skonen_blades: (Default)
The studded club swung down and cratered the ground with a sound like a collapsing house. The Brinotaur’s muscles shuddered with the impact as it’s weapon hit the ground. To call it a club wasn’t entirely correct. It was more like a building with a handle. The creature was the biggest mass of flesh I’d seen down here in the under.

I had rolled to the side, pushed even further by the shockwave of the club’s impact. A wall of air like a giant hand swept me across the ground. I wouldn’t have survived a glancing blow and I’d be disintegrated by a direct hit. I needed to think of a way out of here fast.

It felt like I was in an arena but there didn’t appear to be an audience. The Brinotaur and I were in a circular room with a dirt floor about as big as an empty warehouse except the walls climbed up into darkness. A few support pillars lanced up into the blackness from the ground but I couldn’t see the ceiling. The Brinotaur seemed to know not to destroy them but I didn’t see how it could avoid it, being so large and clumsy.

I’d woken up here. I couldn’t tell if I’d been randomly selected from the other kidnapped humans or if this was punishment. The creatures here had an opaque system of governing that I couldn’t parse.

The Brinotaur, for instance. I’d heard of it but I hadn’t seen it yet. A mythical creature used as a boogeyman to our slave work force if we didn’t pull our quotas. My quotas were up and my quotas were fine. I’m not sure how I got here.

The Brinotaur tugged his weapon up and back onto his shoulder. It was an amphibious creature. A head like a bull but green and slimy with no hair. Gills fluttered under its ears. Mottled skin glistened, wrapped around his enormous muscles. It looked too big for the gravity here. Like merely breathing and rolling over would be a herculean feat but here it was, walking around disturbingly quick even if imprecise and hampered by its immense inertia. It must need a water source but there was none here in the room.

That’s when the ceiling exploded into light and the ocean came down from the sky.



tags
skonen_blades: (hamused)
The airport wasn’t packed this time of night. I scanned the thin crowd for my audition.

Bingo.

She had a gold filigree tattoo printed onto her upper arm near the shoulder, the kind of tattoo that went away in a year but twinkled brilliantly like Egyptian history as it faded. Her forearms carried the whorls and puckers of burn scars; acid or fire, he couldn’t tell.

There’s two ways to live here. Under the radar or straight peacocking. Red vinyl Mohawk implants made from old records, chrome knucks, eye enlargements, antlers, kangaroo blades, whatever. Bright and cheerful. High profile meant you needed to be able to back it up. If you were easily recognizable, you were easily trackable. ‘The most dangerous care the least’ was the theory. Of course, it could also just be bravado, someone playing ‘fake it ‘til they make it’ but that kind of stupid was its own kind of dangerous as well.

Me, I go under the radar. Regular suits, a little rumpled, and I look tired. My implants are all subdermal. I try to be as tourist as possible. Just on a layover, sir. I try to look a little scared all the time and I try to go quickly from place to place.

It’s just bait. Anyone sees me for a mark, they follow me into an alley and then they die. I get ninety per cent of my scavenge that way and save the best for myself. I do alright.

But I was just about to turn twenty-five in a part of the world where life expectancy was twenty-three for solos. I needed to get connected. I need join one of the big gangs and get paid in policy. Independence was good for the soul but it was getting harder. I was good enough to join one of the middle guilds but I wanted to shoot for one of the top eight. The Terminotaurs.

I’d been given a time and a location. This airport concourse at 9:30PM. Even though I was qualified, there was always an interview. There was always a deadly test.

And Gold Tattoo there was mine. Armband twinkling in the flat, fluorescent lights. Scanning the crowd for me and she still hadn’t found me. Showtime.

I stood up and checked my watch and scanned the departure boards nervously like I was worried my fictional flight might be delayed. I caught the eye of an airport attendant just behind Tattoo and waved at him. I jogged over to him clumsily in a way that would take me within an arm’s reach of Tattoo. If I played it super straight, she’d see me as background right up until it was too late.

It didn’t work. She saw through the act and recognized her target.

