Child versions of some OCs of mine.
- - - - - - - - - - -
Haro sits on the edge of the concrete roof, flicking pebbles down to the street two floors below, his bare feet dangling in the chilly night air. He wears his dirty blanket with pride--a prize snatched from a bum on the other side of the park--but it does little to trap the heat of his small frame.
But he refuses to go inside. His sister hasn't come home yet.
She should have been home before sunset. Like always. Hunt in the light, sleep in the night. Apart by sun, together by moon. Silly chants and rhymes, but she had made him memorize them, even sing them once.
He's older than his sister--by a few days--but it never seems to work out that way. She's the one that found the abandoned warehouse. She's the one showing him what to snatch and how to snatch it. She's the one making sure they always have a Plan B.
Haro thinks it's because she's afraid of getting separated. Afraid of losing him like they lost their parents. But he won't say it. Because he's afraid of that too.
And that's when he decides he isn't going to wait anymore.
Haro leaves his perch for the fire escape stairs. Sliding down the railings, leaping the last few feet--he reaches the street in under a minute, and pauses by the curb to think.
It's still Tuesday. Market Day. She stakes out the open air market on Winslow and 33rd on Tuesdays, but the market usually closes by five. Haro doesn't have a watch, but the twilight sky tells him five o'clock passed a long time ago. She might not be there anymore, but he doesn't have any other ideas.
What if she comes back while he's looking for her? He needs to make a sign, let her know. Haro picks up the pebbles from earlier, and arranges them in an arrow near the weather-beaten stop sign. Very few people pass by here, so he's relatively sure the pebble formation is safe. Hopefully, she'll see it. She's smart. Smarter than he is. She'll see it.
Haro gives the arrow a last look, and then sets off, his feet beating on the derelict concrete.
- - - - - - - -
371 words
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
A New Direction
In some ways, I find myself more prone to creativity when I'm about to go to bed. Like. Dali. Yeah.
--------------------
"Roger Sanderson's the name," the gentleman smiled, his forehead and cheeks wrinkling. "I sell dreams, wishes, and desires, m'ladies." His reflection in the mirror continued grinning.
Sanderson frowned, and the wrinkles straightened out. He sighed and ran knobby fingers through a wave of salt-and-pepper hair. He was no longer the James Bond of his younger days, and he was never sure if his charm made up for the lack of youth. Impressing the ladies was not exactly key to success in this last job, but everything helped. And at his age, Sanderson needed the extra help.
He wanted out. He was 52, his bones were protesting, and his joints disliked getting up in the morning. But a favor owed to a friend was a favor owed, and Sanderson was not going to get his vacation until he had paid out all his favors, this last one to a particularly wealthy friend with a hefty reward hanging in the balance.
The old detective rubbed the bridge of his nose and climbed into bed. Tomorrow that wealthy friend would be sending a contact at the drop-off with the necessary documents. And after the delivery in two days, Sanderson would be free to cash in the dated check and jump on the next plane to Tahiti. Or the Ivory Coast. Or New Zealand. Anywhere hidden from his growing list of enemies. He even had his new name chosen. Bellasseau. Nichol Bellasseau. It flowed on the tongue. Sanderson was particularly proud, that after having spent thirty-some years choosing names off a baby name website, he'd finally come up with his own. It was unique, special, not bland like Roger Sanderson, or Jason Hapleigh, or Kevin O'Conall, and so on. Too many names to remember. He hardly remembered his real name anymore. Whoever he was at present was who he was.
Sanderson flipped the switch and soft moonlight replaced the bright fluorescent bulb. He could worry about the plausibility of passing himself as an elderly French photography-addicted tourist in a few days. For now, sleep beckoned the old man in a quiet manner as Death himself might do several years hence.
357 words
--------------------
"Roger Sanderson's the name," the gentleman smiled, his forehead and cheeks wrinkling. "I sell dreams, wishes, and desires, m'ladies." His reflection in the mirror continued grinning.
Sanderson frowned, and the wrinkles straightened out. He sighed and ran knobby fingers through a wave of salt-and-pepper hair. He was no longer the James Bond of his younger days, and he was never sure if his charm made up for the lack of youth. Impressing the ladies was not exactly key to success in this last job, but everything helped. And at his age, Sanderson needed the extra help.
He wanted out. He was 52, his bones were protesting, and his joints disliked getting up in the morning. But a favor owed to a friend was a favor owed, and Sanderson was not going to get his vacation until he had paid out all his favors, this last one to a particularly wealthy friend with a hefty reward hanging in the balance.
The old detective rubbed the bridge of his nose and climbed into bed. Tomorrow that wealthy friend would be sending a contact at the drop-off with the necessary documents. And after the delivery in two days, Sanderson would be free to cash in the dated check and jump on the next plane to Tahiti. Or the Ivory Coast. Or New Zealand. Anywhere hidden from his growing list of enemies. He even had his new name chosen. Bellasseau. Nichol Bellasseau. It flowed on the tongue. Sanderson was particularly proud, that after having spent thirty-some years choosing names off a baby name website, he'd finally come up with his own. It was unique, special, not bland like Roger Sanderson, or Jason Hapleigh, or Kevin O'Conall, and so on. Too many names to remember. He hardly remembered his real name anymore. Whoever he was at present was who he was.
