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The Battle for ArmageddonThe Battle for Armageddon
You know, it's hard to maintain any sort of meaningful approval rating when the laws of physics are suspending themselves just to dick you over. I understand that. I used to feel sorry for Nikola Karsus.
Of course, I know it's not him in there anymore.
So, what happened? The Rapture, the Tribulation, all that nonsense. Well, not quite as the Left Behind books describe it of course; I'm fairly sure that the nuclear attacks were caused by USAF fundamentalists thinking that it was some other kind of rapture, and they didn't want to be left out of the fun.
Anyway, so yeah. God decided it's judgement day. Doesn't show up himself, of course, but things start happening according to some lunatic's interpretation of Revelations.
That was seven years ago. Three years earlier, Nikola was shot by some Australian sniper, and made a miraculous recovery. The nutbars calling themselves the Tribulation Force say that he came back because his body is now controlled by Satan.
here comes the sunhere comes the sun
"Look buddy, I'm an engineer."
Throughout and past the twentieth century, the vampire myth went from "horrifying monsters that sometimes bother to hide between a veneer of respectability" to "oh-em-gee, wouldn't this be the best boyfriend ever."
"That means I solve problems."
Throughout and past the twentieth century, the engineer myth went from "champion of science as it applies to the common man" to "overworked, underpaid bastard who makes a third of what the guy making the powerpoint slides gets and will maybe pay his student loans back when he's sixty".
"Not problems like, what is beauty?"
You could write a teens' fiction book about it. You could write a doctoral dissertation about it. I will let you guess which get read the most, which matter more in the collective consciousness.
"Because that would fall within the purview of your conundrums of philosophy."
Turns out that if enough people believe in something, and it's
playing with dollsplaying with dolls
it was read once, in a story a hundred years old, that favorite toys become real through the love of their owners. it was about a stuffed rabbit.
today it would be a bad idea. toys are a lot more abstract. who'd seriously want a dalek in the middle of the street shooting things, or a pokemon becoming the local apex predator by electrocution?
i have inherited a number of old dolls, mostly tiny ones; the oldest has been passed down from five generations. i have been told that they are valuable, and should skip ebay and put them on a more high-brow auction site. okay. a well dressed man comes in, takes a number of photos and 3d scans, and says he'll give me an answer.
the newest ones are porcelain, with joints made from some early polymer; the oldest are cloth, stuffed with rags.
much has been said about toys wanting to be played with, there are even some movies. toys don't want to be played with. toys are not sentient. and yet, these things look antrophomorphic enough
Saving The Rotational Time UnitSaving The Rotational Time Unit
"Gene Ray, you're under arrest for repeated violations of the Consensus Act. You have the right to..."
Dammit, this is not right. That's not what I wanted.
At the beginning of the new cycle of time, there was a huge battle of ideas, at the end of which there were no victors, no losers, and no ideas. It started with Fox News suing for the right to lie. It continued with an unholy alliance of presuppositionalist preachers and deconstructionist philosophers and liberal arts majors saying that the laws of physics were just, like, your opinion, man. All bankrolled by people who were only too happy to refute through economics the principle that matter and energy must be conserved.
Reality, of course, presented its bill in the form of the return of the four horsemen. Famine and Pestilence did such a good job on people who figured they'd pray or play in drum circles rather than get shit done that there was little for War to do, when it came, in the tired
Sore LoserIt is November of 1998.
My reward for being a year ahead in school is being the only one in my class without a car. I never had a moped, either -- I ended up with the sort of trike that meter maids use. It's slow, but it carries things and would have made me some money if I was any good at money. It also assuages my mother's fears about my safety, which for some reason her becoming aware that I had to do surgery on myself a couple of time didn't do. Unfortunately, it's the exact model of trike that garbage collectors use.
I used to be mocked about it a lot. I don't get mocked about that any more. Luca is still relearning how to write.
It's Monday afternoon. We have afternoon classes today -- normally school is Monday thru Saturday, 8am to 1pm, but this is a Chatolic school and the extra hour of theology and latin have to go somewhere. Well, actually I have drafting in the afternoon, but that's how it goes. The bottom line is that we have an hour for lunch.
Normally anyone under 18, so
dancers in the darkdancers in the dark.
hello, points of light! There's a green one, and there's a red one to its right. If it's following standards, it's someone facing me. The white and yellow lights on the ground are just enough to let me see clouds as more than the absence of stars. The two lights are coming a little apart, and becoming brighter. They tilt a little in greeting, and I do that too. I bet there's propellers buzzing above them; I don't have ears right now, flight wants light and I've left most things at home. I tilt forward and come a little closer. Hello, points of light that are another quadcopter chassis! The movement earlier was hesitant enough to tell me that there's someone in it. I wonder if they have meat at home with goggles on? Looks like we both left our radios home. A whitish-blue light that I know to be infrared comes on, chirping at me. I turn my own nav lights on and off twice in acknowledgement. It's a tone, then another tone, pulse width for opening doors and the l
The Photon KnightIn A.R. 2101, war was beginning.
The stalwart rule of the Spiral Emperor over the Galaxy
is challenged by the Irredentist Army of the deranged Stra-Kuhl.
With a direct confrontation imminent, the elite Photon Knights are dispatched to raid
the Dark Lord's newest installation so as to discern, if not to foil, his undoubtedly dastardly plan...
The base's steel superstructure was twanging with the echoes of battle.
"Stop, foul fiend!" the Photon Knight called out to the Dark Lord as the taller, caped figure began to turn tail and run.
Karen looked down from the catwalk to witness the magnificent, white-clad muscular man gallantly spare one of the underlings after disarming him with a dashing movement. On the other side of the hallway, the flourish of a dark cape and tzing of a sword being drawn let her know beyond any myopia-induced doubt that had accepted the challenge.
"Impudent fool! Thinkest thou hath me cornered?" Stra-Kuhl's deep ominous voice retorted tauntingly.
The IncidentThe Incident
Those things were loud; loud and big. They were hard to start and, in some cases, almost impossible to stop. And if they didn't when they were supposed to, people got hurt and killed...
Livio's parents had had a hard time making him finish high school; it was eventually his driving instructor that made a good case of it, pointing out that these days one needed a diploma of some sort even to work as a truck driver. The wiry boy nodded, winced, barely said a word and got his GED fifteen days later, then finished the year anyway so that his folks could go home with pictures of his graduation.
Two years later, he'd been from Portugal to Russia, seen more life than most of his acquaintances who went to college ever would, and learned the rudiments of five languages and the common insults of ten. He lived in his truck seven days a week, living on canned food and moving whatever he had to for anyone who would hire him -- always people, his father's experience having warned him aw
Let the Sparrows InI.
Blackbirds rest on the power lines,
their silhouettes form the notation
to a dawn song set on the sheet music
of telephone poles contrasted by the sun.
Curled leaves are land mines littered
on the lawn where imprints of twigs
and a nurturing robin's tracks collect.
Branchlets and leaflets stem from
porch step railings and mailboxes;
the numbers read odd on the east,
even on the west side of the asphalt:
The engraved letters on
the siding reads, "Davis."
This house is home to family
so let the sparrows in.
with its branching hallways
furniture rooted to the floor
family, friends, the occasional
out from home.
Let the sparrows in; let
Let the door's
loosen—let the door stand ajar
be let open
the night owls and
let the doves
in pairs in the iridescent
Let the sparrows in.
Framed on either side
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More