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Loki:
Why

Why does it pain me so? It is none of my business.
You are two adults
(if not particularly mature ones, (it needs to be said for posterity and the preservation of truth))
and you decided to part ways.
(well, one of you decided (and the other is lead on the leash you cut (spinning out of each other's gravity field)))
The one decided. The other hurt. The third had seen the writing on the walls.

Who

Who are those three?
Words fail to describe them, (would not do them justice)
all awesome people in their own way.
All young in years - there is hope
that maybe their stories be forgotten (although, from a sentimentalist point of view, that is certainly also sad and should be reconsidered with great care.)
And they all hurt. (They are certainly not the first ones to be in that particular arrangement, (but they believe themselves to be unique, obviously))

How

How do they hurt?
Well, you see, it hurts when stuff doesn't work out - for the first.
It hurts when you are hurt - for the second.
It hurts when you had seen this coming, and when their leash was lashes to you, but still you hoped it held.
And when you have no words to say to either.
(Side note, there are awesome puns to be made
with the words lead (as the verb), lead (as the weight),
lead (as a cord to lead a pet on), leash (that very same) and lashes (hits delivered with a cord).
(Unfortunately, they are not the topic of this... art. Let's call it art.))
That's - for the third.

What now?

Get well soon, you precious three.
(There are no condoms for feelings.)

J:
just for larfs i went and picked up a writing prompt from reddit


--- Quote from: [WP] You're a human trader for the intergalactic slave market. Advertise to buyers why they should buy human instead of another species. ---“Welcome Matriarch, to my humble shop. May I say that you smell exceptionally fertile this morning, the next generation of your hive will surely be vast and numerous.” Blyzzyx attempts a Grilnar salute; or the closest he can manage with no antennae.

“.*-..*--*.* *..**---**” The Brood-Mother of Grilnar Hive 78 clicks acknowledgment. “*-*-*.* -**..*--”

“Yes, the Arch-Baroness of Betelgeuse has been a valued client for many standards. I must thank her for recommending me to your service.”

“..*-.” She makes a gesture with her lower antennae that Blyzzyx doesn't recognize, then turns her attention toward the display racks.

“I see the mk.35 has caught your attention. One of the best general-purpose mecha-drones on the market. Robust, efficient, and hard-points for mounting anything from a plasma-welder, to a positron-cannon.” Blyzzyx gestures toward the other models on display, “We've got other models designed for specific tasks, but nothing matches the versatility of the mk.35”

The Brood-Mother leans close to the mk.35, inspecting it with her feelers. “.*-.*. *---.*.** ..*. . . .***.-.* *.”

“You've a sensitive antenna, Matriarch. Yes, the 35 is composed entirely of standardized parts. No proprietary tech anywhere on the main chassis; keeps the maintenance costs down, and makes them entirely customizable to your exact needs.”

“*--*-**--- --- - -** -. . .*”

“Oh certainly, you could get a similar unit from Krok the Sub-Rational, or even have it build you an identical one. As I said, off-the-shelf parts.” Blyzzyx lowers his eye-stalks conspiratorially, “But that's not why the Arch-Baroness recommended me to you. What makes our labor and combat drones unique isn't the chassis, it's the control-unit.”

“Our organic-computer control-units are completely unique in the industry. Nobody has anything like them; not even Krok the Sub-Rational.” Blyzzyx leads the Brood-Mother to the back desk, and produces a round glass tank from a small cabinet. The tank contains a wrinkled wad of gray goo floating in clear liquid, pierced with fiber-optic strands leading to a comparatively normal interface port. “This is only a preserved display model, of course. We keep the real units in stasis prior to activation.”

“--*-*---*. . .*- --- *- .- -.--...- -.” The Brood-Mother asks.

“That's the real beauty of it, they don't need to be programmed at all; it's a learning computer! Just install one into a chassis of your choice, turn it on, and it figures everything out on it's own. And it only gets smarter over time: learns to anticipate commands without being told, dynamically improvises solutions to novel problems, and adapts to any situation you can throw it into. No other A.I. system on the market can match them for versatility or creative problem solving. And because each unit develops its own unique 'personality' (for lack of a better term), they're virtually hack-proof”

“.-.-...-.* .**.**-*--.*.-.-.- .*.- .*.- -.-.* *..* .*.*.  - -  * * - ***-.*.-.**.----*....*.-... … ….. .*” The Brood-Mother clicks quizzically.

