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Nov. 6th, 2005 03:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
plonqI never managed to finish a single story, in spite of all the alcohol. In the spirit fo NanDruWriNi, I am going to post (unedited) what I managed from all three stories (bearing in mind that each of the three was interrupted by drunken dissertation with my friends).
Here is what I manage for story one:
I've never really trusted technology. I think it may stem from the fact that a sonic shower once killed my cousin in a psychotic rage. That was back in the days when they thought that every minor appliance needed its own AI. We've since gone back to dumb technology, though not without its own set of problems. My translator, for example, was particularly problematic at times.
I took my translator with me when I parked in the spaceport because even though most people speak GS (Galactic Standard), there are always a few like me who can only parse their native tongue. The spaceport was not large as deep space ports go, but it still harboured a population of a couple thousand. Like most deep space miners, I registered myself with the port authorities and made my way directly to the nearest bar.
The only person on the bar was a tentacled, eye-stalked alien from one of those races who don't believe in vowels, and whose names always have an apostrophe in them. He (she? It?) seemed friendly enough when I entered the bar, and upon looking around the bar, I quickly deduced that it was the bar tender. It emitted a series of sharp fart and squeak sounds from sphincter in its side when I entered the bar. My portable translator chewed on its words for a few seconds.
"To purchase/enjoy insertion of alcohol [or crescent wrench] mixed or straight into a glass [or lower bodily orifice] for pleasure in return for [cash or blood]. Please express [acceptance or interest] with remuneration." I assumed that it was asking me if I wanted a drink, but the presence of a device mounted over the bar that disturbingly resembled a crescent wrench made me wonder.
"I'd love a drink," I said cautiously. My translator emitted a series of bubbly farting sounds which I hoped would relay the information in a way that didn't result in my death or discomfort. The creature's eyestalks twitched, and one of its tentacles reached for the crescent-wrench device.
Story two:
Plonq was a bit nervous on what, to his mind, amounted to his first real date with Sapphire. The pretty little skunkette had latched herself onto his elbow in a manner that seemed to be either claiming, or ceding ownership and the little snow leopard was suddenly acutely aware of his own pulse. He was essentially using managerial privilege to let her play hooky from her job for lunch, and as they stepped out into the street, a number of frantic thoughts burned their way across his mind.
"I'm dating a co-worker, and a subordinate," he thought glumly. "This could be seen as a serious conflict of interest. This could count against her if she ever put in for a promotion." Although nepotism had played a key role in the formative years of the company, it was strongly frowned upon in modern times. Human resources did not look upon it kindly when management started banging the staff. Banging? Wasn't he getting ahead of himself a bit on a first date? The snow leopard glanced over at the petite skunk on his arm and had a mental flash of the two of them locked together in a passionate, carnal embrace. "Ack!"
He hadn't meant to vocalize, but the skunk jumped at the sound of his voice. "Is something wrong, Plonie?" she asked with a hint of genuine concern in her voice.
"Um, no," he said hastily. "That is, I can't remember exactly where this place is." The snow leopard spoke truthfully, in spite of his other misgivings. He couldn't recall if the restaurant was to the left or the right. He had only been there once. His head swivelled left and right, powered by the mild panic that had found root in his gut. He considered his limited options and then selected a course of action and turned right. "You'll like this place," he said with false confidence. "The owner has been a sushi sensei for more years than either of us have been alive."
"Is that what they call a sushi chef? A sensei?" said Sapphire. "I didn’t know that you knew so much about sushi."
"Oh ya," said Plonq with false bravado. In truth he had no clue what a master sushi chef was called, but it seemed more important to him at the moment to impress his date than to be right. They walked for a couple of blocks before he was relieve to spot as familiar sign. He paused at the door, hastily reining in the skunk who was still attached to his elbow. "Um, you may notice a few things int his place," he said, "but don't let that put you off. The food is really good, in spice of appearances." Sapphire shot him a curious glance, but she bit back on any questions she might have been contemplating.
They entered a small, though not particularly intimate restaurant. It was graced with about a dozen Arborite-top tables surrounded by vinyl-topped stools. Behind them to their right was a large, greasy picture window fronted by a row of plastic plants, and opposite it was a sushi bar with an assortment of fresh and frozen fish. Behind the sushi bar were a row of salt-encrusted barrels containing a variety of fresh cephalopods, and behind those was a large algae-stained fishtank with a pair of sad-looking coy. A tap extended from the wall below the fishtank, draining noisily into a particularly large drum. The purpose of this drum became readily apparent when Sapphire caught her first glimpse of the sushi chef.
