Ionic

Short Story Titles For Perspiring Writers Of Speculative Fiction

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sun, 26 Feb 2012 13:45:00 +0000

I'm Anubis & You are OK.
[a chance meeting of a ~~teacher~~ doctor with the egyptian god of death who is actually some sort of extra-dimensional being, musings on death and that sort of jazz]

we don't want you to be yourself
[a satirical look at corporate culture and the irony of commercialism, through the eyes of one of those artistic expressionist types, symbolism]

"Please avoid visits to prostitutes in the future."
[a sleeper agent from an alien civilization masquerading as a human on earth, this particular dialog appears in a confrontation the agent has with a supervisor, kind of like an avatar vibe but low key]

The Tick-Tock Man vs The Morally Corrupt, Ivy-League Educated, Revisionist Historian Who Secretly Is A Hipster.
[comical look at superhero science and such, contrast the whole thing with a spartan society and western-ish timeframe, sounds like a post-rock song, probably is]

By reasonable approximation, tomorrow is a Friday.
[mandatory time travel thingy, school student testing out science project runs into some "technical difficulties", sort of back to the future ode, lots of retconning madness]

Aching wood
[a tribute to coleridge and pirate tales, aching wood being a reference to a dread pirate by name of captain wood and the narrator forever complaining of his wooden leg, spacepiratesyhorror!]

Making Space-Suits For Giraffes.
[light hearted look at how some of us might never be fit for the future, from the eyes of a tailor, couple of movie parodies could be fitted in, maybe who knows - haven't thought about this one, i <3 the title]

e pluribus omnomnom

[a bit like soylent but not quite, a nation that eats together evolves together... if that makes any sense, think olaf stapledon]

Doctor Who ..Dreams A Lot
[sly nod to everyone's favourite doctor, liking the wordplay in the title, must NOT be inception, something something dork side]

The Succubus
[a space exploration team discovers a new planet that could house the many and ever increasing children of earth, the first frontierspacepeople move in, THEN ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE, not saying anything else]

Love Talking For Software Engineers: An Introductory Course

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 18:39:00 +0000

“I suggest we check for a secure connection if we intend to plugin.”

“I have seen you checking out my assertions yesterday.”

“When I saw you across the windowless six-person meeting room, i wanted to manage your dependencies right then and there.”

“Do you have a hashmap? I just keep on getting lost in your eyes.”

“If I said you had a great method body, would you hold it against me?”

“What if we reworked the test plan so that your code coverage came all over mine?”

“If I could rearrange the alphabet, I would put U and I D E together!”

“While the code is syntactically incorrect, I can't help but appreciate the beauty of your parentheses.”

“I want to import your package.”

“The moment I saw you across the room, I knew, your database would be worth exploring.”

“Only you can set the breakpoints of my heart.”

“You’re a perfect CMM level 5.”

“You are just like Python. Strongly my type.”

“MY PORT 20 IS WIDE OPEN.”

<desperate> love me <desperate>

6 Ways For A Man To Die In His Sleep

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 17:38:00 +0000

This is a street. That is a traffic signal. The man standing near it is about to cross the road. His name is Bruce.

Bruce doesn’t know it but he is asleep. He is walking in his sleep. He also doesn’t know it but his manuscript just got accepted by a major publisher.

He has been working on this book for a long time. There is one thing he knows and that is writing. He writes for a living currently. A non-descript column for a local rag that trades in famous people’s indiscretions. He does not like his job much.

Returning to the present, we observe that he is asleep. Traffic is sparse. It is night. A few vehicles approach this junction.

Bruce steps on to the road. He starts walking towards the other side. A song plays somewhere nearby. A car misses him and speeds on. Everyone is in a hurry.

The man ambles along. Another car brakes to a stop near him with a squeal of tires. He does not wake up. A big truck collides with another car trying to avoid him. There are shouts of indignation all around.

He reaches the other side. A man comes running at him. Bruce doesn’t know it but this other man just robbed a nearby store. Bruce is still asleep and still walking. The thief is scared and responds like foolish men do. With his gun.

Bruce dies in his sleep.

Bruce is in college. He is studying something that everyone else is studying for reasons he does not know. He sits on a bench. This is a long and hard semester.

Bruce loves Dina. Dina loves Hernan. Hernan loves everyone. Hernan also loves peace and marijuana. Everyone is happy. The world is going to hell but everyone is happy.

Bruce has just had a hard night. He was studying. It was second nature. There might have been some reason for whatever happened next.

One of those angsty kids who decide one day they have had enough and assume that bullets solve everything runs in. He fires indiscriminately. He kills some and he hurts some.

Bruce is tired. He is napping uncomfortably on a bench near the entrance. A stray bullet pierces his head.

Bruce dies in his sleep.

Bruce is now an author. He is one of those types who are invited to speak at conventions and revered by snotty critics. College girls and boys touch themselves in his name.

Bruce is travelling right now. The plane is a good plane. Or so he is told by the airhostess. She smiles at him. She has heard of him. She lies about how good his book is. She hasn’t read it.

Bruce’s book is one of those books that people claim to have read without actually reading it. Only a few manage that. Bruce is not married yet. He has dreams of Dina. He is having trouble adjusting with his new found fame. He has trouble sleeping these days.

His co-passenger tries to pitch him a book idea. Everyone is doing that to him these days. Bruce pops his pills. It is some new fangled sleep therapy thing that his agent recommended.

It works a charm. Bruce sleeps like a baby while the pilot asks the people not to panic. Shit happens. The plane crashes. Straight into the ocean.

Bruce dies in his sleep.

Bruce is named. He is a baby. He sleeps all the time or so his mother complains. She is hardly an ideal mother but she does her job well. The father is non-existent. She never mentions him.

She works to support the family which also includes her mother. A mother who believes in the old customs. She does not let Bruce’s mother to seek medicine when Bruce falls ill. Bruce cries a lot.

But in the end, he sleeps. His mother cries and never sleeps. She sits near Bruce at all times. One might get the feeling that she intends to stop the Reaper while he calls for her child. But then she is human. She is tired and she feels lost. She sleeps.

The Reaper swoops.

Bruce dies in his sleep.

Bruce is strapped between the creamy chocolate thighs of a young succubus, exhaling glorious sighs of ecstasy, as he deposits his life inside her.

Bruce is married. To Dina. It is not all golden. The monotony has set in. He is still famous. He still can’t sleep. He resorts to the closest starry eyed fan he can find.

It is a habit now. Bruce does not know it but he shouldn’t have resorted to this one. He lies, spent, in her bed. Meanwhile, this young black succubus’ lover who has had lingering doubts about the fidelity of the aforementioned succubus sneaks in the flat.

She carries a gun. The sight of another man lying next to her chocolate delight sets her off. She aims for his mouth.

Bruce dies in his sleep.

Bruce is old. Bruce is alone. He has sold a lot of books. He is at the end. He is happy.

Bruce dies in his sleep.

Peacefully.

Laughter Therapy

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 16:29:00 +0000

Originally a story by Kaushik Narasimhan

The End?

Of course, this is not a Guy Ritchie movie.

Go ask @kazarelth

Some 2011 Things

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 18:38:00 +0000

This place left blank to mess with your mind.

CHEW

I started reading this in 2011 but it started off in 2009 or so. Don't blame me for being late to the party that is John Layman's mind. He creates a crazy world full of frog-chicken hybrids, hidden pop culture references, cannibalistic government agents and a cybernetic rooster that is simply badass.
And all this is wonderfully illustrated by Rob Guillory.

Cylon. Independence Day. Fringe. Black Smoke Monster. Frozen Han Solo. What else you want?