“Very astute Matriarch, indeed it doesn't need to be a standard drone-chassis. In fact, we routinely install them into shipboard navigation arrays, scientific probes, missile guidance systems, anything that could stand to be a bit smarter.”

“...*.- *.*.- --- *.*  -- * * * *”

“The chassis runs on a standard electrical power-supply. However, the control-unit requires a special nutrient-slurry, which we can provide on a subscription plan.”

“.--.-..* . ** * * . -” The Brood-Mother clicks, sweeping her antennae up and down.

“Excellent Matriarch, you do us a great honor. I am certain you will be most pleased. How many units would you like delivered?”

“*”

Blyzzyx eye-stalks go rigid for a moment, before he can compose himself, “We can provide you with one-hundred and fifty operational drones right now, Matriarch.” His eye-stalks droop apologetically, “However, you see, the control-units are delicate and hard to come by.”

“* ---* *-* ..-.-. * ..-... *--** ...-.”

“I'm afraid I cannot tell you that, Matriarch.” Blyzzyx's eye-stalks twitch, “The location and identity of our suppliers is a strict trade secret.” they twitch again, “However, we may be able to secure the first thousand in as little as nine deca-cycles.”

--- End quote ---

Welu:
I really liked that. Good salesman speak.

explicit:
Question! I don't know what's going on here, but I'm trying to write more so I have a healthy habit for once, so what's all this about then?

Anyway, this is just a small part of a story I'm working on (the premise being the main character has schizophrenia of sorts, except he and his voice are friends, kinda..). Most of the story is dialogue (which is so hard to copy over in this format), I'm trying to make it as funny as I can, but I don't know how it comes off to other people, which I guess is why I'm showing you this small part. (There is offensive material, fyi, it's supposed to be ridiculous. The voice is in italics)

(click to show/hide)Bouncing out of bed with the ferocity of a ninety year-old man with a history of physical problems – which I would assume come from the fact that he’s ninety (I think this analogy went downhill fast) – our hero walks out of his shitty 10 by 12 bedroom into his slightly less shitty living room/kitchenette/I’m pretty poor area.
The apartment may be small, under-furnished save for a TV, desktop computer, couch and coffee table (and don’t forget the corner with the fridge, microwave and 1920’s stovetop!), but at least it doesn’t look like meth addicts live there, which technically already makes him one of the better tenants.
This narrator would like to point out that he continues to not wear pants as he brushes his teeth without toothpaste – once again forgetting that oral hygiene is more important than buying gas station burritos – and has a “breakfast” consisting of dry lucky charms.
Taking his dry bowl of sadness, or hero sits at his computer to begin another day of highly productive second guessing and feeling sorry for himself.

“So, we looking for jobs?”

“I’m not sure ‘we’ is the right word, but yeah, I guess.”

“What do you mean? I’m all kinds of helpful.”

“You keep suggesting that I whore myself off to Japanese businessmen or sell my blood.”

“I’m just saying they’re options.”

“Those are the only two you suggest. Every day. For weeks.”

“You’re not good at much, is what I’m saying.”

“Yeah? How would you know?”

“Because I’m inside of you, humping your brain and shit. I know everything! Speaking of which, who’s this guy you had a crush on in high school?”

“You’re making things up now.”

“Could be true, you don’t know. Emotions are complicated, blah blah blah, science sounding stuff, conclusion, emotions can affect memory.”

“Okay, you caught me, I’m gay.”

“Knew it. Which means I can now suggest you also apply to be a fashion designer, HOORAY!”

“I don’t think that’s how gay works. Also, wouldn’t having sex with old Japanese men also make me gay?

“Not when you do it for money.”

“Ugh…”

“We’re making so much progress today.”

Kugai:
Well, there is this little gem I started but never got round to carrying on


(click to show/hide) Light was provided mostly by the consoles and a few strip lights in the cockpit of the vessel.  otherwise, it was dark.

 
The figure in the pilots seat glanced down occasionally at the small array of monitors, one largish one in front and two small ones to each side, lights glowing in various shades each side of them marking the controls and telltales, but mostly she kept her eyes on the view ahead, looking out of the expanse of armoured window that curved around and above her.  Her hands twitched slightly on the controls as she maintained the crafts position in the conduit.  Barely half again as wide as the ship that passed though it, the tunnel walls glittered green with the swirling vortex of energies that had created it as the small craft made its one way journey.  Suddenly, like a wave, a band of golden energy rippled across the vortex.  The ship rocked slightly from it and she corrected the slight deviation with gentle pressure on the control stick in her right hand.