The chef was a biped, morphic shark. The shark sported a large, anchor tattoo on his left arm, and an (apparently unnoticed) lamprey on his right. He took a break from cutting sushi to bury his face into the large barrel behind him, sending a great gush of water from his pulsing gills. He was just lifting his face from the water vat when the snow leopard and skunk entered the restaurant.
"Take any seat by the bar," he said in a bubbly rasp. "It's not terribly busy today. Is there anything that you'd like me to start with?" Sapphire couldn't draw her eyes away from the lamprey hanging from the chef's left arm, but she heard the snow leopard speaking.
"We'd like a couple of oily tuna," he said, apparently oblivious to the walking health violation in front of them. "and also a couple of your chopped surf clams." He led to the skunkette to the front of the sushi bar and brushed an errant menu off the seat so that the could sit. "Make us another roll at your own discretion," he added. The skunk watched as the normally inept snow leopard removed his chopsticks from their paper sleeves, split them apart and deftly split off a dollop of wasabi. He poured a shot of soy sauce into the tiny dish on the counter and began stirring in the sushi. The feline fumbled with the chopsticks and let out a soft mewl of annoyance.
"He's nervous," she thought. She found the evidence of his vulnerability both endearing and mildly amusing.
And finally story three:
I cut myself this morning to see if I would bleed. I came downstairs, grabbed a paring knife from the drawer and drew it across the palm of my left hand. I bled. The blood welled up around the blade of the knife, formed a rivulet down the length of my palm and soaked the fur of my arm before it dripped to a small pool on the floor where it joined the knife that had fallen from the numb grip of my other hand. I don't normally do this kind of thing, but I had to reassure myself that I was real.
It’s not like I rose from bed this morning and decided to run a knife across my hand - it's something that's been fermenting in the back of my mind for over a week, ever since that android in my parents area had gone berserk and killed his wife. Apparently the poor bastard was a military bot who had been temporarily decommissioned into civilian life. He didn't know he was an android. His wife didn't know that he was an android. He'd cut himself while making breakfast one morning and just lost it. So deeply had they spun the web of false memories that as far as he was concerned, he'd had a full childhood, graduated from university, and landed an honest job with an engineering firm. He was an android with a fucking computer in his head - he didn't need a university degree. Brilliant.
Here is a more accurate accounting of my morning: I crawled out of bed at the usual time, following two cycles of the sleep button on my alarm clock. I instructed the house to prepare me a breakfast of multigrain pancakes and chicory, then trumped off to the shower where I spent nearly twenty minutes under a powerful jet of steaming water. I called up a summary of the latest new blogs that followed me around the house, projecting holographic highlights at me while I dried myself and dressed. That's when I went downstairs, had a sip of coffee, grabbed a knife and sliced open my hand. Did I mention that it hurt like Hell?
I dropped my breakfast into the recycler and wrapped a towel around my hand to staunch the bleeding until I could make my way up to the bathroom for a dermal sealer. Relief and chagrin fought for dominance in my mind as I patched up my hand. "Well, Jon, that was pretty fucking stupid," I muttered as I sprayed on a dermal patch. On the plus side of the ledger, I knew that I was alive. On the negative side of the ledger, I had known it all along but I for some reason I'd needed to prove it to myself. It's funny how the brain works sometimes.
With my moment of insanity behind me, I called up the job log for the day to see if it was worth going to work. The first job that came up was a warehouse cleansing in the west end of town. That sounded like a cakewalk, and given the comparatively late hour of the morning, I was pretty certain that Teri and Michael had probably already scooped that one for themselves. Fucking gainers probably sat up all night watching the listings for the easy jobs. We all knew what they were doing and hated them, but the company loved them. They had an amazing success rate and the company loved them. I could have done the same if I'd cared enough to get up that early. I scanned the next listing.
My stomach tied itself in a know when I saw the listing. It was the same abandoned warehouse where I had accidentally killed that social worker. The Feds had been all over us after that incident, questioning me, my co-workers, my employers - even the secretary. We'd been fighting off the press, the bloggers - hell, even the national association of concerned grandmothers had come to our office.I bu
Looks like I ran the full gamut tonight. I imagine I will edit and finish at least one of these stories some day. I admit that I'm a bit disapppointed that I didn't manage to finish anything tonight, but that's just the way it goes sometimes. Heh. Looks like the other three are at the point of passing out in the living room.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
atara has long since retired for the night. About time to start calling cabs I think.
