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Post by Mister Buch on Feb 13, 2011 14:13:28 GMT 1
It seems greedy to be good at writing AND art. Those are very nice, and certainly coherent, no worries.
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Post by lieden on Feb 13, 2011 14:47:51 GMT 1
Okay, not mentioning anything about the music, then. Thanks, though!
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Post by Battlechantress on Feb 13, 2011 16:43:53 GMT 1
13 February 2011
"You're going to give us the ownership codes and leave via this airlock," the woman told us while her lackeys were waving their guns around thinking they were fearsome hitmen. Low-rent mercs who barely graduated from the navy's basic training, I concluded.
"'fraid I can't do that," I told her with a shrug. I kept my eyes on the guns, but not because I thought they could shoot straight.
"You are not in a position to negotiate!" she hissed.
I cocked my head and finally looked at her directly with a smirk. I had the codes, after all.
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Post by Mister Buch on Feb 14, 2011 3:51:47 GMT 1
14th February 2011
Jack and Jill stopped dating five weeks ago. Now they've run into each other in a branch of Boots chemists. I'm narrating this because both of them want to tell someone, but won't.
She's asked, 'What're you getting?'
'Oh. It's... well! It's kinda... personal.' He's frowning, pretending to be silly.
'Like... a penis-enlargement kit, or-'
'Ha ha! Yeah, I need some of that!'
'Oh I dun...'
They're both shaking their heads.
'Well,' Jack's saying. 'We made that meeting painfully awkward in... ten seconds! Good work, team.' He patted her shoulder, there, as he was leaving. They're both happy now.
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Post by lieden on Feb 14, 2011 13:47:34 GMT 1
Two more and an I'm to date... almost: 12 February 2011The day before he left they drove to the coast near their house. Sol was taking it hard; she tried to cover it up by talking. Remember when you took a dive from that rock and nearly cracked your fringe? Remember? Remember? When will you come back again? Why can't you tell me what you're up to? I won't judge you. I'm sorry about the things I said, I'm sorry about your face. You shouldn't be alone. He made his best to answer as he could, or rather as he couldn't. Yes, no, I don't know, it's all right. He watched his sister lift a pebble from the beach and toss it with fury into the sea. 'You didn't bring me something nice after all,' she said with forced cheer before he boarded the shuttle off world. 'I'm sorry,' he told her, but she just shook her head. 'Stay safe out there.' 'You too, Sol.' -- 13th February 2011'I don't know if you're watching this – this syncretism of all our stories, world-wide. The mythologies, folklore, urban legends; the fantasies and speculative dreams of people, once ahead of their time, now swallowed up by a collective unconscious that's become too saturated to produce new stories of its own.' 'What a bleak outlook. There is the future to look forward to, and stories to be gleaned out of it.' 'The future? It has already been envisioned; and none of these visions will ever be true.' 'I disagree. The future of mankind is among the stars. We always learn, we always dream up – new stories, new paths to follow.' -- First one is Mass Effect material, in the case it wasn't obvious. Second is a note of a nagging thought I've been having lately. Not very clearly defined yet, though.
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Post by Battlechantress on Feb 14, 2011 17:29:54 GMT 1
14 February 2011
Mel was standing to the right of me with her usual placid look. That made me a little more nervous. See, she was one of those former political prisoners on Merwu-Six who had been "rehabilitated". Or at least, the local government said they rehabbed her. They sent her to be a thug for them whenever uprisings happened in the Hopwell system and wiped her mind after each job, but ultimately that just made her forget a lot of things. Like pain. Or a conscience.
So yeah, her holding a small black box in her left hand couldn't be good.
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Post by Mr. Glow on Feb 14, 2011 22:31:28 GMT 1
13th, February 2011
7/1/1565, London
Walter is displeased. He expected us to return healthy, with the weapons we needed to arm ourselves and our mercenaries, to flush out the Templars and engage them. Instead, we returned weary empty handed.
"Did these men bear marks of any of our enemies?" Walter asks us. We fled so quickly, we'd barely had time to check.
"Not that I saw." William offers. "They could've been Hertford sheriff's men, going after the thieves, but really, who knows?"
"Maybe. Either way, I need some time to plan our next move." Walter says, gesturing for us to leave.
14th, February 2011
"I heard about what happened up north." Matthew stops me as I make to leave the warehouse. "I know what it's like to take a life." He says.