Sanderson flipped the switch and soft moonlight replaced the bright fluorescent bulb. He could worry about the plausibility of passing himself as an elderly French photography-addicted tourist in a few days. For now, sleep beckoned the old man in a quiet manner as Death himself might do several years hence.
357 words
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Something Gone Wrong
Work is hard. School is hard. Therefore, I have taken the liberty of transforming this blog from one story into random vignettes. I think it will be easier for the other side of my brain to turn on if the prompt is to write anything. Anything at all.
----------------------------
I saw it rain horizontally once. The clouds had descended down to our valley, our farms and our villages, choking out light, exuding skeletal hands of mist. A pelter of water droplets hit my face, hit the side of my face and suddenly half of my body, the left side, became soaking wet. I can tell you there was no wind, only that when I opened my eyes, rain drops rushed by me like cars in a hurry, from left to right. Everyone agreed it was raining horizontally, because after the downpour..or...rightpour? the dirt was drier than jerky smoked for two whole months, and only the east side of the valley, where the cliffs suddenly rose up, was drowning in new pools of rainwater. If proper rain didn't come soon, there wouldn't be enough for the coming winter. Some blamed the former preacher, who was caught skivving the chambermaid two weeks ago. Others blamed the strangers in town, snake-eyed foreigners with golden coins and flashes of vivid brocade under dark cloaks.
I think it was the Wago.
An 'undred years ago, we had neighbors who lived up on the mountains. They called themselves the Wago, dark-skinned savages with blood-encrusted beards and feathers entwined in their hair, who waved staffs with weird sigils and markings and screamed their bone-chilling language at the skies. They learned our language and traded with us, bringing rich and wonderful goods in from outside the valley and carrying our produce out. Nobody complained aloud (although everyone complained to themselves), until the thundering of hooves rained down from the mountainside. The emperor's army had decided to carve their own path through the mountains and chased the Wago away, either into the depths of the mountains or into hell itself. The Wago vanished, but our trade was taken up by other merchants who came by the army's road, and no one asked where the Wago had gone.
Gramma Piola says that the Wago haven't made a single peep since the cavalry crossed the slopes, and poo-poos the idea that they're still alive. They hain't got any more women, she says while chuckling to herself. But if they're anything like us, I'm sure they'd want revenge. As much as I want revenge. I don't know what's held them back these past 'undred years. I just know I'm held back by Gramma Piola, a force stronger than her wrinkly skin and shriveled bones would tell you.
406 words
----------------------------
I saw it rain horizontally once. The clouds had descended down to our valley, our farms and our villages, choking out light, exuding skeletal hands of mist. A pelter of water droplets hit my face, hit the side of my face and suddenly half of my body, the left side, became soaking wet. I can tell you there was no wind, only that when I opened my eyes, rain drops rushed by me like cars in a hurry, from left to right. Everyone agreed it was raining horizontally, because after the downpour..or...rightpour? the dirt was drier than jerky smoked for two whole months, and only the east side of the valley, where the cliffs suddenly rose up, was drowning in new pools of rainwater. If proper rain didn't come soon, there wouldn't be enough for the coming winter. Some blamed the former preacher, who was caught skivving the chambermaid two weeks ago. Others blamed the strangers in town, snake-eyed foreigners with golden coins and flashes of vivid brocade under dark cloaks.
I think it was the Wago.
An 'undred years ago, we had neighbors who lived up on the mountains. They called themselves the Wago, dark-skinned savages with blood-encrusted beards and feathers entwined in their hair, who waved staffs with weird sigils and markings and screamed their bone-chilling language at the skies. They learned our language and traded with us, bringing rich and wonderful goods in from outside the valley and carrying our produce out. Nobody complained aloud (although everyone complained to themselves), until the thundering of hooves rained down from the mountainside. The emperor's army had decided to carve their own path through the mountains and chased the Wago away, either into the depths of the mountains or into hell itself. The Wago vanished, but our trade was taken up by other merchants who came by the army's road, and no one asked where the Wago had gone.
Gramma Piola says that the Wago haven't made a single peep since the cavalry crossed the slopes, and poo-poos the idea that they're still alive. They hain't got any more women, she says while chuckling to herself. But if they're anything like us, I'm sure they'd want revenge. As much as I want revenge. I don't know what's held them back these past 'undred years. I just know I'm held back by Gramma Piola, a force stronger than her wrinkly skin and shriveled bones would tell you.
406 words
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Restart
So this hasn't been updated for forever. And there's a good reason. That I didn't realize until now. I am apathetic about Morian Icard. PROBLEM! You can't motivate yourself to write anything or tap into your imagination unless you have your emotions wired in. You either have to care about your main charac or hate him. Therefore, I must start over. And change some things. But not everything.
