Day 3

I feel like my style shifts from post to post.  I guess I'm still trying to find my narrative voice.  :(
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"Towel?"  Icard glanced up.  His head of security held out the paper product.  Icard realized the moisture still clinging to his face and accepted.

ZACHARY COULTON, 42, waited patiently for his employer to finish drying.  Decades of serving in the security force of many a high profile client earned him a level of gravitude and poise that even the threat of an explosion at his feet could not shake.  Not to ignore the childhood history of trauma and tragedy, but that is a story for another time.

Icard slipped ARKHOS into his lab coat pocket.  "Talk to me, Coulton."

"There are two persons attempting to access the restricted corridor, sir.  Side door security detail Adrian Bawes and front desk assistant Jessica Narowe."

Narowe?  The girl he'd fired earlier.  "Go on."

"I've sent ahead men to collect them.  I can have them installed in the lower conference rooms if you wish to question them."

Icard felt deeply threatened.  First, the restricted corridor actually led to his own private rooms, where he personally programmed the most essential components of ARKHOS.  Second, the attempted access by Narowe seemed like vengeful behavior on the part of the probably distressed girl.  But that didn't quite make sense.  Both Bawes and Narowe were well-aware that no one but Icard could access the restricted corridor (because of this, he ended up having to double as janitor for his rooms).  It would be a useless gesture.

"Something is wrong," the doctor murmured and proceeded in the direction of the said corridor, Coulton closely behind.  Flickers of shadows chased them as the pair passed under each set of lights.  Shouting.  A gun shot.

"Sir, stay behind me."  Coulton raced ahead, pistol in hand, Icard quickening his pace.

A guard materialized around the corner, running towards them.  "Get ba-"

A tremendous gust slammed into them.  Coulton somehow turned in that last second and shielded Icard.  The sound of popcorn popping magnified a hundred times reached their ears.  They hit the marble floor as a cloud of shrapnel, flame, and smoke gushed through the narrow halls.

346 words.
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Going traveling for the next couple weeks.  Be back soon!

Christmas Special: Adolph the Brown-nosed Reindeer

Haha, I'm in the holiday mood:

Once upon a time, many years before the invention of television, Santa Claus owned a herd of ten reindeers: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, Rudolph, and Adolph.  Every year on the 24th of December--or the equivalent of whatever calendar happened to be in use at the North Pole--Father Christmas would harness nine of the reindeer to fly his sleigh into the moon and deliver gifts of toys or candy or coal to the children of the world, the specific gift based on their respective cultures and yearly behavior.  The last one, Rudolph, was the youngest, barely full grown, who provided Mrs. Claus company through the long and chilly night.  "Babysitting," the others derided, but Rudolph kept his head down, content to have a warm and cozy fireplace while the sleigh-bearers braved snowstorms, tornadoes, and even a hailstorm once.

Adolph was the lead reindeer, the oldest and the biggest, with the tallest antlers, smoothest coat, hardest hooves, and darkest muzzle of softest velvet.  It was common rumor (mostly spread by Cupid) that he and Vixen might one day produce the next alpha reindeer, although Vixen was too proud to admit any sort of admiration for the handsome fellow.  Compared to him, Rudolph was a scruffy runt in a clown costume, what with his bright red nose.  The red nose was particularly funny, especially when the reindeer played hide-and-seek.  Even in the darkest bushes, the red nose glowed without fail.

"Someday you'll get your chance to join the sleigh-bearers," Mrs. Claus would kindly say as she fed him special reindeer cookies.  Rudolph liked Mrs. Claus the most.  No one else was as nice to him as she was.  Even the elves did not deign to participate in reindeer politics, having their own issues to deal with (every so often, a misguided elf would spout nonsense about slavery and unions, and some sort of kerfuffle would ensue, until Santa stepped in, wielding the reindeer whip).  Santa Claus himself was too busy managing the workshop to even notice his reindeer (although he recites their names before every flight, he doesn't actually know who is who).

And so it was the way it would always be.  Through the years, Rudolph grew bigger--comparable to the rate that Santa's waistline increased), and his antlers reached a respectable size, although his nose never stopped glowing.

Until the smog came.