The story is refreshingly new and the whole take on food related superpowers is unique. Plus, great dialogue, intelligent humor and ample pop culture brilliance. I have a winner.
Tony Chu is a cop with a weird secret. Tony Chu is Cibopathic, which means he gets psychic impressions from whatever he eats. It also means he's a hell of a cop, as long as he doesn't mind eating evidence. Unfortunately for him evidence could be as simple as leftovers or as cringe-worthy as a finger from a dead man. Add to that his boss-from-hell Applebee, his partner Colby who has all the charms that half a cyborg face allows and Mason Savoy.
Mason Savoy has to be one of the meanest, most vicious and yet amply cool character created in recent times. There have been talks of Chew being adapted to film or T.V. and I hope that they cast Mason Savoy right. [I, for one, would love to see Stephen Fry play the fat but nimble Savoy who can take out a room full of ninjas on his own.]

And have I mentioned the cybernetic rooster called Poyo who kicks military junta ass in N. Korea and rips out some dictator's heart right after being shot thrice? POYO!

Also they kind of explained Charlie Sheen -

ATOMIC ROBO

There is no word or combination of words in the English language to describe the awesomeness that is Atomic Robo.
Trust me on that.

It has Nikola Tesla and Evil Thomas Edison slugging it out for the future of humanity.
It has giant ants, a trip to Mars, a walking pyramid, and blasted Nazis.
It has Lovecraftian horror, regular science and sciencefictiony science.
It also had Carl Sagan hefting a big fat gun.
It has a talking dinosaur who is plain mad and yet somehow another one of those brilliant characters that is etched in history.

This guy rocks.

Since Atomic Robo's premiere in 2007, this scientist-adventure robot 'fathered' by Nikola Tesla has been a constant beacon in the stagnant mire that is mainstream comics right now. It's funny and can be surprisingly touching. It has robot fights, gun fights, robot dinosaur fights but it never uses them as an excuse to deliver a bad story. I recommend this both to those who have never read a comic before and those who have been reading comics their entire life

As Team Robo says on their official blog,

You can blame cable television, and DVDs, home entertainment systems, and PC and console games for the decline of comics readership. I don’t doubt for one second that those contribute to the problem. But, maybe, just maybe, people sought other forms of entertainment because it is a rare comic that treats itself or its readers with respect.

Here's to great comics.

PERDIDO STREET STATION

Sprawling epic. Those are the first words that usually pop up into your mind if/when you get through this book.

Perdido Street Station concerns the renegade scientist Isaac Dan der Grimnebulin. His research into various matters—such as the nature of flight or alternative sources of energy—leads to a series of unintentional consequences for himself and his fellow city dwellers. The science in this novel is in true steampunk fashion. But Isaac manages unwittingly to unleash a cataclysm of devastation when his experiments go awry.

Miéville’s stories are filled with scenery and sometimes it may seem like the plot takes a backseat. But not since the time I read Rendezvous with Rama, have I been gripped by this feeling of unlimited potential and oneiric possibilities.

Just when you think Isaac and his band are out of the fire and into the frying pan, Miéville hurls them into a blender. There is no single antagonist. First and foremost, he and his friends are battling a swarm of horrid monsters. This single thread alone could feed a film and a theme park thrown in for good measure. In addition, they must confront a totalitarian government, the university, the mob and technology itself. Each of these storylines is fully fleshed out and meshed into the narrative. There is even a World Wide Web that is spun by a huge spider.

Perdido Street Station is a long book, which doesn't get straight to the point [at one point I gave up reading]. Stick around and it will pay off. The ideas and concepts Miéville throws around in this one book could go onto make seven more.

A very solid and memorable fantasy.

DRIVE

"If I drive for you, you get your money. That's a guarantee. Tell me where we start, where we're going and where we're going afterwards, I give you five minutes when you get there. Anything happens in that five minutes and I'm yours, no matter what. Anything a minute either side of that and you're on your own. I don't sit in while you're running it down. I don't carry a gun. I drive."

[Also the movie soundtrack is so cool it makes me gush like a schoolgirl]

That sums up the Driver for you. He has no known name, and no other life. We see him first, he's piloting a getaway car. He eludes the cops with the help of his car, intelligence and sheer coolness. By day, he is a stunt driver for action movies.

I <3 Ryan Gosling. No one brings more charisma to the screen than this guy. As played by Ryan Gosling, he has no past and a limited emotional array. Any hints of personality are tucked away deep beneath the surface. His behavior defines him. He just drives.

As Roger Ebert puts it,

"Drive" is more of an elegant exercise in style, and its emotions may be hidden but they run deep. Sometimes a movie will make a greater impact by not trying too hard.

The Driver lives somewhere in an apartment building that also houses Irene and her kid. They connect but only till Irene's husband, Standard, shows up. They have dinner together [where's the deluxe version?]. The husband pitches a heist idea to The Driver and that alone drives the rest of the story. As expected things go wrong and ultimately, Irene and her kid, Benicio, are endangered, the Driver reveals deep feelings and loyalties indeed, and undergoes enormous risk at little necessary benefit to himself.

This year, I have seen a bunch of heavy 'critically acclaimed' movies but who knew that seeing a driver, wearing a gold jacket with a scorpion on its back, stomping on a man's head inside a lift would be the best?

This fan-made poster captures the whole essence perfectly.

MIDNIGHT IN PARIS

I hope I haven't bored you enough because I left the best for the last.

The first lines in this movie, via Gil Pender, hollywood hack, are

This is unbelievable! Look at this! There's no city like this in the world. There never was.

And that is true. Gil has come to Paris with his fiancée Inez (Rachel McAdams) and her parents, all of whom are devout Francophobes. There is also the typical gassbag pseudo-intellectual(brilliant Martin Sheen) and his wife-to-be. Gil, on the other hand, a romantic, adores Paris and especially when it rains. He often dreams of having lived in its 1920′s incarnation when all the literary and artistic heavyweights held court there, downing cocktails and tossing about revolutionary ideas.
I do not wish to give away anything about this movie because it is like a thing of beauty.

Watching Midnight In Paris, for me, was like a lucid, beautiful dream. A lovely waking dream that is happening while I am in it as that allowed me to appreciate it to the utmost. I went to watch this movie without even the slightest hint of the magic it withheld. This might be the first movie that has so successfully hidden its secrets.

Woody Allen’s 41st film. He considers this movie to be a love letter to the City of Light and he opens with an idyllic 3-minute montage, set to jazz, of Paris’ most scenic and famed landmarks [see video above]. Cinematographer Darius Khondji works his magic that made me want to fly to Paris right after the movie ended.

Above all, I think it was a way for Woody Allen to rediscover Woody Allen. Consider Gil Pender as a Woody Allen substitute and then look at some of the quotes "You have a clear and lovely voice. Don't be such a defeatist." and "The artist's job is not to succumb to despair but to find an antidote for the emptiness of existence." All of these somehow seem to indicate Allen breaking free of his usual rut of hopeless romances and finding a positively romantic muse in Paris.

It is charming. It is fun. Midnight in Paris is whimsical, romantic and it left me with a smile on my face.

I ♥ it.

Look at the poster? What is there to not love?

Edit: I had forgotten this but then it is..
PARA-PARA-PARADISE WHOA-OH-OH OH-OOOH OH-OH-OH

Dance of the Clowns

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 17:21:00 +0000

The man in the gray suit looked at his pocket watch. It did not work. It was meant to be a reminder. He stood on the top of the tower. A storm was brewing somewhere to the East. He was joined on the tower by the white rabbit. The rabbit had a bionic eye, bright red like a ruby, and was wearing a black waistcoat.

It spoke with a curiously deep voice, “The time has come. Agent Lenko has gone rogue. He slaughtered a grab team on the Sphinx. Embalmed it in blood. He must be stopped.” Mayer was an analyst. He worked on the countless realms of possibilities that branched out every time an agent made the leap. The Agent Lenko mentioned here, was one of the best agents the Ministry ever had.

“Who is available?” asked Mayer.

“Tatarov is in 1898, overseeing the London tube construction. J.D. is lost in transition. Bae Park retired. Anderson is down with a virus. Murfy was enticed by the Lotus Eaters. Jane has gone DOE. You get Duff.”