---------------------------------
I am sitting upon a bench in the local park. It is cloudy. And it is a quiet street, except for the robin song and the wind. Otherwise there is nothing amiss.
A boy cries. Not like the sound of weeping, but 83% similar to the sound of a scream. It is the only disturbance on this quiet street. I move to find the sound.
It comes from an unlit alley between the liquor store and a permanently closed cafe. Four boys stand in a circle, between an estimated 10 and 15 years of age. They surround two others: a taller muscled boy, and a very thin boy, at least a head shorter. The taller boy hits the smaller one several times and remarks on his opponent's weakness and on his mother. Each time the small boy cries and cowers away. It is clearly unequal.
I approach, and all of them turn to look at me. The tallest comes only to my chest. It is still unequal, but in my favor. I choose not to engage in conflict.
"Why are you fighting?" I ask.
"That's none o' your business." The tall boy forms a fist, and the other four shuffle behind him, eyes wide open.
"We'll get in trouble, Jack, he's an ay-dult," one of the four--the sandy haired one--whispers to the tall boy.
"Shut up," Jack retorts and returns my gaze, eyes narrowed and brows creased. "Now get out of here, or you'll end up the same way as lil' Willy over there."
"Your threat is incorrect. You will 'get out of here,' or you will end up in a much worse position." I lift my arm and engage the plasma laser. I don't intend to use it, but it has been shown humans are very responsive in the face of danger.
"Jesus, I'm out of here!" the sandy-haired boy screams and runs past me. The other three are quick to follow. Jack looks behind him, as if to verify he is indeed alone. He grinds his teeth and chases after the others.
The boy "Willy" does not get up from his crouch until the other boys are out of my sensor range. I offer my hand to help him stand. He stares at my hand and slides backwards.
"Are you a cyborg?" he asks.
"No, I am not a cyborg. Is your name 'Willy?'"
He scrunches his face. "No, it's 'Will.' Who are you?"
I decide the boy is no threat, and truthfully answer. "I am Arkhos."
Will stands up and brushes the back of his shorts. There are severe bruises on his arms and legs. I suggest he see a doctor.
"I just need some makeup, is all. Don't tell my mother, okay? She'd freak out."
"What is 'freak out?'"
Will lifts an eyebrow. "It means she'll worry and fuss like crazy, even more than she does already." He begins walking past me. "Anyway, thanks, Arkhos. Are you sure you're not a cyborg?"
"I am sure."
I follow him. When we have passed the cafe and the record shop beside it, Will stops walking and turns to me. "Why are you following me?"
"You are the only thing of interest on this quiet street. I follow you to learn more."
"Uh, that's creepy."
I must convince him to allow me to follow. "If I remove your injuries, will you let me follow you?"
"Can you do that?"
"Yes."
"But...how am I supposed to tell Mom who you are? You're too old to be a classmate, and it would be weird to bring a teacher home...."
"You mean I appear too old to be a classmate. That is not an issue." I analyze reference images of 12 year old boys, and reconfigure and compact my physical mainframe. I also increase the register of my voice.
"Holy cow," Will whispers, "are you a robot?"
"In the most general sense of the term, yes." I reconsider my speech pattern. "I meant, 'yup.'"
Will laughs. "That sounds all wrong. You have to say it like this, 'yup!'" I imitate his inflection, and he confirms it is correct.
I take his arm and aim my right index over the first bruise. "It'll sting," I warn and initiate reconstruction. He flinches and bites his lower lip. The first is always the slowest, because each human is unique--which makes the process unique per human--but the pace increases with every bruise I fix.
"Wow, Arkhos. That's amazing! You have to show everyone!" I respond to his apparent excitement with a smile, per protocol. He grabs my hand and begins running towards, I assume, his home.
The house is ranch-style, yellow-stained white siding and a sagging front porch. He swings open the front door and shouts, "Mom!"
795 words.
---------------------------------
I am sitting upon a bench in the local park. It is cloudy. And it is a quiet street, except for the robin song and the wind. Otherwise there is nothing amiss.
A boy cries. Not like the sound of weeping, but 83% similar to the sound of a scream. It is the only disturbance on this quiet street. I move to find the sound.
It comes from an unlit alley between the liquor store and a permanently closed cafe. Four boys stand in a circle, between an estimated 10 and 15 years of age. They surround two others: a taller muscled boy, and a very thin boy, at least a head shorter. The taller boy hits the smaller one several times and remarks on his opponent's weakness and on his mother. Each time the small boy cries and cowers away. It is clearly unequal.
I approach, and all of them turn to look at me. The tallest comes only to my chest. It is still unequal, but in my favor. I choose not to engage in conflict.
"Why are you fighting?" I ask.
"That's none o' your business." The tall boy forms a fist, and the other four shuffle behind him, eyes wide open.
"We'll get in trouble, Jack, he's an ay-dult," one of the four--the sandy haired one--whispers to the tall boy.