Here is what I manage for story one:
I've never really trusted technology. I think it may stem from the fact that a sonic shower once killed my cousin in a psychotic rage. That was back in the days when they thought that every minor appliance needed its own AI. We've since gone back to dumb technology, though not without its own set of problems. My translator, for example, was particularly problematic at times.
I took my translator with me when I parked in the spaceport because even though most people speak GS (Galactic Standard), there are always a few like me who can only parse their native tongue. The spaceport was not large as deep space ports go, but it still harboured a population of a couple thousand. Like most deep space miners, I registered myself with the port authorities and made my way directly to the nearest bar.
The only person on the bar was a tentacled, eye-stalked alien from one of those races who don't believe in vowels, and whose names always have an apostrophe in them. He (she? It?) seemed friendly enough when I entered the bar, and upon looking around the bar, I quickly deduced that it was the bar tender. It emitted a series of sharp fart and squeak sounds from sphincter in its side when I entered the bar. My portable translator chewed on its words for a few seconds.
"To purchase/enjoy insertion of alcohol [or crescent wrench] mixed or straight into a glass [or lower bodily orifice] for pleasure in return for [cash or blood]. Please express [acceptance or interest] with remuneration." I assumed that it was asking me if I wanted a drink, but the presence of a device mounted over the bar that disturbingly resembled a crescent wrench made me wonder.
"I'd love a drink," I said cautiously. My translator emitted a series of bubbly farting sounds which I hoped would relay the information in a way that didn't result in my death or discomfort. The creature's eyestalks twitched, and one of its tentacles reached for the crescent-wrench device.
Story two:
Plonq was a bit nervous on what, to his mind, amounted to his first real date with Sapphire. The pretty little skunkette had latched herself onto his elbow in a manner that seemed to be either claiming, or ceding ownership and the little snow leopard was suddenly acutely aware of his own pulse. He was essentially using managerial privilege to let her play hooky from her job for lunch, and as they stepped out into the street, a number of frantic thoughts burned their way across his mind.
"I'm dating a co-worker, and a subordinate," he thought glumly. "This could be seen as a serious conflict of interest. This could count against her if she ever put in for a promotion." Although nepotism had played a key role in the formative years of the company, it was strongly frowned upon in modern times. Human resources did not look upon it kindly when management started banging the staff. Banging? Wasn't he getting ahead of himself a bit on a first date? The snow leopard glanced over at the petite skunk on his arm and had a mental flash of the two of them locked together in a passionate, carnal embrace. "Ack!"
He hadn't meant to vocalize, but the skunk jumped at the sound of his voice. "Is something wrong, Plonie?" she asked with a hint of genuine concern in her voice.
"Um, no," he said hastily. "That is, I can't remember exactly where this place is." The snow leopard spoke truthfully, in spite of his other misgivings. He couldn't recall if the restaurant was to the left or the right. He had only been there once. His head swivelled left and right, powered by the mild panic that had found root in his gut. He considered his limited options and then selected a course of action and turned right. "You'll like this place," he said with false confidence. "The owner has been a sushi sensei for more years than either of us have been alive."
"Is that what they call a sushi chef? A sensei?" said Sapphire. "I didn’t know that you knew so much about sushi."
"Oh ya," said Plonq with false bravado. In truth he had no clue what a master sushi chef was called, but it seemed more important to him at the moment to impress his date than to be right. They walked for a couple of blocks before he was relieve to spot as familiar sign. He paused at the door, hastily reining in the skunk who was still attached to his elbow. "Um, you may notice a few things int his place," he said, "but don't let that put you off. The food is really good, in spice of appearances." Sapphire shot him a curious glance, but she bit back on any questions she might have been contemplating.
They entered a small, though not particularly intimate restaurant. It was graced with about a dozen Arborite-top tables surrounded by vinyl-topped stools. Behind them to their right was a large, greasy picture window fronted by a row of plastic plants, and opposite it was a sushi bar with an assortment of fresh and frozen fish. Behind the sushi bar were a row of salt-encrusted barrels containing a variety of fresh cephalopods, and behind those was a large algae-stained fishtank with a pair of sad-looking coy. A tap extended from the wall below the fishtank, draining noisily into a particularly large drum. The purpose of this drum became readily apparent when Sapphire caught her first glimpse of the sushi chef.