None of these are real names. Everyone goes under a fake one. It is essential to preserve a sense of identity. Also, no one ever reveals their real ones. It is a job risk. Except for Duff.

Duff is a chain smoking, arrogant, wise ass who loves to circumvent authority.
Duff went to the edge of reason and looked down into the ravine. He saw nothing interesting so he came back.
Lenko went to the edge of reason and looked down into the ravine. He saw nothing interesting so he decided to go deeper. He ended up the way he is now.

“I do not like Duff. But I follow orders. I do not expect a repeat of the Moscow incident.”
The Rabbit looked pained. It was an obvious thorn in his bureaucratic paw.
However, he managed to say, “Auf wiedersehen”.

The Rabbit took out a pocket watch and turned a few dials. A wormhole opened right next to him, on the grass carpeted tower.

“Dan will set co-ordinates. I will talk to George.”
The Rabbit jumped in, vanished; probably heading to China.
…

Oleg Lenko stared at the Zeppelin, as it rose towards the heavens. He smiled, as a cruel child would, looking up at it from the balcony. He was holding a fellow agent at gunpoint.
“On a large enough scale, each one of us is an ant. My grandpa loved those little critters. Ants, walking a straight line. So full of purpose. They know it, you know? They know what they are on Earth for. Not like us. Not like people. Look at those specks down there. Walking, ambling, crawling. With no sense, purpose, no honour. What are we without these things? Worse than dead. Thank me later.”, he said to the scarred and beaten agent.

“Oleg, you don’t have to do this. You can be better than this.”

Oleg turned to face him. He pressed the red button. Golden flames erupted on the ship. Behind Lenko, the Hindenburg disaster unfolded. He raised the Glock and pointed it at the agent.

“All of you are like hydrogen atoms to me. I can play God. Who wants to be better?”

He squeezed the trigger. The bullet smashed into the agent’s face.

Lenko walked up to the balcony. He looked up at the flaming wreck and said quietly, “Oh! the Humanity, Oh! The Humanity.”

A twisted smile made its way around his face, as he stepped on to the rails and jumped down, into the awning wormhole, humming Dance of the Clowns.

[a sort of prologue to my nanowrimo attempt]

The House of Grant - Chapter II

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sat, 08 Oct 2011 14:11:00 +0000

“So, Professor Lowe, now that we have established that you are no better than other men, let us get on with the business.” This woman was Lady Clarissa Grant. She was a complete albino. She was cursed to live in the dark and she used this too her advantage. Controlling the whole village from her seat of mystery.

“I did as I was asked to by your private ape, Bartholomew. I gained entry to the house of Mr. Daly. I used a standard practitioner trick, the hand of glory. It is the hand of a hanged man, dried, dipped in wax, made into a candle. Opens doors, immobilizes occupants and fascinates party guests. I used the tools to break into the wall. I found the box there. The house was a convent before. So thar’s that.”

“Very well, Professor Lowe. Now we get to work. The box as you may know was made of the same stone on which the first Lady of House Grant was murdered by those savages. The box contains her heart. It is supposed to have trapped one of the spirits that rules the netherworld. And now here it is. I am pleased.”

She did not look pleased. She never was. The blood red eyes could only muster pity and condescension.

“So, here is the key. Which I procured independently as a gift to you. Now the small matter of my final payment.”

Derision was writ in her eyes when she said, “Yes, how could I forget? Bartholomew, hand over to him the deeds to the manor. With the power that this box brings me, I don’t need this hellhole.”

She took the key and moved towards the box.

“Lords of the Darkness, your freedom is at hand. I am your servant. I ask only one thing. Mercy in your madness. Appear in a shape that I am fit to witness... Please.”

The box hissed slowly and the lid opened with a bang. There was a puff of smoke and then nothing.

“You lying scum! You tricked me! Lowe, I will not –”

Color flooded Lady Clarissa’s lifeless cheeks. For the first time in her tortured existence, she looked human. Bartholomew rushed to her aid, fearing the worst.

“Don’t touch me. Ape.” The words were like a cold dagger to all those who heard them. Bartholomew froze in place.

“But I was only trying to help you, M’lady.”

“I DON’T NEED ANY HELP! Be the monkey that you always were.”

Bartholomew was now an ape. Surprisingly, the tuxedo still fit him nicely.

“And you, Lowe. What are you? A pig, maybe or a weasel.”

Froth formed at her blue lips and her eyes looked like sunken pits of congealed blood. She tried using her powers again. Lowe stood unperturbed.

“In the house of Mr. Daly, along with the box, was an inscription in some rudimentary dialect. I am no fool, Madam. Your power won’t work over me. The shaman did his job right. The shaman’s servant did his job better. The box contains not the heart of the first Lady of House Grant. It holds the heart of the Shaman.”

Lowe ripped open his jacket to reveal a seal bearing an inscription in the same savage dialect of the tribe. The seal shone with an eerie light. Lady Clarissa screamed as if stabbed by a dagger. She turned away from the seal, “TAKE IT AWAY!”

“By the names Lonim, El Morrh and Nehen Syeth Nehen. By the name of Ado, the saint, your jailer, whose corruption and malignance protects me. And by your own name, Homir, a minor disturbance in the bowels of this rock. By knowing the name, I command power over thee. I know your kind are liars and the Shaman must have tricked you into submission. So, By his name and his words, I command thee to obey me.”

The woman collapsed to the floor. When she rose up, It was a different voice that spoke. A voice that rumbled through the house.

“Very well, human. Command me.”

“Yes, the usual. Wealth and riches. I know it isn’t original but I don’t have many needs. Nevermind, I am just messing with you. Just go back quietly into your lithic prison and stay where you are. I command you in the name of Ado, the shaman who trapped you.”

The woman leapt towards him. Lowe quickly grabbed the box and held it open, trapping the spirit inside.

“Stupid bitch.”

--

Bartholomew, the ape wasn’t seen or heard of.

The villagers didn’t care about the House of Grant.

A week later, the manor was sold to a Hollywood starlet. She was determined to hunt down ghosts.

She was contacted, a month later, by a certain Professor Lowe who claimed he could find any ghost she wanted.

All he wanted was her autograph on a blank cheque.

The House of Grant - Chapter I

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sat, 01 Oct 2011 14:05:00 +0000

A time when man was more of an animal than he is now, though some would surely dispute that, there was a man, bent by his own greed. His lust for power and an ambition to conquer the worlds lead him down a dark and dangerous path. A path that saw him surrender to forces far greater than him. Puissant spirits of utter malevolence. He was driven to the brink by them and dangled there. He begged for mercy and pledged undying loyalty to them. They freed him in return for complete servitude. His tribe called him Shaman.

This man, the Shaman was not very happy. He was old and sick now. Most likely to be stabbed to death by one of his own power-hungry underlings. He, however, had a duty to perform. A ritual. He commanded his servant to bring him the book.

The woman was bound to the black slab of stone. Gagged. She was completely clothed in black. Moonlight bounced off her translucent face and slid off the stones casting eerie shadows. A face, so pure and unmarked, that one could see through it. She was unconscious. His underlings begun chanting. He raised his azure knife and muttered a few arcane words. Words of power. Words that sent a shiver through the gathered vermin. The knife flashed as it dived toward her heart.

The stone was stained in her blood. The shaman was never happy. He was content now and he smiled like a man freed of his duties. He laughed in his big booming voice. A flash of light caught his eye. He could see the servant’s knife glinting close to him. The knife was nestled in his heart. He died satisfied.

Scotland. In the present.

There is a single house on the hillock. It looks like a crooked old raven when seen from the distance. It is a house of disrepute and sickness. A sign of nature’s triumph over frail human will. It is the House of Grant.

One man stands in front of this house now.

Peyton Lowe. Born German, raised British. Professor of very old follies and fungus.