The gun barrels that fanned out of her wrists swept under her snarl in an arc that hosed down the whole crowd, me included, with a staccato engine thunderstorm of plastic shrapnel. Commuters dropped like cut-string puppets and everyone else became a scream and fled. The conflict shutters slammed down over kiosk windows. Within five seconds, we were alone with the bodies of a dozen downed travelers and a wide radius of cowering people taking whatever cover they could. We had seconds before security took us out.

My armour soaked up most of it but blood was definitely being guzzled out of me somewhere. I tongued my incisors and front tooth in the sequence that puffed open the glands in my neck. My bloodstream sang murder and time stopped.

I felt my muscles tear as I moved. There was a price to this speed. She finished her sweep left with both her arms pool-cue straight, stopped and elbowed her hands to point at the ceiling before setting her eyes on me and straightening her hands in my direction. The motion took a millisecond of jerking muscle but to me it was a ballet. Not slow motion but clear. She was excellent. No wasted movement. A real artist. I was flattered they’d sent someone so good.

As she brought her barrels down, I stayed ahead of the sweep and crouched until my hips and knees popped open and sideways. I skittered like a spider towards her as, wide-eyed, the vector of her guns stayed above me no matter how quickly she lowered them, like the direction of her lowering arms was a broom sweeping me towards her. I was like the shadow of a diving bird. I felt the projectiles shred the air in a stream above me, nearly parting my hair as I reached her ankles and minnowed between them in a corkscrew.

Her arms had guns and mine had blades. I flapped my arms out once and brought them in again as I spun torpedo-style under her and past her.

I cut off her feet.

The resulting awkwardness from her and her screams of defeat were hard to watch. She even attempted to balance on the bone stumps. I had cut them cleanly so for a second she almost managed it, taking one, two, three skittering clops before she slipped and thudded to the floor, elbow, knee, shoulder, rolling back towards me for another shot.

I was running ahead of her arc like a speed skater on the clean airport floor. I would try not to kill her. I looped around and her face twitched like a lizard to track me. Her arms were too heavy to go as fast as her neck and her frustration roiled off of her. I got to her head before she could focus her armaments on me.

There was a moment, then, when I think she considered surrendering. I had my blade to her head and she had not brought up her guns to shoot. Time hung still like dust in a sunbeam.

“I-“ I started and she twitched her arms up. I flexed my forearms and everything above the line of her nose blended. Her arms splayed out Jesus-wide with metallic thumps and that was the end of her time with the Terminotaurs.

And the beginning of mine.

Getting away from airport security was part two of the test. But that is a story for another time.



tags
skonen_blades: (gasface)
Night fights.

The competitors had been given injections before the show that would make their blood fluoresce under the black lights when it came into contact with the air. Each one had been injected with a different colour. The tips of their knives have been dyed to glow as well.

I was a visiting dignitary to this planet. It was just past the frontier stage but possessing medical patents that my company was interested in purchasing the rights to. It was my job to visit them and buy the patents at a good price. The local presidential minister was buttering me up.

“This fight promises to be a good one. It’s the end of the season. At this level, the fights are to the death but bonuses are given for bloodletting so that they don’t end too quickly. It’s too bad you won’t be here for the Final next week but this semi-final should be sufficiently entertaining. Two on two. Four fighters in the ring at once. Shifting alliances permitted.” Said the P.M. Darlist Mafey, leering with what he probably thought was a conspiratorial leer. I wasn’t looking forward to this.

We took our seats around the ring. Over six thousand people were here. Nearly the entire population of the town. The ring in the middle was encased in a transparent cube to keep the competitors from leaping into the audience. The murmur of the audience was excited but hushed. Reverant.

A countdown from ten sounded through the speakers and the audience chanted along, patrons rushing to get to their seats before zero, conversations stopping abruptly to focus on the arena.

At zero, all the lights went out.

I stopped breathing for a moment. To be plunged into darkness that absolute so suddenly reminded me of the only unexpected decompression I’d ever experienced. I was briefly terrified before I regained my composure, thankful for the cover of darkness. I heard the P.M. laugh beside me. Regardless of my distaste for the man, I was willing to concede that my heart was racing and I was interested in what was about to happen. I turned my head to where I remembered the ring to be.