The chef was a biped, morphic shark. The shark sported a large, anchor tattoo on his left arm, and an (apparently unnoticed) lamprey on his right. He took a break from cutting sushi to bury his face into the large barrel behind him, sending a great gush of water from his pulsing gills. He was just lifting his face from the water vat when the snow leopard and skunk entered the restaurant.
"Take any seat by the bar," he said in a bubbly rasp. "It's not terribly busy today. Is there anything that you'd like me to start with?" Sapphire couldn't draw her eyes away from the lamprey hanging from the chef's left arm, but she heard the snow leopard speaking.
"We'd like a couple of oily tuna," he said, apparently oblivious to the walking health violation in front of them. "and also a couple of your chopped surf clams." He led to the skunkette to the front of the sushi bar and brushed an errant menu off the seat so that the could sit. "Make us another roll at your own discretion," he added. The skunk watched as the normally inept snow leopard removed his chopsticks from their paper sleeves, split them apart and deftly split off a dollop of wasabi. He poured a shot of soy sauce into the tiny dish on the counter and began stirring in the sushi. The feline fumbled with the chopsticks and let out a soft mewl of annoyance.
"He's nervous," she thought. She found the evidence of his vulnerability both endearing and mildly amusing.
And finally story three:
I cut myself this morning to see if I would bleed. I came downstairs, grabbed a paring knife from the drawer and drew it across the palm of my left hand. I bled. The blood welled up around the blade of the knife, formed a rivulet down the length of my palm and soaked the fur of my arm before it dripped to a small pool on the floor where it joined the knife that had fallen from the numb grip of my other hand. I don't normally do this kind of thing, but I had to reassure myself that I was real.
It’s not like I rose from bed this morning and decided to run a knife across my hand - it's something that's been fermenting in the back of my mind for over a week, ever since that android in my parents area had gone berserk and killed his wife. Apparently the poor bastard was a military bot who had been temporarily decommissioned into civilian life. He didn't know he was an android. His wife didn't know that he was an android. He'd cut himself while making breakfast one morning and just lost it. So deeply had they spun the web of false memories that as far as he was concerned, he'd had a full childhood, graduated from university, and landed an honest job with an engineering firm. He was an android with a fucking computer in his head - he didn't need a university degree. Brilliant.
Here is a more accurate accounting of my morning: I crawled out of bed at the usual time, following two cycles of the sleep button on my alarm clock. I instructed the house to prepare me a breakfast of multigrain pancakes and chicory, then trumped off to the shower where I spent nearly twenty minutes under a powerful jet of steaming water. I called up a summary of the latest new blogs that followed me around the house, projecting holographic highlights at me while I dried myself and dressed. That's when I went downstairs, had a sip of coffee, grabbed a knife and sliced open my hand. Did I mention that it hurt like Hell?
I dropped my breakfast into the recycler and wrapped a towel around my hand to staunch the bleeding until I could make my way up to the bathroom for a dermal sealer. Relief and chagrin fought for dominance in my mind as I patched up my hand. "Well, Jon, that was pretty fucking stupid," I muttered as I sprayed on a dermal patch. On the plus side of the ledger, I knew that I was alive. On the negative side of the ledger, I had known it all along but I for some reason I'd needed to prove it to myself. It's funny how the brain works sometimes.
With my moment of insanity behind me, I called up the job log for the day to see if it was worth going to work. The first job that came up was a warehouse cleansing in the west end of town. That sounded like a cakewalk, and given the comparatively late hour of the morning, I was pretty certain that Teri and Michael had probably already scooped that one for themselves. Fucking gainers probably sat up all night watching the listings for the easy jobs. We all knew what they were doing and hated them, but the company loved them. They had an amazing success rate and the company loved them. I could have done the same if I'd cared enough to get up that early. I scanned the next listing.
My stomach tied itself in a know when I saw the listing. It was the same abandoned warehouse where I had accidentally killed that social worker. The Feds had been all over us after that incident, questioning me, my co-workers, my employers - even the secretary. We'd been fighting off the press, the bloggers - hell, even the national association of concerned grandmothers had come to our office.I bu
Looks like I ran the full gamut tonight. I imagine I will edit and finish at least one of these stories some day. I admit that I'm a bit disapppointed that I didn't manage to finish anything tonight, but that's just the way it goes sometimes. Heh. Looks like the other three are at the point of passing out in the living room.
atara has long since retired for the night. About time to start calling cabs I think.