"Shut up," Jack retorts and returns my gaze, eyes narrowed and brows creased. "Now get out of here, or you'll end up the same way as lil' Willy over there."
"Your threat is incorrect. You will 'get out of here,' or you will end up in a much worse position." I lift my arm and engage the plasma laser. I don't intend to use it, but it has been shown humans are very responsive in the face of danger.
"Jesus, I'm out of here!" the sandy-haired boy screams and runs past me. The other three are quick to follow. Jack looks behind him, as if to verify he is indeed alone. He grinds his teeth and chases after the others.
The boy "Willy" does not get up from his crouch until the other boys are out of my sensor range. I offer my hand to help him stand. He stares at my hand and slides backwards.
"Are you a cyborg?" he asks.
"No, I am not a cyborg. Is your name 'Willy?'"
He scrunches his face. "No, it's 'Will.' Who are you?"
I decide the boy is no threat, and truthfully answer. "I am Arkhos."
Will stands up and brushes the back of his shorts. There are severe bruises on his arms and legs. I suggest he see a doctor.
"I just need some makeup, is all. Don't tell my mother, okay? She'd freak out."
"What is 'freak out?'"
Will lifts an eyebrow. "It means she'll worry and fuss like crazy, even more than she does already." He begins walking past me. "Anyway, thanks, Arkhos. Are you sure you're not a cyborg?"
"I am sure."
I follow him. When we have passed the cafe and the record shop beside it, Will stops walking and turns to me. "Why are you following me?"
"You are the only thing of interest on this quiet street. I follow you to learn more."
"Uh, that's creepy."
I must convince him to allow me to follow. "If I remove your injuries, will you let me follow you?"
"Can you do that?"
"Yes."
"But...how am I supposed to tell Mom who you are? You're too old to be a classmate, and it would be weird to bring a teacher home...."
"You mean I appear too old to be a classmate. That is not an issue." I analyze reference images of 12 year old boys, and reconfigure and compact my physical mainframe. I also increase the register of my voice.
"Holy cow," Will whispers, "are you a robot?"
"In the most general sense of the term, yes." I reconsider my speech pattern. "I meant, 'yup.'"
Will laughs. "That sounds all wrong. You have to say it like this, 'yup!'" I imitate his inflection, and he confirms it is correct.
I take his arm and aim my right index over the first bruise. "It'll sting," I warn and initiate reconstruction. He flinches and bites his lower lip. The first is always the slowest, because each human is unique--which makes the process unique per human--but the pace increases with every bruise I fix.
"Wow, Arkhos. That's amazing! You have to show everyone!" I respond to his apparent excitement with a smile, per protocol. He grabs my hand and begins running towards, I assume, his home.
The house is ranch-style, yellow-stained white siding and a sagging front porch. He swings open the front door and shouts, "Mom!"
795 words.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Day 8
So I decided to make a blog on helping students study science, namely Cell Biology. It reached 300 pageviews in 2 days. This blog reached 300 pageviews in 2 months.
Science > fiction?
Nah.
---------------------------------------------------
VAILE PIANOIR did not know her age. Where she came from, birth certificates did not exist, and there were no more family members to ask. Not that she knew who to ask, considering her parentage and ancestry were also in the dark. The fact was both upsetting and cheering at the same time: although it was troublesome to fill out forms and acquire identity cards, the lack of a certain age eventually began to feel like a lack of aging.
But at the moment, she did not feel quite so immortal. Somebody had broken in and partially destroyed the underground laboratory in Averley. She and Icard had put in their greatest efforts to keep his project a well-guarded secret. Pianoir worried not that the intruder may have leaked information, but that information had been leaked to the intruder.
"So, my dear Emile, what do we know about this idiot?"
EMILE DUYER, the man behind her desk, did not speak. He was mute and illiterate, the very model of a good employee. Pianoir did not have to worry about prying eyes or loose tongues, but she took great care to keep his loyalty, for his handicaps could also be used against her. She did not worry about this so much anymore, considering their twenty-one years of partnership from her initiation as a small-time intern to Director of Internal Affairs.
Instead, he added an unmarked manila folder to the already growing stacks upon the great oak desk, and flopped down on the chair, hands folded, legs splayed to the side.
Pianoir flipped aside the cover. "Chevy Karussin, computer and bomb genius, what a devilish combo. Do we know who he was working for?"
Duyer held up three fingers, and she turned to the third page.
"Cresco-Aerion, my old friend," her lips curling as she spoke. "What do you want with ARKHOS?"
* * *
Icard wasn't sure if he lay on a bed looking up at a white ceiling or lay on the ceiling looking down at the white floor. The events of the last few days had left his reason muddled and distraught.
In the aftermath of the shootout, he had limped outside, ignoring his computer's request for cleaning, to find the rest of his staff safely waiting at the evacuation meeting place. Not a single one of them had called the police. Most were speaking and gesticulating to amateur journalists and videocameras. For a moment, Icard had thanked his foresight never to reveal the entirety of the project to anyone. He then asked, and ARKHOS did, logging onto the internet to make a Google call to the police and hospital. When the newsmongers began to buzz around him, Icard had sat down on the tarmac, stubbornly staring into space while he waited for help to arrive.