"You do?" I ask, I had thought he was simply an academic type.
"A couple of years ago, Walter, William and I were stealing documents from the crown. We were spotted, there was an altercation and I stabbed a man before we fled." he says, looking troubled.
"Just one? I killed three men. I'm a hardened killer compared to you, boy." I joke.
"You aren't supposed to enjoy it!" Matthew says, oblivious.
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Post by Mister Buch on Feb 15, 2011 2:30:07 GMT 1
15th February, 2011
At first, having superpowers was brilliant fun.
Years back, I saw a little lad kicking a football across a road on the way home from school. He didn't see the car coming toward him. I knew I couldn't get to him in time, and if I 'pushed' him it might not be enough. So I stopped the car: a child's life is worth more than someone of driving age.
The driver had two kids in the backseat, no seatbelts. Two. Against one. Bam. Since then I've just flown around the world trying to reverse time. I'm getting faster, you know.
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Post by Battlechantress on Feb 15, 2011 17:59:38 GMT 1
15 February 2011
The woman kept talking to me and ignoring Mel, when really she should have been doing just the opposite. Her hair had grown over the scars from past surgeries, but even the most ardent holo-watching junkie could often tell she was no longer "all there". I kept her with me all the same, though there were times I doubted that she even knew or cared who I was.
"The codes, Narsala. I won't ask again."
I yawned. Out here, that was a bigger insult than flipping someone off. "You haven't asked for anything."
The gunmen lowered their weapons, grinning.
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Post by Mister Buch on Feb 15, 2011 23:13:42 GMT 1
It's another poem.
16th February 2011
I'm the old man with dementia who used to be an author. I wrote this before all that happened. I was terrified
that the books I've collected might still be where they are, neglected, stained with stale coffee by weary sons too dry-eyed to read.
Carers now urge me to rhyme as I did, as if I could, and loved ones suffer,
pushing back their lives, putting up with mine and their passive aggression (as they know I would for them if I could). Wishing I would die as
now they mouth 'thanks' to a carer, or a lover with a petrified smile, trying to help. Let this do for memories.
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Post by lieden on Feb 16, 2011 11:12:51 GMT 1
Buch, I think you would appreciate this poem: www.flickr.com/photos/bigfatrat/314821923/in/set-1809744/ Writing mine all together again, somewhat in haste. 14-16 FebruaryI felt a tap on my shoulder, and turning back to look, I saw Lina's face. She looked worried. My mother used to confuse our names, calling her by mine and me by hers. It's very funny to think about it. Lina is a pretty thing, with cinnamon-blond hair and dark-brown eyes, loving to a fault. Of course, she is not exactly real. She's also dead: I lost her years ago. But I'm thinking she may have a good reason for showing up today, and I must let her speak. 'What troubles you?' I help her a little. -- 'Exposure,' she says. I cannot hear her voice right (I don't know what she should sound like), so it only comes up as a loud whisper. 'I'm afraid. 'I speak, I act, comment and respond. Some of it is real, needful communication. Some of it... is not. It's a display. It's like I'm flashing bits of my mind to strangers just to affirm my existence. I can choose what to say, I can be careful, considerate, not let out too much; but still I let out more than it feels right. And the letting out itself... doesn't feel right. -- 'And yet not letting out is making me just a little bit unreal.' 'You're not alone in this.' 'Yes. It's how the world works now, up there. We're all making avatars of ourselves. You even just made an avatar of me. Why?' 'Because I'm afraid too,' I told her, 'of exposure.' I hugged her tight. I think I had to fight back tears; I loved Lina too much, and it felt back to bring her up disguised in such trappings, to force a voice on her, to be my avatar -- and all that for such a petty, poorly defined cause.
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Post by Mister Buch on Feb 16, 2011 15:41:03 GMT 1
I'm ashamed to say, I loved that. I can't resist rhyming puns.
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Post by lieden on Feb 16, 2011 16:33:14 GMT 1
Yep, that girl is wicked. She's also a brilliant illustrator.
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Post by Mister Buch on Feb 16, 2011 16:50:20 GMT 1
It's a very nice poem. I'll bookmark her. Thanks.
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Post by Mr. Glow on Feb 16, 2011 18:50:34 GMT 1
Yikes, I can't get that out of my head. Maybe I'll just go and wash my hands!
I'll catch up later on. I'm too tired right now.
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