He has a briefcase in hand, an umbrella in another. He is dressed as befitting a gentleman yet somehow exuding an air of shabbiness that is characteristic to those of the scholarly kind. He takes hold of the rusty knocker and taps twice on the door. The door creaks. A butler opens the door. He is a specimen of no real distinction. Lowe steps in and immediately, he is swallowed by the house. The darkness gropes at him with cold, lonely fingers.

“Excuse me, could you take my coat and case?”, he says and turns around.

“You will have to excuse Bartholomew, my butler. He is old and his hearing is not as good.” The voice is old, clammy and repulsive. Light is scarce inside and as his eyes adjust to the dark, his eyes find the source of the voice. He is quick to control his shock but not quick enough.

She has reptilian scales for skin.

Bugged

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 07:17:00 +0000

"I just got up normally, you know. Fine morning. I was standing with my car. She is a fine lady. The engine was warm though. I thought I might have forgotten to take the keys out. So, I looked in and no keys. But I notice something else. An extra 100 or so miles on the clock. Fuck I say to myself. Fucking Fuckerson. I keep note of all those little numbers. It is fun. Might have made a mistake, Landsman I say.Never driven in my sleep. Never driven much actually. Bessie used to drive. She loved it, god bless her tired soul. I pick up the newspaper and it is all creased and folded. Now, I ain't got no neighbours. I figure, it might be some of them pesky kids. Sometimes, I wanna shoot one of those. Never had any. I shrug and I enter the kitchen.The light is on. It should not be. There is some leftover capicollo in the fridge. There is a half eaten bacon sandwich on the table. So, I go to the cops. They give the amount of fuck an old man gets in this country of liberated fucks. So, I get back. As far as I know, no one else has access to my file. Then I watch some TV and I go to sleep."

He took a gulp of air and water. Thanked himself and continued.

"I usually wake up around 3 am. I feel uneasy. Gradually, I realize there's someone else in my bed. It is a woman. Bessie. She smells of sweat and stale perfume. I don't even know what stale perfume is. She is also wearing one of those leather things that they use for those perverts. You know, those BDSM things. Those. I usually struggle to get up at this point. I recoil, gasp and curse. She puts on her flirty voice and asks if I want one of those wet nightmares."

Bessie has been dead for 8 years.

"Some sort of foul oddment, a tweak in the code of being. A- A, an exception! Is she for real? Is she my Bessie? Either way, I have got problems."

"I understand completely Mr. Landsman but don't you think it is a little odd that you are telling all this to a giant bug that is having tea in your kitchen with you?"

There was a giant bug in Mr. Landsman's kitchen, sitting at his table, sipping chai and eyeing that half-eaten sandwich.

"I hadn't thought of it that way before. Dear me. This is worrying. I should get my gun."

He went to the living room.

"What are you guys doing here?"

There was a family of 3 sitting on a couch in his living room, watching TV.

The dad wore a floral dress with purple polka dots. He had a caribou for a head.

The mom wore a business suit and a hat. She had a bulb for a head.

Their kid was a bowl of punch.

"Oh, fuck this. I will just kill all of you. Fucking with my mind like this, you got no right."

The door to the cupboard was slightly open. Apart from being a handy place to keep a gun and a vat of generic expressions, it was a cosy place. So, he kept his wife's dead body there.

"Just to remind myself that you are dead. Everything is wrong here. I have no idea why that clock is trying to defy time and those babies have no business being up there on the ceiling. What is going on here? WHAT is happening to me?"

The bug was back. OR maybe he never left. He spoke.

"You know it Landsman. You have known it since you woke up. There is no use denying it. Bessie is dead. You killed her. You kept her body so that you could stay. It was your ticket to sanity. But it wasn't enough. Your mind has eaten itself. The chip has corroded. You looked into the abyss and now, their is abscess in your mind. Fuck, who writes these lines? Jeez."

"So, what are trying to say? I am not insane. I won't be called crazy. I heard where they took Albie. I won't go there. I won't. I will kill everyone."

"Oh no, no. I am your friend, Landsy. I am on your side. I am your bug. I am you now. We are in this together. When, they come for me, they come for you. BLAST THOSE FUCKERS! Till then, let us watch some TV and drink this coffee. I love the smell of coffee like blood in the hours after the morning. I think they should fire this writer. What do you think?"

Landsman was old and a sad conservatory for fluids. Just last week, he had soiled himself. In the mall. However, his mind was still sharp.

"I think you are the problem. I think you are the glitch. I think you are making me do this."

"Me? ME?! Harmless, Mr. Bug. You are the one who is corrupted, Landsy. You killed Bessie. I ain't no external agency or no act of god. I am your disease. There is nothing you can do."

"You are wrong. All my life, I have felt this urge. THIS voice telling me what to do. I always did it. Go to the bathroom, Watch TV, Read books, Work, Engage in activity, Build Charisma points, Gather Knowledge points, Make love, Shit, Eat. All the time, some one up there pulled the strings. Like a game. But no more. One click of this gun and it is over. Everything I loved is dead. I refuse to be saved."

*click* They deleted him the next day.

Pay For Your Own Time

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Tue, 16 Aug 2011 17:29:00 +0000

29th April

"So, what you are trying to say is that, you actually were there when it happened? Is that what you are saying Mr. Grant?"

Mr. Grant was lying on the couch. It was Saturday afternoon. He always showed up then, to talk about his problems.

"Yes. I sense derision, Mark. And I get it, it is difficult to accept something like this. I don't even want you trust me. Just listen. I pay for my time, don't I?"

It had been the same story for 3 weeks. Mr. Grant would show up and talk for an hour. He would then leave. His story would never really change much. It would just go on for a bit. Mr. Grant was starting now and Mark was getting ready to be paid for feigning interest.

"I am holed up in my room on the ship. It sways ever so slightly. I am sick. I am looking at the calendar. I have eaten something bad or maybe I was never made for the sea. I hear the sounds and the smells waft in. It is the Lusitania. Doomed to a watery grave. The fabled South Hampton to New York route. It is the 7th of May, 1915. And then I wake up. I have never known what time it was but my guess would be noon. Any thoughts today?"

Mark had thoughts though they did not concern Mr. Grant's story. They were about mortgages, the secretary's blouse, his fiance, a sandwich at the cafe and his mother's recent death.

So, he said, "Hey Mr. Grant as long as you pay for your own time I have no problem. You have a good one. See you next Saturday."

Mr. Grant thanked him and left. Mark continued work.

Next Saturday noon, the couch was empty. Mr. Grant did not show up. Mark had time to kill. He went out for a drink.

The bar had no one except the bartender. The mortgage and his dead mother were weighing heavily on his mind. He was tired of seeking happiness in lies to his fiance and self-medication. So, he drank. An hour later, he was sufficiently drunk to drown out the world but not enough to lost interest in it. A photo did catch his attention.
He easily identified Mr. Grant in the photo. He asked the bartender about the photo.

"Yeah, that was my great grandpa. He died in that ship thing that happened in the great war. The Lusitania. German bastards sank it."

He rushed back to his office. The couch was definitely empty. He checked his drawers. The money was there.

Mr. Grant had, after all, paid for his own time. It was a good thing that Mark was drunk.

--

1st of May 1915, the RMS Lusitania left New York heading for South Hampton carrying 1,965 passengers and crew ( the majority being American citizens). 7th of May she had been making good time on her run, and while off the coast of Ireland, a German U-boat spotted her, lined her up in their sights and fired a torpedo. The torpedo wasn't spotted til it was almost upon the ship.

The torpedo hit the Lusitania making a large hole in her starboard side. Water began rushing into the 1st and 2nd boiler rooms. The ship was then rocked by a 2nd explosion.

The Lusitania took a mere 20 minutes to sink taking 1,201 people with her -- only 764 survived.

"They Eat Metal" Part III

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 14:48:00 +0000

Run To The Hills

The Tiles were originally farmlands. They were divided into squarish blocks. The uranium plant leeched of the fertility and converted it to a white sand desert. Horse had enough fuel to circumnavigate the planet. He had looked for scrap metal that he could sell but there was not one piece in sight.

