, and would wonder for years afterward, if he had known. If he had suspected that it was doing the kinds of things she and Cahill and others of their kind did - like his wife did - that attracted the red storms and the things within them, like bloodhounds.
Perhaps he counted on it. Perhaps that's why he sent Inga as far from him as possible at that last moment. Perhaps he wanted to be with Muriel again. Perhaps he was just tired of living in darkness.
Mary thought of all these things at once as she wrapped her arms around Inga and Knute so they didn't have to watch the thing take old Cahill up into the storm.
They didn't bury an empty coffin next to Muriel's. It was no longer the custom. Instead, Inga had the idea of planting two oak saplings near the spot where the old one once stood.
Mary got the village together, and they agreed to a lookout. A storm-watch, in shifts, for as long as the red storms lasted. They put up a watch-tower, the first of several. It didn't take much discussion on what would be the signal. Soon, a big, brass bell hung in the first tower, with no shortage of volunteers to fill shifts to ring it if red lightning was sighted on the horizon.
Cahill's Watch was born.
Mary thought of the name.
The Pain Eater's Tale
This began life as a response to a forum challenge to write a story in 20 minutes. No, I didn't finish this in 20 minutes, but I got a good enough start that I went ahead and fleshed it out.
I have a fantasy world that I kick around, in which a war among wizards has left the world battered and in a state of bizarre chaos; its a not-so-subtle metaphor for man-made climate change and living with the aftermath of our collective bad choices. Kind of a common theme for me lately.
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Thanks for the point donation! You're very kind 
Certainly.
Thanks for the push and the fave!
woah. a fav?! Thank you so much1
WhoooOOOoooOOo floating eyeballs
Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!
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