And when the world-weary nurses attempted to sedate him for shrapnel extraction, Icard had wrung them for a promise not to disturb or remove the small metal cylinder still clutched in his hand.
497 words.
Science > fiction?
Nah.
---------------------------------------------------
VAILE PIANOIR did not know her age. Where she came from, birth certificates did not exist, and there were no more family members to ask. Not that she knew who to ask, considering her parentage and ancestry were also in the dark. The fact was both upsetting and cheering at the same time: although it was troublesome to fill out forms and acquire identity cards, the lack of a certain age eventually began to feel like a lack of aging.
But at the moment, she did not feel quite so immortal. Somebody had broken in and partially destroyed the underground laboratory in Averley. She and Icard had put in their greatest efforts to keep his project a well-guarded secret. Pianoir worried not that the intruder may have leaked information, but that information had been leaked to the intruder.
"So, my dear Emile, what do we know about this idiot?"
EMILE DUYER, the man behind her desk, did not speak. He was mute and illiterate, the very model of a good employee. Pianoir did not have to worry about prying eyes or loose tongues, but she took great care to keep his loyalty, for his handicaps could also be used against her. She did not worry about this so much anymore, considering their twenty-one years of partnership from her initiation as a small-time intern to Director of Internal Affairs.
Instead, he added an unmarked manila folder to the already growing stacks upon the great oak desk, and flopped down on the chair, hands folded, legs splayed to the side.
Pianoir flipped aside the cover. "Chevy Karussin, computer and bomb genius, what a devilish combo. Do we know who he was working for?"
Duyer held up three fingers, and she turned to the third page.
"Cresco-Aerion, my old friend," her lips curling as she spoke. "What do you want with ARKHOS?"
* * *
Icard wasn't sure if he lay on a bed looking up at a white ceiling or lay on the ceiling looking down at the white floor. The events of the last few days had left his reason muddled and distraught.
In the aftermath of the shootout, he had limped outside, ignoring his computer's request for cleaning, to find the rest of his staff safely waiting at the evacuation meeting place. Not a single one of them had called the police. Most were speaking and gesticulating to amateur journalists and videocameras. For a moment, Icard had thanked his foresight never to reveal the entirety of the project to anyone. He then asked, and ARKHOS did, logging onto the internet to make a Google call to the police and hospital. When the newsmongers began to buzz around him, Icard had sat down on the tarmac, stubbornly staring into space while he waited for help to arrive.
And when the world-weary nurses attempted to sedate him for shrapnel extraction, Icard had wrung them for a promise not to disturb or remove the small metal cylinder still clutched in his hand.
497 words.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Day 7
Fail fail fail. Failed. Utterly failed. How long has it been since the last post? 25 days. 3.5 weeks. @.@
But I'll keep plodding. Not so much the quality of writing I'm after now but the actual continuation of the story.
----------------------------
Karussin stared incredulously at the deranged figure Icard cast. An old man in a charred labcoat, crimson staining one pantleg, both hands clutching a handgun, standing unbalanced in the most inappropriate way for firing a weapon. Not to mention the odd boxy camera with hooks and antenna-like arms perched on his shoulder.
"Stop what you're doing." Icard barely heard his own voice utter the command in a surprisingly steady voice. Internally, his neurons were sounding the alarms. It's not working! he screamed to himself. He's insane, just looking at me like that with a gun in my hand! I'm insane, trying to threaten an insane bomber! But all he could was stand his ground.
If you later asked Icard what happened in the next second, he would say it for sure took several minutes. Karussin correctly calculated Icard's incompetence and whipped out his own pocket semi-automatic, banking on the doctor's lack of training for those microseconds.
Icard had not even realized Karussin's arm moved when a blunt tip slammed his head sideways. A sudden burning seared the skin above his ear. A crack resounded. Was the roof falling? Did a bone break? His befuddled brain eventually matched the sound to a gunshot.
Karussin didn't, no, couldn't believe it. In the split second before he pulled the trigger, the camera had pushed the old man's head aside, allowing the bullet to whiz by uselessly. What was that thing?
The time he took to ponder those thoughts cost him.
Icard had barely recovered from that second's events when the bomber's head suddenly snapped back in a spray of blood, and then he heard the second gunshot. He staggered back, and realized the gun was not in his hand. A gentle whirring is his ear reminded him who was sitting on his shoulder.
The little computer let the handgun fall to the floor, and requested that the residual blood be cleaned from his lens.
321 words.
---------
In seven days of writing, one day in plot time, at least 3 people have died. That is what happens in life. It's amusing and sobering at the same time.
But I'll keep plodding. Not so much the quality of writing I'm after now but the actual continuation of the story.
----------------------------
Karussin stared incredulously at the deranged figure Icard cast. An old man in a charred labcoat, crimson staining one pantleg, both hands clutching a handgun, standing unbalanced in the most inappropriate way for firing a weapon. Not to mention the odd boxy camera with hooks and antenna-like arms perched on his shoulder.