The trouble started once he stepped off the Tiles. Horse first noticed that he was being followed when he stopped for a drink of water. There was not much of an attempt to hide. The first one to appear was shot immediately. It just stood to the side of the path. Horse did not pay it any attention. Soon, he realized that quite a bunch of them had started following him.

Horse quickened his pace. He could see the tavern.

Then it happened. A scream tore the noisome silence. Horse ran.

He could feel them race after him. Through the corners of his eyes he could see them running in parallel tracks, hiding among houses and seeking him on the open road. The hill loomed ahead. Horse drew a blaster and fired a few shots. Each one hit its target. It was a long and tough run and Horse was never built for running.

All the spiders had the same pitch black eyes. There was no time for sympathy. Horse got ready to do what he did best.
The only trick he knew. Kill.

Horse lifted the girl in his right hand and started firing with his left. Slowly, he started running backwards. All shot down. Yet, there were more. His blaster seemed to be running out. He hurled a flash bang. That stopped them.

Horse, turned and ran, for his life. He reached the top of the hill just as he thought his lungs would burst and his legs would catch fire. Scott, his bike, was primed to go. He popped in a feed into the engine compartment, checked the navsat and sat on the bike. He strapped the kid in, jumped on the bike and took off.

As he was gliding over the Tiles, he heard it first. The sound was unmistakable.

A sound of metal being eaten.

He looked over his shoulder to see the girl eating the interim stabilizer. Disbelief changed to horror as the girl opened her mouth wide and latched on to his arm. The pain was unbearable. The bike rolled in mid air. The bike flew into the plant. He had landed on the Tiles. The girl had fallen next to him. She was staring hungrily at his gun. The girl crawled towards the gun. It was him or her. A single tear appeared on his cheek. He shot her. The gun gave a mournful ping. He was almost out of ammunition.

Horse examined his arm where the girl had bitten him. He was a cyborg. All dragoons were. As he looked at the corpse of the little girl, he remembered the barman’s words. He realized where all the metal inside the plant had gone. With mounting horror, Horse saw another girl in one of the barn windows. A boy near the plant door. He could hear little feet murmuring.

The girl had playmates. Currently, the guests were arriving and he was dinner.

"They Eat Metal" Part II

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 16:23:00 +0000

Out On The Tiles

Horse walked on and on.

He always liked tracking when he was a Dragoon. He left before he got used to the killing. He thought himself better than that. He was not a coward.

He had, famously, stared down a Never-been and, rumored to have, sliced a Rakkaruk belly from the inside. He was there when Silent Bay was taken and the last Child of Pestilence was slain. Green’s rebellion changed him. The System lost its charm and the Dragoons lost their power. Now, he was on his own.

Some say, that is how he was born.

The Tiles covered more than half of the planet. Eerie noises, unsightly apparitions and grim memory ghouls accompanied him wherever he went. This time however he sensed he had some human company. Horse took advantage of the intermittent gas curtains and hid behind a large rock on the path. He waited and then jumped out with his blaster drawn. A little girl stood before him. She was black like the barman and that was enough for Horse to assume that she must have been his daughter.

Horse turned around. The girl walked up beside him and held on to his coat. Staring out at the desolate landscape, in front of him, Horse saw a Lone Planeteer travel aid. It was cranky and seemed on verge of dying. Horse checked its batteries and found none. Suddenly, the screen blinked to life.

“Welcome to *brrk* Fall. This is Elk. Deacon Colesmith *bzzt* sheriff. The chief occupation here is *krzzk* elk herding. The uranium farms are mostly located on the Tiles *krrkztt* Thank you. Mind you, it is the season of death in these parts. You watch your back.”

He did not know which season it was. With one thing and mostly another, he hadn't been to these parts. Somewhere behind him, humanely inaudible over the turbulent winds there was a faint scuttling sound. Quick as a whip, he whirled, blasters drawn and fired. There was a sharp, metallic thunk, followed by a gurgling noise. As the airs cleared, he could see his target.
A spider.
Obsidian eyes that were bereft of any emotion. There was a gaping hole where ‘its’ absent heart should have been. He recognized a predator when he saw one. The girl tugged on his coat. Fear was a reflex for her.

Horse walked to the plant. It was pretty deserted. The door was open. Darkness prevailed inside and he could smell fungus and danger. It was a long way between here and his ride.

Horse stepped inside. The door did not close of its own accord. There were no creepy shadows lurking. There was not a soul in sight.

That should have been his first clue.

"They Eat Metal" Part I

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sun, 10 Jul 2011 17:09:00 +0000

A Horse Walks Into A Bar

A trail of ruinous dust, looking like a galaxy, billowed at his back when he walked into the territory. The spurs on his boots clinked together. His coat was ordinary army issue but with a few tribal patterns. His moustache was of the finest material.

He had reined in his mount at Drake’s Fall. A mouth to feed and water was his only concern. Covering Scott with a blanket, he adjusted his gas mask, put on his hat and walked into the path leading to the tiny settlement called Elk. He pulled his coat tighter around him and walked on into the green, pernicious fumes.

A tavern found him.

The Goat’s Left Eye was so named because of an enormous left eye that hung off the tavern’s left wall. There was no one in the tavern except for Tam and this big gun he was pointing at the newcomer.

“Well, well. A customer and a stranger at that. Tell me why I shouldn’t blow your head off your shoulders.”

“Strikes me I could ask the same question of you, par’ner.”

Tam observed that the newcomer was also pointing one of his blasters at him.

“Ok, at least you are human. They wouldn’t react this way. They eat metal, you know? Still some identification would go a long way.”

The newcomer laid down his badge on the bar and sat down on one of the dusty stools. He grabbed a flagon and helped himself to some of the tap beer.

“So, yer name is Horse, eh? Never heard that one before. And yer a Dragoon. Never liked one of those ever.”

“Your beer tastes like Rakkaruk piss.”

“Why, thank you! And for this compliment, I’ll give you some free advice. Turn back and leave immediately. I have never liked you Dragoons, tools of the System.”

“The same System that left you to die here. Don’t forget that part. My mount needs some hay and as soon as I get it, I’ll be off. Any one in the village?”

“There ain't no hay here. There might be folk on the Tiles. It is just us --” Tam froze mid sentence. His eyes rolled back in his head and his whole body seemed to go into a fit. He jerked around enthusiastically before falling down to the floor. Horse observed this with his usual lack of interest.

Tam was stone dead. Horse checked Tam’s pockets and found two shekels. He left them on the bar.

“That’s mighty kind of you”, muttered Horse as he began trudging his way towards the Tiles.

[continued here Part II]

Sad Stories I

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sun, 03 Jul 2011 09:34:00 +0000

Love In the time of spoilers

“So, what you mean to say is, that, if I walk out, through that door, I will find true love? And I am supposed to believe that? AM I?”

“Yes. As I told you before, I am you from the future. You will be faced with two choices. Bernard or Sam. One of those is your, our true love.”

“Okay, let us say I even believe, for a second that you are, as you say, from the future. Time travel technology doesn’t exist in my time. And you do look like an older version of me but I have seen enough James Cameron movies to not be fooled by that. Why should I believe you?”

“You just have to trust me. Take a leap, trust in me and you. Anyway, it is almost time. You should get going.”

*disappears*

“So, great. Just so fucking great. Just like me to keep me hanging with a load of romantic bullshit.”

She stepped out into reality. Sidestepped a drunk, elbowed some bitch and stared at some stranger.

As usual, she had to wait at the intersection. On the other side, there was another mass of strangers. She scanned them looking for recognition. A kind pair of blue eyes found hers. Willing herself not to blink, she smiled. He smiled back. Her 20/20 eyesight and her desperate need to believe in herself knew this was her choice. She stepped onto the road. He started walking towards her. For a magical moment, everything froze. People stopped doing people stuff, birds suspended in the autumn sky, life hit the pause button.