 
“Shields holding at one hundred percent.  Slight decrease in velocity as the wave passed, but back to recommended velocity. No damage to systems or ship” came the voice of the person seated behind her to the right at the engineering station,

 
Another voice, seated at the larger sciences/system station spoke up after a moment of tapping away at the console.  “Wormhole stable ahead. Aft sensors detect wormhole collapse commencing.” after a minute or two of further tapping, she spoke again.  “Confirmed.”

 
“Looks like they detonated the device” muttered the dark haired engineer.

 
 “Indeed.”

 
“Time” barked the pilot.

 
“forty-five seconds to wormhole exit.  Sixty seconds to wormhole collapse.”

 
Ignoring the muttered curse from the dark haired figure and fighting down the urge to advance the throttle control under her left hand, the only outward indication from the pilot was the clenching of her jaw.  Accelerating wouldn't help, indeed it would prove fatal.  Precise calculations had determined the optimum speed at which they could pass safely through the wormhole.  Too fast or too slow and their journey would come to an abrupt, fatal end.

 
Seconds ticked by, then the science console let out a burp of warning.  The tall blond haired figure quickly read the information.  “Rate of collapse increasing.  Time to wormhole exit 10 seconds, time to wormhole collapse 15 seconds” she said in a cool, dispassionate voice.  Behind her at the engineering station, she heard the squeak of leather as the dark haired figure gripped tightly on the armrests of her seat.  Glancing to her right, she saw the dark red head of the woman in the pilots seat jerk slightly, otherwise, there was no other reaction.  There was no point really, she knew like the other two that at this point it would be useless to react.  They would either get out before the wormhole collapsed, or they would be caught and crushed.

 
The pilot gritted her teeth and once again fought down the urge to slam the throttle control forward.

 
“Five seconds to boundary” came the cool voice behind her, steadying her, making her breath deeper.  Ahead of her she could see it now, a somewhat imperfect disk of dull glowing white.  She watched as it rapidly grew before her, filled the view.  Then, with a shuddering jolt and a kaleidoscope of colours, they were through and out the other side.  Without being told, she now slammed the throttle forward into its stops.  The ship surged forward, rapidly accelerating to its maximum sublight velocity as, behind them, the wormhole collapsed in spectacular fashion, hurling an expanding shockwave of energy outwards in all directions.  Buffeted, but by this stage far away enough from the source of the wave for it not to cause serious trouble, the small craft yawed and tumbled slightly before quick, expert hands brought it back under control and slowed the craft to a halt.

 

 
The three figures in the gloomily lit cockpit sat silent for a few minutes, calming themselves down from what was, to all intense and purpose, a damned close call.

 
“Status” the redhead said after a moment.  The dark haired engineer was the first to reply.

 
“Shields as one hundred percent, engines and warp drive operational.  No damage to ships systems” she got out. She gave a quick cough to clear her throat, then continued.  “Weapons systems operational, hull integrity at one hundred percent, life support functioning normally.”

 
The pilot grunted before asking the next obvious question.  “Alright then, where are we?”

 
The blond headed figure began tapping away at her console.  “Running a full sensor sweep will take several minutes, though initial scans confirm that we are close to our intended exit point.  I will run a full comparison scan to determine our exact location.”

 
“Take your time.  After that ride, I'm not moving us from here until we know exactly where we are.”

 
“Captain,” said the dark haired woman, “Far be it for me to suggest hiding, but don't you think it would be advisable to …...”

 
“I get your point”  she said.  Touching a set of controls set into the small control panel just in front of the control column, she activated the small vessels cloak.  “No need to add to our current problems by inviting in nosey guests until we figure out just where the hell we are.”

 
Several minutes went by before the blond haired figure stopped typing, sat back and looked pensive.  Her silence was telling.

 
“Alright,” said the pilot with a sigh “Lets have it.”

 
“We are in the Delta Quadrant.”

 
“But?” said the dark haired figure as she heard the hesitation in the science officers voice/

 
“Harmonic resonance indicates that we have not returned to our universe.  I have double checked the readings and indications are that we have crossed over into a previously unknown and unexplored version of our universe.”

 
“FUCK!” snarled the dark haired figure.  Neither of the other two in the darkened cockpit bothered to answer.  There was no point – her curse spoke for all of them.

 

Just a small sample of where I write from.  Planning to pick this up again at some stage.

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