Muzzazzazazzasterpiece<3
3. K. O'SeraHah, I love it. I definitely have to remember to use that one if my nick is taken anywhere I want to register.
Story:Theme:(click to show/hide)(click to show/hide)
You should totally have posted them with a different victim and spaced out a bit, to see if the idiot contingent of the Internet thought it was real.
Nice job Henri! And I apologize if it was too hard, next time I'll submit an easier theme...
Edit: J, were you inspired by Fallout New Vegas a bit?never played it
So, cyborg gladiators in an alternate-history Rome? Cool. Not an easy thing to pull off in 500 words.
I imagine this as an exposition to a larger book in that setting.i've been fascinated for some time now with the iceberg principle (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iceberg_Theory). the idea of trying to tell a story without actually telling the story, using implication rather than exposition is something that that i toy with from time to time.
If a writer of prose knows enough of what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an ice-berg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. A writer who omits things because he does not know them only makes hollow places in his writing.
I'm still up for it, time permitting as always.Same.
Well shit, guys, shall we all just have a go at it then? Zebediah's making us all look like chumps!
“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.”
[There is so much, so much, so much shit in the world. 80 (?) transgender dead per year after latest count on the Transgender Day of Remembrance. 126(?) dead children from islamist(?) attacks on a school. People attacking moslems on trains. #illridewithyou, that that is at all necessary.]
And yet still you fight. Between all that, you still somehow manage to not fall down on your knees and not watch the world crumble to pieces. No, where you will be found is standing on a turned over box, preaching compassion for the victims and destruction for the bigoted, with the sound and fury of the righteous.
You humans are weird.
You carry around those pictures in your heads, those pictures of reality how you perceive it, or how you model it. You put labels on things, you say stuff like "Oh, surely you as his girlfriend would know...." and "Don't tell me you haven't seen this movie! It's a mustsee for nerds!" You put expectations into your pictures, and most of the time, you aren't even aware of the pictures in your head, until it is pointed out to you in a way you cannot ignore and then sometimes you even notice the picture doesn't match reality. Then there is a brief moment, when you repaint the picture in your head, when your world shatters and you lose that preconception you had.
In that brief moment, while you scramble for reality to make sense, that is when one of us is born. We make a hesitant flutter with our tiny wings, and when we are finished, you have already rewritten your narrative to make sense. But that doesn't matter anymore - there is a new fairy born.
Children have those moments far more often. The experience is far less painful for them. They are happy about learning something new - that is where that old tale about us being born from their laugh comes from.
I bet our existence is not in your picture of reality.
We cannot create more of us ourselves. We perceive everything that might be, we don't have preconceptions. Our world never shatters. We are not human, after all.
I am one of the last ones.
I am lonely.
Would you please seek out those moments which might break your pictures?
I got the impression that she would have been crying if she'd still had eyes to cry with.
silver star-shaped badge. [...] Her hair and skin were both blue, and made of plastic.
I've been raising ol' Fighter Jet here as best I can, but I'm no substitute.
bakery secret
This is really good.
Prediction from today's Dumbing of Age strip: Amber will walk in and freak out on seeing Sal (very much the other boogie man in her life after her father). Sal will recognise the psycho who maimed her hand in turn and the freak out will be mutual. From there on it's Willis's call. Ethan and Danny's presence will probably stop either women from running (a genuinely funny desire to protect the guys from the other gal).
There may be a fight but I hope that they will talk and, just maybe come to an understanding of just how screwed up and blameless they both were at that time in their lives. I can already see Joyce blubbering about 'the joy of the peacemaker' as Danny persuades them to make some gesture of bygones. It would be the deepest of ironies if Amber's circle are the first serious friends that Sal makes at college.
With this final demon confronted, Amazi-Girl may no longer be needed by Amber's fractured psyche. It would be an interesting twist if Sal persuades her to carry on because the world needs positive symbols and those who will stand up for the little guys.
Well, there is also the fact Marten lost half of his body, but nevermind that!
Just by the way, there's a sticky topic for fanfiction in the main QC forum. I think a lot of this stuff would be quite well-received there.
I could post chapters and bits, if people are interested in them, from a couple of things I've written and one I'm still working on. They have nothing to do with Questionable Content though - (albeit a few of them are...)
(responding to your Marten/Charlie Brown story)
Wow. I used to read Peanuts as a kid, and that gave me the tingles. Thank you.
I'm curious: are you familiar with "Peanuts Halloween II: Electric Boogaloo"?
writing the first page seems brutal. I am pushing past it though and have to just keep telling myself its just a first draft.
Why fulfill today what safely delays to morrow?
"Mike! Damn glad to see you, I was just .... Say, you're looking younger than usual; is this the first time we met?"Mike: ``Do I know you, mister? My parents said I shouldn't talk to strangers.''
[...] Sweet water. Sleepy.Ghosts, aliens, squamatic overlords.. it's all passé. Bygone art of the last knowers. Our world cannot live in such simple answers anymore. Contemporary youth are driven to solace in the ineffable, from complexities governing their days. That's where our rumors that the premiere, in his sleep, hears devil's whispers. They say God, but I know better. What are his instructions? File a few papers here, sign a few papers there. It's nothing! God! The truth of the matter is, those papers follow their chain of command, all down to this lone чекист cracking fresh instructions---burn after reading---to whisper in the president's ear:
In the far-flung future of the 41st millennia, under the rusty sands of Ophiuchus IV a dark secret sleeps. Aneksi, a Rustwalker, scavenges the desert with her friend Jaira for anything that will allow them to have a new life on a better world. Aneksi finds a damaged cyborg with co-ordinates to something big. Big enough to sell to the Adeptus Mechanicus and get her the new start she longs for, and away from this smog choked urban hellscape. Where she hoped to find her salvation, she uncovers an ancient alien war under the desert of her world. Lost in an ancient ruined city with danger around every corner, she must find her way back to warn the planetary governor without waking the abomination that would plunge the galaxy in darkness.
Mike: ``Do I know you, mister? My parents said I shouldn't talk to strangers.''``Mick‽ Innit whatsisname. Dofronna Mikey.''
in the president's ear:
QuoteExplorations 1--6:
- Enormous Expansion
- The Absolute and Essential Role
- Public Perception of Reality
- Transcendent Idea of Reality
- The Collective Unconscious
- Long-Overdue Recognition of Our Own Significance
QuoteYou and your flock shall see the promised land, but only if you first destroy
the Twin evils of Godless communism abroad, and Liberal humanism at home.QuoteAn excellent soporific! They don't make 'em like they used to.
So I'm thinking I'd like to find a writing partner: somebody maybe not so skilled in the craft of writing, but who can plot and outline a compelling story that I can flesh out. Together we would complement each other's strengths and weaknesses.I have the opposite problem. I have lots of ideas, a few that I plot out, but I never get to the point where I sit down and write out. Here's an idea, centered around marine life. Especially dolphins, octopodes,, `intelligent' marine life. There's also non-marine life that plays a part in the story. For example, there's an entrepreneur obsessed with learning (then selling) dolphin folklore, and developing them a durable-communication method, akin to writing. There's probably going to be marine biologists involved in the story, working with this entrepreneur.
I finally admitted my moderation book was as done as it ever will be and posted it.
https://medium.com/@ju8jmk5bec/a-janitor-and-a-dictator-how-to-run-an-internet-forum-baff570d7d02