"Stop what you're doing." Icard barely heard his own voice utter the command in a surprisingly steady voice. Internally, his neurons were sounding the alarms. It's not working! he screamed to himself. He's insane, just looking at me like that with a gun in my hand! I'm insane, trying to threaten an insane bomber! But all he could was stand his ground.
If you later asked Icard what happened in the next second, he would say it for sure took several minutes. Karussin correctly calculated Icard's incompetence and whipped out his own pocket semi-automatic, banking on the doctor's lack of training for those microseconds.
Icard had not even realized Karussin's arm moved when a blunt tip slammed his head sideways. A sudden burning seared the skin above his ear. A crack resounded. Was the roof falling? Did a bone break? His befuddled brain eventually matched the sound to a gunshot.
Karussin didn't, no, couldn't believe it. In the split second before he pulled the trigger, the camera had pushed the old man's head aside, allowing the bullet to whiz by uselessly. What was that thing?
The time he took to ponder those thoughts cost him.
Icard had barely recovered from that second's events when the bomber's head suddenly snapped back in a spray of blood, and then he heard the second gunshot. He staggered back, and realized the gun was not in his hand. A gentle whirring is his ear reminded him who was sitting on his shoulder.
The little computer let the handgun fall to the floor, and requested that the residual blood be cleaned from his lens.
321 words.
---------
In seven days of writing, one day in plot time, at least 3 people have died. That is what happens in life. It's amusing and sobering at the same time.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Day 6
This took forever. Because I was trying to avoid it. And I had lots of work. And not enough sleep. Ohhhhhhhhhh, snap!
-----------------------------
The full extent of the damage became clear as Icard turned the corner. The dim light from his private room illuminated the charred and shrapnel-studded walls of the hallway. Blackened junk littered the floor. He shuffled carefully through the mess, wincing when glass shards tinkled underfoot, hoping the rock music would mask his approach. At times he was unaware of the gun clutched in his grip, and had to catch himself when it slipped in his sweating hands.
He didn't really have a plan. In a perfect world, the intruder would cower as soon as he saw the gun, the proper authorities would take him away, and everything would go back to normal. In the real world, if the intruder had the gall and guts to explode a bomb in such close quarters, he would likely have no trouble laughing at an amateur awkwardly wielding such a comparatively smaller weapon.
Icard arrived right by the doorway. It was now or never.
***
Karussin drummed his knuckles, out of sync with the beat, and most certainly out of sync with his head-banging. He was good at that--multitasking his brain and physical extremities. Not only was he enjoying himself, but also he was growing increasingly frustrated at the length of time it was taking to decode the second passlock. His ears twitched at a crinkling in the distance, but he paid little attention.
"Stop-stop right there!"
236 words
-----------------------------
NOOOOOO!!!!!! I can't make 300 words. I can't. It was either sacrifice 300 words or miss 2 weeks in a row. Life kills....
-----------------------------
The full extent of the damage became clear as Icard turned the corner. The dim light from his private room illuminated the charred and shrapnel-studded walls of the hallway. Blackened junk littered the floor. He shuffled carefully through the mess, wincing when glass shards tinkled underfoot, hoping the rock music would mask his approach. At times he was unaware of the gun clutched in his grip, and had to catch himself when it slipped in his sweating hands.
He didn't really have a plan. In a perfect world, the intruder would cower as soon as he saw the gun, the proper authorities would take him away, and everything would go back to normal. In the real world, if the intruder had the gall and guts to explode a bomb in such close quarters, he would likely have no trouble laughing at an amateur awkwardly wielding such a comparatively smaller weapon.
Icard arrived right by the doorway. It was now or never.
***
Karussin drummed his knuckles, out of sync with the beat, and most certainly out of sync with his head-banging. He was good at that--multitasking his brain and physical extremities. Not only was he enjoying himself, but also he was growing increasingly frustrated at the length of time it was taking to decode the second passlock. His ears twitched at a crinkling in the distance, but he paid little attention.
"Stop-stop right there!"
236 words
-----------------------------
NOOOOOO!!!!!! I can't make 300 words. I can't. It was either sacrifice 300 words or miss 2 weeks in a row. Life kills....
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Interlude I
I feel like doing some character expounding without storytelling.
Icard's the kind of guy who pays zero attention to death, destruction, immoral activities, so long as it doesn't interfere with him. He wants to do his own thing, and doesn't give a fig what other people think or what the world is doing. He tried dating once, and locked all his nerdy, geeky, computer stuff in the closet so he could focus on giving his all, but it was for the wrong girl. At present, he's old, and by now has figured out he's married to his work.
Why does he hate black? I dunno yet. It scares the bejeezus out of him, but he doesn't completely lose it unless he's wholly surrounded by black (if you notice in the hallway, there is a light at the end of the tunnel).