A massive explosion of industry and manufacturing in the world several latitudes below released satanic billowing clouds that diffused beyond their political borders.  The Christmas eve that year was especially foggy: the moon hid behind a gray wool afghan, and even the sun refused to shine.  Santa had trouble finding the stable entrance to harness the reindeer.

"My goodness.  I can't see anything in this weather!" he complained to his wife as she held up a lantern to light his way.

Mrs. Claus pursed her lips, watching him deftly pull the straps around Dancer.  "Well, you can still see Rudolph."

"Who?"

"Your reindeer, silly.  Look over there."  She indicated a space that looked just like every other view in the distance: a monochromatic curtain.  But in this particular view, a red spot was visible, bobbing gently as Rudolph trotted over the sleigh.  With the shrinking distance, Santa could see that the red spot was actually Rudolph's nose, casting light in a ten foot radius all around.

"Why, what kind of genetic mutation is that?" Santa exclaimed.  "This is perfect!  Come here, my dear Rudolph."  Mrs. Claus smiled, and Rudolph approached the giant red man cautiously, nose extended to sniff for danger, or cookies.  Santa squatted down to rest his hands on his knees.  "Well, Rudolph, with your nose so bright, won't you guide my sleigh tonight?  Ouch!"

In a fit of anger at these words, Adolph had kicked out, unaware that Santa was right behind him.  His powerful hooves dug into Santa's soft thighs, and Santa toppled over, gravity drawing greedily at the dense belly mass of a billion calories from a million cookies.  In shock, Mrs. Claus cried an "Oh!" and dropped the lantern.  Blinding darkness would have enveloped the scene, but Rudolph's nose kept them all in sight.

Adolph, realizing his mistake, turned and nuzzled at his owner, attempting to transmit his apologies.

"Bugger off," Santa cried as he clambered up with Rudolph's help, "ungrateful animal!"  The other reindeer, intent on avoiding Santa's anger, rallied around Rudolph, snorting and stamping at Adolph.  "You can stay in the stable tonight.  No salt popsicles for you."  Santa waved at the disgruntled stable elf, who dragged a kicking, complaining Adolph back into his stall.

As Santa fixed the gift bag onto the sleigh, with all the reindeer strapped in, Rudolph was butted gently from behind.  He glanced back, where Dasher was grinning cheekily.  "Chin up," Dasher said, "you've got the big job now.  First ever red-nosed reindeer.  You'll go down in history, bet my four hooves.  They'll be singing songs about you 'fore you know it."

"Who will sing songs?"

Dasher shrugged, his shoulder moving awkwardly in the rather human gesture.  "I 'unno.  Jus' saying."

From that day onwards, Rudolph led the reindeer through all weather to deliver gifts to the children of the world.  What happened to Adolph was lost to history.  Mrs. Claus found other company to spend the cold nights with, and Santa finally learned the name of one of his reindeer.

The End.

Day 2

Haha, already an inconsistency spotted: why is there a bathroom door if he removed all the doors?  Hmmm.

"All is well, Doctor," the technician droned when his employer entered the basement laboratory.  Icard acknowledged the standard salutation with a harrumph, pausing to survey the room and verify the technician's statement.  Shelves still well-stocked with glass bobbles and replacement parts lined the curving walls of the ellipsoid laboratory, reaching into the first floor, where the ceiling had been cut away to allow more storage space.  The available counter-space was divided into two sections, one for the chemists, one for the physicists.  The array was distracting to look at, one composed of computers and glossy machines, the other inundated with glass tubes, vomit-inducing liquids, and latex gloves.  A number of lab assistants attended to investigations on either side.  The dinky radio sitting on the uppermost shelf continued to whisper classical piano, its unreachable height intended to prevent channel surfing.  All indeed was well.

Icard approached the centerpiece, a medical operating table reconfigured and altered to serve as a holding dock--so dubbed "the cradle"--for his nascent project.  A skeletal form lay in the cradle, the beta C titanium frame reflecting the orbs of light above.  Flashing LED lights served temporarily as eyes in the unfinished head, the single distinguishable feature in a mass of wires and silicon circuits.  A thick cable extending from the left abdomen was plugged into the cradle, the nearby charging light green.

"Good morning," a flat voice echoed from a mug-shaped metallic container left casually on the edge of the cradle.  Icard placed a hand on the container.

"It's noon, ARKHOS.  Did you not reset your clock for Daylight Savings?"