And then as if, someone had pulled the plug at the bottom of a sink, everything happened at once. It was peak time traffic, what else did you expect?

Bernard, who happened to be a manager at a neighborhood coffee store, was hit by a car. Samantha, who was her next door neighbor, pulled her out of harm’s way.

The rest as they say is the future.

The Internet Rules IV - Random

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Thu, 30 Jun 2011 18:18:00 +0000

"But we have soothed ourselves into imagining sudden change as something that happens outside the normal order of things. An accident, like a car crash. Or beyond our control, like a fatal illness. We do not conceive of sudden, radical, irrational change as built into the very fabric of existence. Yet it is."

So said Ian Malcolm in Jurassic Park, the book. The movie did leave a strange impact on me. Left me with a desire to know more. Left me with a hankering of history. Left my mother to deal with a lawn dug up by a hyperactive kid.

This edition, and there hasn't been one for a while is random. Just randomly random things I came into possession of through random agencies and random actions.

#1. The Theory Of Relativity: Nicely explained here.

#2. Art: Humanity, express thyself !

#3. The Internet: Humanity, DON'T express thyself !

#4. Life: It will find a way.

#5. Cake: Because.

The Silent Monks of Rythnal

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Mon, 20 Jun 2011 09:54:00 +0000

We have seen most of it. We have heard the rest. We have never spoken.

We have been here fasting on the Seventeenth week of the coming of Labyr. We have been here while the West Witch attempted to convert the Motherland to a land of Fairie. We have been here to see her lose against the combined forces of this World’s Greatest Heroes.

We have seen the Jariksh tribe infiltrate Earth. We have seen them sow the seeds of distrust and discord. We have seen hatred beyond humanity. We have seen the masked hero known as The Face weild the Sceptre and banish that Otherworldly abomination.

We have witnessed the Fall of Dr. Hoff. The eccentric Zimbabwean who carried out experiments on humans and liked pineapple on his pizza. Some called him the Witch Doctor. But we alone know his bizarre secret and his ultimate defeat at the hands of the African savior White Lion.

We stood and heard of tales of the Night’s horde. Those demons of madness unleashed by one man’s folly. A man whose search for justice blinded him to what is right and what is easy. We heard of their plunder in the mountain kingdoms, their slaughter of the Royal family and their eventual spree of devastation in India. We knew about the rise of a mighty warrior in that land who would vanquish this evil forever - Vajra.

We have collected knowledge through time and space. We have seen the Lady Hatch attempt to destroy us and steal this knowledge. This compendium of history, not only of man and superman, but also containing ideas from alternate histories and written by parallel universe monasteries. We have written about her plan being foiled by Mr. Ink, Rojo and The Buccaneer family.

We have witnessed the curious incidents surrounding the elections in New Zealand. The earthquake that split Australia in two halves. The loss of life and kind in the ocean. The disappearance of the mysterious Mr. Ink. He might not have been a good man but he had good intentions.

A new fear arises. The Dawn of the Wolf Moon. A period of horror and torment for all of humanity. A period of darkness and pain. Our sight shows us death and devastation brought about by the Wolf. We see the brink of extinction. We have stared into the eyes of true evil and written about it. We have seen the end of the world.

And then we have seen us standing here again.

Alone. Forever.

[A sheaf from a scroll obtained in the lost library of Mr. Ink]

Another Sidekick Story

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Thu, 16 Jun 2011 10:48:00 +0000

You can call me Jules, I guess. If you have read this far you have earned that right.

I met The Face on my first day with the World's Greatest Heroes. More like ran into him. That man sees it all. He knows, he actually knows what it is to don a mask and go out there and help the nameless, the faceless. No pun intended. It is a bit weird but you get accustomed to the fact that his mask is his face. That is the last human thing about him. He might look human, talk and feel human. But that man is much more. His Scepter feels like living energy. Power of the Cosmos, he calls it. Never treated me like a sidekick.

Everyone usually looks down upon the science accident kind of hero. Which is me. I was just a cleaner at the Mark Aquarius Laboratories when it happened. A fight between Mercury and Mark Aquarius led to an accident. I got caught in there.

Cliché, cliché. Mercury decided that it would be good for his image to take me on as a sidekick. That was just for the media. I could generate a low-level psychic field that could pass off as a sort of invisibility. I worked solo. Even made the papers, when I, along with officer Mulligan, made that drug bust in the Southern warehouses. Ended up marrying him.

Then of course, Mercury made a big fuss out of me being gay, even though no one really gave a damn. I have to tell you. Mercury is a real jackass. And pretty stupid too. Now, I am no Einstein but even I could tell you what happens when you block an energy outlet. It has to come out from somewhere else. I am of course referring to the infamous Australian Open. I did not coin that term.

Australia, just split down the middle. Turns out Mr. Ink had some sinister plan in place that involved a shrink ray. He wasn’t the first one. (see appendix)

Mercury bumbled his way in. Tried stopping Mr. Ink by smashing the outlet. The energy released by that shrink ray caused the rift. Mr. Ink did his best. He channeled it and split that country right down the middle. That amount of energy could have done a lot of damage. Killed many people. But Mr. Ink saved a lot of them.

Just goes to show, that all bad and good is not black and white. I found it the hard way. The energy split reversed something about my powers. I lost them.

I tried my best to point out Mercury’s fault in the whole thing. But who is going to believe a sidekick? Let alone one with no powers.

I decided to retire.

But not before one last fling with the cape.

[An excerpt from the instant bestseller, out now, Julius Raymond: A Sidekick Story]

Support Group For Victims Of Science

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sun, 12 Jun 2011 20:30:00 +0000

I am Ian Nicholas Kinski.

Known to most of you as Mr. Ink. I welcome you to the 2001 AGM of the Support Group For Victims Of Science.

First, I have been asked by the doorkeepers to announce this, ‘The red hoverjet is being towed’.

Okay, now on to business. The formal address will be done later by our guest of honour, The Human Centipede. I am here to say just a few words, impart a modicum of wisdom that age and experience may have granted me.

Last month, an old friend of mine and dear rival – the inimitable Dr. Iron died. He died fighting the fight. There is no good or bad fight and he knew it. He had The Face trapped. He had the upper hand. And yet he lost. Allowed The Face to use that mystical scepter of his and annihilate Dr. Iron and his Fe Males. All because he forgot to set the laser to optimum criterion. Old age! Who can escape it?

Which brings me to my point, tonight. Luck. Yes. That fickle bitch that is supposed to favour the fortunate and the brave. That split second difference between life at Sleeter House and being buried at Donnington Cemetery. We make our own luck. Not just figuratively. A committee is to be set up that shall research and aim to recreate luck. It shall be headed by Dr. Theresa Furnace and Prof. Kornelius. Joining them will be our resident extraterrestrial genius Oh’pee Jay, Dr. Iron’s daughter Maria, The Inventor and myself.

Even though I was forced to collaborate with Rojo and The Buccaneers to foil Lady Hatch’s plans, there is no partnership. All I wanted was the shrink ray blueprints.. which I have now.

You may devise the most fiendish invention. You may build your own potent weather machine. You may construct the ultimate space laser. You may hypnotize a female to seduce one of the supermales. And yet you may fail. Luck may desert you. A loose screw, co-ordinate skew or a lousy shrew may scupper your best laid plans.

You may beat that masked rodeo clown. You may defeat the scourge of the night. You may shrink a sidekick to an ant. You may beat them all. But the last enemy to beat is YOU. Yes, you. You must be strong. Never given to the physical You. Do not let emotions dictate Your behavior. Do not let feelings for the hero’s girlfriend cloud your focus. Beat compassion and mercy out of You.

And yet nothing beats, my mamma’s fried chicken. Thank you.