There were microphones aimed at the ring that broadcasted from speakers in the rafters. The competitors were led up from underneath the stage and positioned into the four corners of the arena. We could hear their breathing and the shuffling of their footsteps as they took their corners, all of them trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to betray their position.

A strobe light went off, illuminating all of the contestants for a second. My full-dilated pupils contracted at once and I jerked in my seat. Again, the P.M. chuckled. This time, I chuckled with him. I’d seen the fighters in that flash. All seasoned professionals, they had their eyes closed, knowing that the blindness that the flash would cause would be fatal. It was the start of the match. They had the bodies of dancers. I had expected heavyweight boxers. With a shock, I realized that one of them was a woman. The knives in their hands were long and serrated up one side. As long as a forearm. Not exactly swords but longer than daggers.

The tips were glowing, each one a different colour. Red, Green, Violet, and Orange.

Immediately Red’s knife tip charged across the mat to Violet’s corner. Violet’s knife fell to the ground and lay flat. The crowd surged and cheered. Violet’s knife continued straight into the corner and whirled around, having not found it’s target. Red’s knife came up and around in a short arc below Violet’s knife tip, around where Violet’s legs ought to be.

And blood flowed. Red wasn’t playing and he wasn’t going for bonuses. Both of Violet’s femoral arteries were opened. Twin hoses of violet blood spewed forth from Violet’s legs. Violet screamed as his battle was lost and his life gushed out from him.

It gushed all over Red. The glowing violet blood now fully covered Red’s torso and legs. Red was the woman I remember seeing. Bathed in the glowing blood of her kill, Red now stood out as the best target in ring. She looked left and right in panic. A huge tactical error on her part.

The knife tips of Green and Orange waved at each other in a triangular pattern. They’d stayed in their corners during this exchange.

“That the asking of and acceptance of a union.” Said the P.M. next to me. “They’re teaming up to take down the one’s that covered in blood.”

Red bent down to the mat and picked up Violet’s knife. Her arms to the elbows and all of her front from her chin down to her thighs were spattered with Violet’s glowing blood. It was a macabre but arrestingly beautiful sight. She screamed and Green and Orange came for her.

Red did not go down easy. Over the next six minutes, the mat turned into a Pollock painting of glowing blood. It splashed luridly up against the glass as bodies smeared against it and more flesh was parted by metal. Human sprinklers gasping and bubbling as they danced around each other probing for weakness.

The pool of blood in Violet’s corner had footprints leading to and from it as the fight commenced.

Red threw one her knives across the ring and it thunked home into the neck of Orange. Orange let out a strangled yelp and pulled the knife free. Arterial spray fountained forth as he charged Red with both knives. Red and Orange rammed into each other and went down scissoring as Green watched from the corner.

Out of all of them, Green had the least points but was also the least splashed with blood. Still nearly invisible.

Red stood up from Orange’s twitching corpse, a wound on her side painting her left leg with fluorescent crimson. She was covered in the blood of all three of her opponents and now her own blood joined the mix.

Green kept his knife behind his back and faced away from Red, making himself invisible to her.

The tension in the crowd hit unbearable heights. I leaned forward, wanting to shout out a warning to Red but knowing that she wouldn’t be able to hear me.

Green brought out his knife and threw it straight up in the air.

Red looked up at it instinctively. Bad move. Green, invisible without his weapon and unspattered by blood, leapt across and into Red for hand to hand combat. Green’s knife came down in the center of the mat and stayed there as Green and Red tussled.

Violet’s and Oranges bodies stayed where they were, quivering occasionally with the impacts of the Red and Green as they slammed each other into the mat.

Red still had two knives but she was getting weak with blood loss. Her swings went wide as Green punched her in the ribs. She went down on one knee and Green moved in.

One thing he didn’t count on was how slippery Red would be, covered as she was in the blood of the fallen. She wriggled out of his grasp, he slipped on the blood on the floor, and she slid between his legs. Before he had time to regain his balance, she stood up behind him.

Both of her knifes point disappeared as they slid into Green’s back. Green blood trickled down from his wounds as he went down gasping.

Red stood holding her side in triumph in the middle of the ring, breath rasping through the speakers.

