AudiocideIt isn't how I remembered it.Audiocide by DodgingTheBeat
The waiting. The hard return--the strike of something alive, twitching under a stratosphere at the bare edges of flickering displays and drifting starcharts. Days of First Contact drills in the ethereal holographic range of Sim-Deck Two. Three mission briefings, a twinge as my scouting unit is tapped for deployment. The hiss and rasp of rebreathers in the eternal dawn of Jump Airlock One.
I know it isn't right.
The drop. The plunge, ripping at the Helldiver's midsection. The tearing, it burns. Throws the shrieking of the stratosphere and the whining of stabilization jets and the ringing of alarms into a distant second place on the priority scale. Methane and phosphorous lick at my boots. The slipstream drags the limb appendages upright--
It's just what I remember.
Cloud cover evaporated in minutes, hot-white and searing blue. Landfall is scheduled in nine minutes minus. A sea of green-grey s
PrerogativesThe morning has begun with the great beams ripping the clouds apart, brilliant and bold and harsh against the smoky vista of the skyline. Explosions rumble; the distant tumble of buildings folding inward on their own foundations rattles the mirror on my vanity. The reverberation of the ceaseless bombardment has been our church bell for some time now.Prerogatives by DodgingTheBeat
My hair is a mess.
Soot and the bitter tang of ionized flagstones drifts through the open-hatched windows of my morning room like martial perfume. Correspondence is spread across the desk, caught in the hellish winds that buffer the high and lofty walls of my husband’s twelve-storey townhouse. Inscribed in hasty script and curt command are the voices of our beloved city in disaster reports, casualty reviews, and pleas for reinforcements.
The voice of our city is a terrified rabble.
Jasmine and blood mingle with the hot breath of the steam drifting from the neck valve of my butler-servo. I flick a
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.Her Catalyst by DodgingTheBeat
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
couldn't even have the honour of radio operatori was never meant for anythingcouldn't even have the honour of radio operator by MatieuCanadaWilliams
but rifle company
and my hands
Psychedelic Plants for the ADHD GenerationSo, I'm twenty-one. Which really means nothing in Alberta because the legal age is 18 and I've been drinking since I was in junior high, anyway. Still, it's kind of neat. I got a Kobo and a bunch of chapter's gift cards and a bottle of Jim Beam, plus some books. I'm spoiled, but I'm easy to shop for.Psychedelic Plants for the ADHD Generation by SgtPossum
So y'know, in Ubik, by Philip K Dick, they've got psychedelic and hallucinogenic drugs that people can buy in vending machines. I think that's a really nifty idea. Just have these things set out, so you can have all these people wandering around completely fucked out of their mind, seeing things that aren't there, freaking out or having a good conversation with blades of grass (only to scream in horror when some guy with a lawnmower decapitates their new friend). At first, it seems like a silly notion because obviously things can't run if anyone can just go off and experience Pink Floyd's The Wall personally and in living color.
Yes, at first. But here's what I suspect i
While not otherwise occupied, I splurge prose onto a page and worry afterwards about things like coherence or meaning. In short, I'm a writer and journalist hoping to make it as a professional novelist, screenwriter, graphic novel writer, or investigative reporter. If that means starving, so be it.|
I've been published four times at The Story Shack (online flash-fiction website).
THINGS I ATTEMPT: Writing, music, occasional filming, devil's advocacy
GENRES I ATTEMPT: Sci-fi (trans-humanism, cyberpunk, military), low fantasy, contemporary fiction (punk especially), historical fiction, or anything rattling around in my skull or in my notebook.
THINGS I IDENTIFY WITH: Humanism, anti-capitalism, direct democracy, socialism, human rights/social justice. Add a pinch of punk, freelove, and free-thought.
THINGS I'M NOT A FAN OF: Capitalism, fascism, human rights abuses, hypocrisy, extreme ideologies, polemics, mass media (especially tabloids), empiricism, low pay for the arts, Stephen Harper, American politics, nukes, Starbucks coffee.