[From the Annual General Meeting of the Support Group For Victims Of Science or as the news calls it ScienceVillain Union]

My Superhero

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sat, 04 Jun 2011 07:28:00 +0000

It is all the little things.

The flowers arranged a particular way. The curtains moving even when there is no wind. The finger print on the bathroom mirror. The golden hair on the pillow next to me.

I am the face of The News at 5. Which as you can see is not The News at 7. Someday I will fill those giant shoes that will be left by Amy Kinney. She has large feet but really nice shoes.

So, the thing I was talking about.
I have a stalker. I am not freaking out. I mean, these days everyone likes some invasion of privacy. And if you knew who my stalker is, you would want him to invade yours too.
Curious? I found out on my birthday. There was a card lying right next to me on my bed. Usual happy birthday stuff. Signed Mercury. I had it verified by a friend I have.

It was HIM. Mercury. The Golden Speedster. Granted the powers of super-humanesque speed by the Greek Gods. He had golden hair. Blue eyes, square jaw, the amulet of the Gods around his neck. The media had made it out as if he and Amy Kinney had a special connection.
But I had myself a super stalker. This was the perfect way to move up the timeslot ladder.

One day I got home a little late and found hot pork chops on the dinner table. Another day, a tub of ice cream with a chocolate sauce Mercury written on it. A hot bath someday, a nice flower on some another. It was all going nicely.

Then one day the MOAT people showed up. Claimed that I was a ‘bad influence’. They searched the house. They found Grade 6 Category C banned substances in my house. In. My. House.

It was all a haze. I never understood much. The processing was a blur. Everything was.
Like when Mercury runs at that divine speed of his.

I wrote to him. He never wrote back. I tried telling those agents. No one believed me.

Then Amy Kinney showed up. She explained how the network bosses were planning to move me to the News at 7 slot and how it was necessary for her to get me out of the picture and how she has Mercury hooked onto some drug that only she has access to.
That is how she trapped me.

Help me.
Veronica Lane

[All communication shall be addressed to The Arbitrator, Sleeter House For Those Beyond Help, Waldonis.]

Time

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Tue, 03 May 2011 15:05:00 +0000

Pieces and bits collected from the expedition journal.

Muriel Francis Gerrick writes:

I miss you. Mother.
I wish Father would see that. He drags me around to meet all these people. Smile, dress sharp, smile. Dr. Robert Gerrick, adventurer extraordinaire. Needs money to finance his forays into the unknown. Look at his happy kid. Look at how he has raised her single-handedly. Now, give him the money so he can drag her to some cold and barren place and engage in his scientific pursuits.

Dr. Gerrick writes:

The mountain looms upon us. We reached the base yesterday. Under the watchful eyes of a sickle moon. Osmond, dashing fellow and a geologist of some renown joins us. Peters, a local interpreter rounds the team. Tonight we rest.

The weather seems to be taking a turn for the worse. I sneaked a page out of Father’s notes. He talks less to me, day by day. I can make out nothing from it. There is a word underlined on it. I can’t read it. Some kind of ancient scrawl.

It is stifling. The dark presses on me. My legs hurt from the running. I can’t see where I am running to. Suddenly the land under my feet gives way, I fall. Yet, it does not feel like I am falling. Then it happens. The darkness pervades me. It forces itself inside me. It covers my body and its grubby fingers grope for my face. But, then I wake up.

Father was standing over me. He hauled me roughly to my feet. I dared not question him; such was the fury in his eyes. Something dreadful had happened.

As we walk on, I realize that Peters is not with us. Personally, I couldn’t care less.

I tried reading the page again. It bored me and the weather wanted me to sleep. The letters seemed odd. It was almost like they wanted me to speak them out loud. That is all I remember. When I woke up, I was being carried on a gurney by the two slaves. I pretend to be asleep. I hear snatches of talk between Osmond and Father. I try listening more. One of the slaves realizes I am awake and signals to Father. He glances at me and the discussion dies.

Everything looks gray here. I never really found out what happened to Peters. I see the word in my dream again. It seems real. I try to touch it but It moves out of my reach.

This time I do not fall.

The cave is huge. We do not need to walk far. Even by the light of the slowly fading day, the thing can be seen. It stands upright. It is a mere stone. I go for a closer look, hoping to find something of significance. Osmond confirms what has broken my heart.

Osmond wants to run some tests on it. I leave him at it. I shouldn’t have lost that page. It was torn off from a tribe’s compendium. That is all I know. With Peters gone, there is no way I can get these locals to talk.

This rough data is gathered from one of the local slaves

Gerrick woke up in the middle of the night. Osmond was missing. Muriel ran in after Father. Osmond was lying on the ground, shrieking like a madman. Father touched him and was taken aback at how cold he felt. Muriel looked at the purple rock. There was something alive about it. Muriel was transfixed. Osmond was beyond help. He sat up now, muttering again and again. It was necessary to get Muriel away from there and as far away as possible. Father grabbed her and ran. He looked behind but there was nothing. Osmond made no attempt to get up.
Sorry bastard. The elements would kill him. But not soon enough.

I ran and stumbled in the dark. Something cut me, I could feel warm blood oozing down my cheek. I made it safely to the camp. He had laid Muriel down and checked her for fever. She was as cold as Osmond. I used the transmitter and sent the distress signal to the base camp. I prayed silently for them to make it here in time.

Muriel’s mouth was moving, forming words. Dr. Gerrick moved closer to listen. There was no sound. He tried reading her lips but in her delirium, she was speaking to fast. He held his daughter’s head in his hands and looked into her eyes. He must have read the word in her eyes. I knew what would happen. I ran.

The page :

The mountain. It was the center of an ancient kingdom. The gods were angry and wanted to punish the land of the mountain. So, they sent it to the peak. It was not of this world. It did not understand the ways of men. It was to men as men were to ants. Powerful yet inconsequential. It existed across time. A speck of existence divided over centuries, perhaps. It could manifest in different places. It could very easily transcend most physical boundaries as a human could stamp on an ant. But the ants have no idea of what a human is. In the same way, it did not regard this universe.

It could be and not be at the same time. Exist simultaneously across eras. Showing up in points of time. It flexed one of his great hands, there was a flood in the East and there was hail in the West. The North and the South were mere points on a line for it. So it would grow and the humans would not be aware of it as their frail mortal minds could never wrap themselves around the concept. They could see the destruction and they had questions to ask. But they never knew when to ask them.

The Gods, as is their nature to meddle with things that outweigh them in importance, decided that it had to be stopped. They knew that the being could never be restrained. So, they fashioned a cross for the thing to bear.

A corporeal existence it must have if it is to exist at all. But the price for creation, was destruction itself.

Confidential Report :

The locals have been debriefed. All priors are investigated. This is accessible on a code 4 clearance.

Osmond had apparently impaled himself on one of the sharper rocks. Peters was never found. Muriel was rescued by the search party. She was taken to the general hospital and declared a vegetable. Her Father, Dr. Gerrick was found near the mouth of the cave. Foam lined his mouth, his eyes were a pulpy mass. They had bust due to internal pressure. There was no semblance of a brain in Gerrick.

He was found lying on his back, his shirt torn open, a bloodied knife in his hand and a single word carved on his chest.

AMUD

This started it all -> https://twitter.com/#!/doppelhanger/status/65350291209469952

Irony

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sat, 30 Apr 2011 18:35:00 +0000

"all in the game..." - Traditional, West Baltimore

Sunday:

“Stop resisting. It will be over soon.” He continued strangling the woman lying on the kitchen floor. The woman was dead. The man was making sure she was. He pretended to not notice the sharp tip of her umbrella, lodged in her. He gave up soon and walked into the living room.
The man wore a tweed jacket. It had Monday engraved on the lapel. He was called Monday. He glanced at his watch. It was about time someone showed up. He picked up his sawed off shotgun, poured some Scotch and sat in the chair, infront of the door.