Where is his laboratory? It's all underground (literally, not metaphorically). Not secret, just not very well-known. His project is government-funded, all missing tax dollars that are spent unnoticed. No, he doesn't have "connections" in el gobierno, just somebody very powerful who's very interested in what Icard intends to construct.
What is ARKHOS? ARKHOS is a computer, a shining example of advanced artificial intelligence. All of his "software" are programs for the various aspects of a person, i.e., voice intonation. Wouldn't all this information storage and software running slow him down? Not at all. Icard is a genius programmer. If an engineer constructs a random moveable object, Icard can program the object to move, with the most efficient multi-bit processing and self-automated clocking. Haha, then again, this is all science fiction, so if you are a computer genius reading this, forgive my random jargon spitting. I don't believe machines can become self-aware, but even if they can, it will not happen in my tale. For now. Maybe. I dunno. But at present, I can tell you the main motive behind ARKHOS's actions is self-preservation. Not preservation of his creator. Not preservation of any beautiful damsels in distress. Computers are selfish. Just kidding. It's all part of the programming and the intention of the project as a whole. Obviously if Icard gives him an order, ARKHOS must obey. Or will he?
Icard's the kind of guy who pays zero attention to death, destruction, immoral activities, so long as it doesn't interfere with him. He wants to do his own thing, and doesn't give a fig what other people think or what the world is doing. He tried dating once, and locked all his nerdy, geeky, computer stuff in the closet so he could focus on giving his all, but it was for the wrong girl. At present, he's old, and by now has figured out he's married to his work.
Why does he hate black? I dunno yet. It scares the bejeezus out of him, but he doesn't completely lose it unless he's wholly surrounded by black (if you notice in the hallway, there is a light at the end of the tunnel).
Where is his laboratory? It's all underground (literally, not metaphorically). Not secret, just not very well-known. His project is government-funded, all missing tax dollars that are spent unnoticed. No, he doesn't have "connections" in el gobierno, just somebody very powerful who's very interested in what Icard intends to construct.
What is ARKHOS? ARKHOS is a computer, a shining example of advanced artificial intelligence. All of his "software" are programs for the various aspects of a person, i.e., voice intonation. Wouldn't all this information storage and software running slow him down? Not at all. Icard is a genius programmer. If an engineer constructs a random moveable object, Icard can program the object to move, with the most efficient multi-bit processing and self-automated clocking. Haha, then again, this is all science fiction, so if you are a computer genius reading this, forgive my random jargon spitting. I don't believe machines can become self-aware, but even if they can, it will not happen in my tale. For now. Maybe. I dunno. But at present, I can tell you the main motive behind ARKHOS's actions is self-preservation. Not preservation of his creator. Not preservation of any beautiful damsels in distress. Computers are selfish. Just kidding. It's all part of the programming and the intention of the project as a whole. Obviously if Icard gives him an order, ARKHOS must obey. Or will he?
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Day 5
Sometimes I want to write movie scripts. I always visualize my stories in my head like a movie, with dramatic camera shots and lighting, but putting it down in narrative is most frustrating, because it's up to the reader how they see it in their head, and I'm afraid I can't get down everything I want to, or else the description would begin to drag. Oh well...
----------------------
Repeated incorrect password attempts. The ARKHOS security program running on that computer--hidden under a firewall--sensed the external hacking. ARKHOS set a secondary passlock in place and alerted its physical twin still sitting in Icard's pocket.
For Icard, "hastening" down the hall was actually just a snail's pace, one foot barely in front of the other. Small dots peppered his vision, and his right foot refused to land properly, jabbing sharply when weighted. He had not gone far when a soft chirping and movement began in his pocket.
"What is it?" he murmured, and reached for his phone, only to realize his phone was fried and thoroughly silent. In the other pocket, ARKHOS had self-activated. When Icard extracted the cylindrical ARKHOS, the top had already swiveled open to reveal camera-like lens. The lens adjusted to the darkness and focused on Icard's face.
"Unauthorized attempted access at your personal terminal," the mini-computer reported. Icard was oddly pleased that ARKHOS had remembered the intonation program.
"Who is it? Can you see him?"
"I am avoiding internet access to maintain firewall protection, so I am unable to identify. It is a man, possibly not older than thirty, brown hair, brown eyes, wearing black, unable to judge height or weight."
"I trust you've put in extra measures?"
"Yes. I have installed a second passlock, and am sending data to your backup terminal, concurrently erasing the files on this terminal. He has deactivated the primary passlock. I will not be able to protect all files at his rate of decoding. I suggest intervention."
"Damn it all." Certainly his staff upstairs would have alerted the police or fire department, but the authorities would not be here in time to stop the intruder from accessing his jealously guarded files. Icard retracted his few steps and searched Coulton, placing ARKHOS on the ground. A second handgun, although Icard couldn't tell if it was loaded or damaged. It would have to do for visual effect, as he had never used one before, and didn't know if he could. It felt awkward in his hands that were meant for keypads and buttons.