"Haha.  I was well aware--only checking that you did not forget to reset your clock."  Icard picked up the container, a frown growing.

"You sound monotone today.  What happened to the new intonation program I inputted last night?"

"I neglected to open the file."

"Open the file."

"As you wish."  Icard waited for the tiny computer to run the program.  ARKHOS, an artificial intelligence system, had been his pet project since the introduction of the computer to his childhood education system.  Icard had believed the processing power of the computer a sort of magic.  When told it had been created by humans, he resolved to be able to create his own magical computer.  He devoured programming manuals and technical instruction books, attended college workshops and spoke to masters of the trade, and spent the first few years of secondary school programming the basic intelligence that was now speaking to him this very moment.

"Program running," ARKHOS said, still deadpan.

"You don't sound like it."

"Adjusting."  There.  Icard smiled at the twanging Australian accent.  An odd choice, but more human.  "Which intonation set do you prefer?"

"See if you can imitate me."

"That would require a change of register.  Your voice is several frequencies lower."  Icard raised a brow, growing rather annoyed at the impudence of his own robot.

"Just imitate the accent and fluctuation in pitch."

"Just imitate the accent and fluctuation in pitch."  Icard heard his own voice repeated back, but in the register of a soft tenor.

"Excellent."  Still annoyed, albeit satisfied with the program, Icard entered the six digit code on the keypad on the side of the container.

"Shutting down.  Goodbye."

539 words.

Day 1

Hallo all.

So, I started this in order to motivate me to write.  I'm happy to receive and consider all comments and corrections (I'm sure to get some inconsistencies).  Hopefully I will be able to post at least once a week.  My intention is to write fiction, both realist and fantasy!  I want to finish story before starting another, so here goes:

There was a remarkable occurrence in the city of Averley many years past that the genteel no longer speak of, if only because the entire circumstance became less and less believable as generations matured.  If bothered, a local grandfather might tell you the remnants of that story, something involving a mad scientist, a talking robot, and--of course--a beautiful lady.  He would then chuckle, explaining that it's certain nonsense before relating the details as if entertaining a darling flock of grandchildren.  I pen it here myself only now, in light of certain sources of evidence that must remain undisclosed.  If proven untrue, perhaps this story might serve as a tale for your own grandchildren.

Dr. MORIAN ICARD, PhD, hated the color black.  Black shoes, black hair, black font color--he despised them all.  And so when the young intern with the black umbrella neglected to hide the object of anathema as Dr. Icard passed, the normally composed doctor exploded.

Internally.

The intern flashed a smile and walked on, oblivious to his creased brows and purpling face.

"Miss Narowe," he ground out.  The intern turned immediately, expecting an opportunity to engage more closely with her intended source of a recommendation letter.  "Please go home and do not return."

"Excuse me?"

"You're fired.  It was implied," he snarled, casting a contemptuous look at the umbrella.  "Get out."  Miss Narowe jumped back at the vicious tone, incredulous shock and fear plain on her face.  Icard did not stay, but clipped faster down the corridor, intent on escaping that horrid black thing as soon as possible.

A door passed on his right.  Icard saw the men's bathroom sign and immediately entered.

White, at last.  The bathroom tiles were white, sinks white, toilets white, paper white.  Icard leaned on the sink, hands grasping at the porcelain, as if by touching he might absorb some sort of healing to counter that black vulgarity.  He glared at his own reflection.  "Idiot woman," he muttered.  He'd done his utmost to build this safe haven, bricking up the windows, installing ceiling and floor lights, painting over cracks and black signs, removing doors, and even hanging Christmas lights over and under the equipment.  Still, the shadows existed, creeping in when a bulb failed, or an employee forgot the single most important rule of their employment.

Icard filled the sink and dunked his head, counting the seconds as he held his breath.  Forty-five today.  A five second improvement from last week.  He laughed abruptly, the lack of oxygen and freezing water making him giddy.  The mirror reflected his drawn cheeks, arched brow ridges, and dented nose bridge.  The doctor sniffed haughtily at his twin.  What was he doing here, wasting time hiding from an umbrella that was likely gone by now?  He had a job to do.  His thoughts flew to his personal project, now nearly complete.  He would finish today, he must.

Still dripping, Icard emerged from the bathroom and continued on his way.

495 words.