Friday:

Monday was up on the roof of a brown brick. His binoculars focused on the park opposite. Kids ran in circles. Parents pretended that they were in control. Some conversed. His gaze sought out one man. Aquiline noise, sharp eyebrows, olive skin. Red jacket and a copy of Moby Dick in his hands. This one was called Bensharif for some reason. They all had names. Bensharif was not here with a kid. He was here to pick one up. Bensharif preyed on the little ones. Monday was not here to judge. He was here to plan. Bensharif would leave in half an hour. The route was tracked, the exits were marked. He would take him in the proverbial dark alley.

Wednesday:

Annie was a writer. She always had a pen with her. The pen was her. She was such a sweet soul. Monday never wanted to kill her. He had stalked her to the supermarket and seen her be nice to all the people there. Like a bottle of bottled sunshine. Bright, warm but never quite free. He had waited at her house patiently while she was out on one of her supermarket trips. He hid inside her closet. When she came back, he surprised her. With violent death.

Thursday:

The sky was yellow. The air reeked of pleasure derived from pain. Loco was a special man. He hurt people

to make them happy. They even paid him for it. Monday never understood that concept. He did not get pleasure. Giving it was out of question. Loco was a big man who could take care of himself. But, Loco liked wearing his mask too much. And, Loco liked his boy toy Andre even more. All Monday had to do was hold Andre hostage. Loco came rushing in. Monday threw Andre aside and pumped a shot into Loco.

Tuesday:

He loved her brooch. It was delicate, effeminate yet so powerful in its simplicity. He liked her the best out of the seven. Mercy she was called. Did not ask for it even once. She was dying anyway. The injection did her in. As silent in death as in life, when her husband had beat her. Sometimes, close enough to feel death standing near. She was in a happy place now. He took the brooch. He shouldn’t have.

Saturday:

Stripes. Cop. Mean. Twirling his lighter. Stripes was investigating a series of murders across town. None of them connected to each other. Stripes was a good cop. He did his job, was only as dirty as everyone else. Stripes ate pork sandwiches, drank beer and shot some pool. He went home to a wife and a kid. He abused his wife and whacked his kid around. Even, broke the kid’s hand once.
He found a dead hotdog vendor that day, a bottle of gin inserted into his innards.

Stripes caught a homicide call late on Tuesday night. Mercy had cancer and a history of domestic violence. The brooch was missing. He had a photo of the brooch. The next day, he got Annie too. Annie, the writer, who drowned her own kid in the pool and wrote about it. She got money. She was found in her bathtub with thin perforations in her lungs. Dead as her dead kid. He would have usually dismissed the murder of a local thug as a gang shooting. But, the state the witness Andre was found in made him suspicious. Registered sex offender Bensharif was stabbed in the alley next to the park where Stripes had to take his kid the next day. He saw the man with the brooch running. He stared transfixed at the falling body and rose to action only when he heard mothers scream. The man had moved out of recollection by then. On his way home, on Saturday, Stripes found the dead guy near the police department. This was starting to get out of hand. Sunday when he heard noise of a scuffle between his neighbor Marge and a visitor, he grabbed his gun and decided to pay her a visit.

Monday:

The moment Stripes opened the door, Monday shot. Trust Stripes to not die so easily. He managed to get a shot off. He felt nothing initially. Feeling returned and realization dawned.

He had won the game. He was now free. He had finally managed to beat them all. He was better than all of them. @luckybroochm, @penannie, @maloco, @bensharif7, @atomichobo, @umbrellarge, @stripes

were beaten.

The game was beaten. He was free. Dead on a Monday.

Where The Trolls Dwell

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Tue, 26 Apr 2011 15:51:00 +0000

[This may seem like it is plagiarized, but it is not. TRUST ME.]

For Mathematicians and Japanese mega monsters

A smooth rumor is rising
From the heart of the internet
Reverberations of the thing
I can hear in my heart

The call is distinct
The fight of the cowardly
I linger over it
It just keeps me alive

I met the troll
In a forum by the internet
Now I bring the evidence
The dolt is alive

This faceless army
Will strike from behind masks
And then a prey will fall
And cry for mercy

But I grow angry
Cannot stand the wait
And I start to take digs
At them

In this region of data
A great troll is lying
On the wealth of a search engine
My own ignorance inside

I saw
I saw trolls
And I
And I started to take digs at them
When I
When I turn my back on them
They do not interest me
In this region of data
A troll is lying there
Awake
Monster
Do not scorn them
But do not fear them
Above all do not feed them
Muster
Muster some sense
Trolls are the cowardice alive
In the heart of men

Return Of The Footmouth

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sun, 17 Apr 2011 19:41:00 +0000

[This may seem like it is plagiarized, but it is not. TRUST ME.]

For Bigmouth, may he strike again and again

(funky bass riff opening)

Dear, Dear I was only kidding
when I said her top looks hot,
when You asked me why I was staring

Dear, Dear I was only joking
when I said that your ass doesn't look thin,
when You asked me if it looked fattening

Dear, Dear I was only jesting
when I said that you are the only one
when you asked me if you were annoying

Dear, Dear I was only fooling
when I said that I would
when you asked me to go dying

(chorus once)

And now I know how Newton felt
when the apple hit him on the head
and his hearing aid fell

And now I know how Asterix felt
when Obelix accidentally sat on him
and his moustache fell

(drum solo)

Me and my mouth,
Me and my foot,
My foot in my mouth. (x3)

My Tech Support Lady

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Thu, 14 Apr 2011 18:34:00 +0000

[This may seem like it is plagiarized, it is not. TRUST ME.]

For Jemaine Clemaine and Bret McClegnie, Leaders of Men.

Hello, Hello, Tech Support Lady.
Everyday I looked across the cubicle and there you were, talking with that Ajeet
with your hair in a tight bun, and your bun ..in a tight hairnet
Tech Support Lady whose name I don't know, Hello Hello.

They tell me that you are gone
I'll never see you here for plugging in my pc
which I had disconnected to get you in here
...for plugging in my pc
Wish you knew how much I loved you
and your legs
and your slightly hairy ....hands.

Tech Support Lady, with those fake Rayban glasses
Tech Support Lady whose name I don't know, Hello Hello.

They tell me your name was Tina
I'll never see you here touching my ...mouse
and my tea-stained keyboard and my ...printer
which was jammed by my ....favourite pen-pencil
Wish you knew how much I loved you
and your hips
and your cheap ....lipsticked lips.

(intense inspired solo)

I'll never get, I'll never get to see you handle my ....power chord,
I'll never get to share another cup of tea with your ...photo,
I'll never get to tell you how much I miss your scented ...handkerchief,
I'll never get to dream about our photocopy room ...encounter.

(harmonizing)

Tech Support Lady, with the Fashion Street bag
Tech Support Lady whose name I don't know, Goodbye.

02.04.2011

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sat, 02 Apr 2011 19:18:00 +0000

I went out and hugged random people.

I never do that. I have problems with being touched. Tonight, I dropped all inhibitions. I was happy and I showed it.

Of course a word for the team. Well played.

Yuvraj's shot had 'le bhencho' written over it. Gambhir, you crazy mofo. Crafted innings.

Dhoni, resounding six. Expression #likeafuckinboss.

One very loud, ''Tujhya aaicha touch n gho.'' was shouted on the street. There was a high risk of me cussing loudly in the living room. With, the winning six, we did not just win. We broke down a barrier. We tore down the iron curtain and seized control with our powerful backhands and impeccable timing. A sound was heard all around.

Like a tracerbullet, that my friends is the sound of victory.

Congratulations. We hit rock bottom in 2007. The memories have been wiped out.

We have listened to our parents going on about 1983. We will make our kids listen about 2011.

For Sachin and the Whole Team, for that crazy painted guy, for the girls with the banners and for anyone who has lived here since 1983.

2011 is our 1983.

Wellofcourse, In the immortal words of Fergie, whom Yuvraj quoted "Tonight's Gonna Be A GoodNight!"