"Allow me." From the sides of the container, spindly limbs extended, each with three clasps as fingers. Lens trained on the weapon, the clasps deftly checked the magazine and held it up for barrel inspection. "It is in working condition and loaded. Please keep the hammer cocked."
The pair thus made their way through the scorched corridor, ARKHOS sitting on Icard's shoulder like a parrot, finger clasps hooked onto his lab coat, eye lens scoping ahead.
429 words.
-----------------------
Haha, so far avoiding man to man conflict. Stay tuned for next week's episode :P.
----------------------
Repeated incorrect password attempts. The ARKHOS security program running on that computer--hidden under a firewall--sensed the external hacking. ARKHOS set a secondary passlock in place and alerted its physical twin still sitting in Icard's pocket.
For Icard, "hastening" down the hall was actually just a snail's pace, one foot barely in front of the other. Small dots peppered his vision, and his right foot refused to land properly, jabbing sharply when weighted. He had not gone far when a soft chirping and movement began in his pocket.
"What is it?" he murmured, and reached for his phone, only to realize his phone was fried and thoroughly silent. In the other pocket, ARKHOS had self-activated. When Icard extracted the cylindrical ARKHOS, the top had already swiveled open to reveal camera-like lens. The lens adjusted to the darkness and focused on Icard's face.
"Unauthorized attempted access at your personal terminal," the mini-computer reported. Icard was oddly pleased that ARKHOS had remembered the intonation program.
"Who is it? Can you see him?"
"I am avoiding internet access to maintain firewall protection, so I am unable to identify. It is a man, possibly not older than thirty, brown hair, brown eyes, wearing black, unable to judge height or weight."
"I trust you've put in extra measures?"
"Yes. I have installed a second passlock, and am sending data to your backup terminal, concurrently erasing the files on this terminal. He has deactivated the primary passlock. I will not be able to protect all files at his rate of decoding. I suggest intervention."
"Damn it all." Certainly his staff upstairs would have alerted the police or fire department, but the authorities would not be here in time to stop the intruder from accessing his jealously guarded files. Icard retracted his few steps and searched Coulton, placing ARKHOS on the ground. A second handgun, although Icard couldn't tell if it was loaded or damaged. It would have to do for visual effect, as he had never used one before, and didn't know if he could. It felt awkward in his hands that were meant for keypads and buttons.
"Allow me." From the sides of the container, spindly limbs extended, each with three clasps as fingers. Lens trained on the weapon, the clasps deftly checked the magazine and held it up for barrel inspection. "It is in working condition and loaded. Please keep the hammer cocked."
The pair thus made their way through the scorched corridor, ARKHOS sitting on Icard's shoulder like a parrot, finger clasps hooked onto his lab coat, eye lens scoping ahead.
429 words.
-----------------------
Haha, so far avoiding man to man conflict. Stay tuned for next week's episode :P.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Day 4
Back! Haha!
-------------------
-------------------
“Well, crap my pants.”
CHEVY KARUSSIN, self-marketed explosives expert, surveyed his own creation with a flashlight, having destroyed the existing lights. Frosty sprinkles of glass and curled smoking metal scraps dotted the hallway. The interior of the restricted corridor was comparatively cleaner, the force of the blast absorbed mostly by the bulletproof glass. Whatever alarm that might have sounded at the fire was now silent, and certainly anyone in proximity was dead now. Karussin tossed aside the two bomb shields–double layer protection for that close range explosion–and entered the corridor.
The cul-de-sac corridor led to a single doorway a few meters down, bright lights inside still gleaming. His long legs easily crossing the distance, Karussin peered in, congratulating himself for wearing sunglasses. It was a rather large and strange bedroom. One half contained a flat bed, dresser, and closet; the other half displayed a computer desk, filing cabinets, and shelves of terabyte storage disks–everything painted white with Christmas lights strung beneath them. The sheets on the bed were neatly tucked in, the pillows fluffed, the dresser and closet shut and bearing no decoration or forgotten accessory. On the other side, the computer desk was barely visible, its metal face peering through paper mountains and book piles. The shelves and cabinets were equally well-dressed.
Karussin cleaned the desk in one shove, the paper swooshing in great cascades to the floor. Now for his secondary job: computer hacking. Hooking up his palm-sized notebook to the desktop, he opened up his own decrypting program, as well as iTunes. Theme music was necessary.
***
Icard awoke to the sound of Rammstein in the distance, eyes blurry and ears ringing. He couldn’t breathe properly–something heavy crushing him. He blinked several times and saw the wrinkled edge of Coulton’s tie. Unable to push the heavyweight Coulton aside, Icard dragged himself out. Jagged shrapnel punctured Coulton at several points, his back completely scorched. He was most certainly dead, but that was the last thing concerning Icard.
Darkness everywhere! The explosion had blown out the lights, and a stifling dread was crawling up his spine. There was a faint light down the hall, in the direction of the restricted corridor, the source of the music. Ignoring the pain shooting up his leg, the pounding in his head, and the burns on his arms, Icard hastened towards the light.
394 words.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)