Another strobe light went off. I was blinded but in that moment, I saw Red and this time her eyes were open. In the harshness of plain light, the blood no longer glowed in different colours and I was looking at the floor of a slaughterhouse.

The audience cheered. I joined them.

Parts of the canvas were auctioned off after the fight. I bought a square meter of it.

I gave the P.M. a fair price but I threw in a bonus from my personal account.

Now, here, back in my office on Earth Prime, I look at that square meter of canvas. It’s only red to my clients but when I’m alone, I turn on the special lights and see it glow in four colours and I remember that fight.






tags
skonen_blades: (gasface)
I squeeze blood sugar from the prefab four and count the draconian petals on my spine. Each helmet-sized affirmation made of reptile skin and seven-eleven countertops turns my life into a Turkish dice game. Let’s tickle the cheese. Let’s elevate our rim shots. Let’s make baskets just so that we can keep them empty. This clean-shaven hard drive is balding early and trying too hard. Let’s whisper the answer and let the motherboard relax.

It’s a complicated song played in the key of skeleton in dragon scales. It’s a universe in the shape of a balloon animal. A mental rat hunt. Shaving cream on the face of Jesus. I wouldn’t be here selling tickets to the ride if I could take myself up on it. I can’t see the forest for the tease. Crocodile clips in machine-gun brainstorms whip through the wires to the light-bulb idea factory and just like that, it becomes a demolition.

The support structure shudders and you can sense the revolution through the soles of your feet. Capes and counts invade the ballroom to lie to the mirrors. It’s just dessert, you say, but I can’t agree. It’s so much more. It’s February in the oven and this bakery needs an excuse to become a lingerie store. I can’t rid myself of the caretaker’s key ring anymore than I can pilot paper airplanes.

But all the same, get comfortable. Perambulate the plank. Let’s get to gnaw each other. Each bitter peach-pit future can go fuck itself while we settle into the flux of ley-line predictions. Quantum possibilities will flicker and fluctuate around us as the future calcifies, no, coalesces, no, coagulates into a timeline. Clarity is for the weak. Let’s meet the coming storm with a smile and our lucky, lucky teeth.




tags
skonen_blades: (meh)
I will not rest.

I will not rest until each grief-drenched heartsick blue-shift disappointment is shoved shivering and begging out of my mind. I will not rest until every imperfection I perceive is strengthened into a scar, a medal, a proof of hardship, a key that provides entry into the future. I will not rest until footfalls from dark rooms in hidden pasts stop scaring my light-hearted daytimes with stories woven from languages that only the fear-stricken understand. I will not rest until I feel the tightened watch-works in this cage wind down from panic into victory.

I will forget to bow my head. I will forget to kneel. I will forget to think in terms of defeat.

I will not rest until I call the tune that moves the dance of battle. I will not rest until each hemisphere of hatred in my head is diluted by love. I will not rest until each earthquake warning alarm clock morning makes me smile in welcome for the day’s trials instead of cowering with a sigh. I will not rest until the stink of my soul’s decay sublimates into a perfume of renewed birth and glorious futures fanning out like Vegas blackjack wins. I will not rest until I pierce the blast doors below my own Cheshire cat flamethrower smile and set the passion free.

I will forget to lose. I will forget to think in degrees of compromise. I will forget my state of slavery.

I will blur the movement of language into a map of the coming decades that shines in the darkness. I will scare the lightning with my speed and mountains will envy my stoicism.





tags
skonen_blades: (borg)
The fight goes great for almost fifteen seconds.

The clank and thud of metal on plastic echoes around the cage studio. Small dents. A few scorch marks. This is the part of the fight that we can still both walk away from. Parries. Searching for weak sides, design flaws in the shell, testing peripheral vision.

I’m quick. He’s strong. Usually, quick wins. This guy, though, has training that plays to his enormous strength. His armour takes the hits as I look for a crack in the façade.

I find the crack and jam a needlepaw in there just before I realize that the crack is too big, too obvious. It’s a fake. It’s a trap. Quick also means too eager.

My tips hit a charge-vein. With my reflexes amped up like this, I can see the electrical charge crawl up my arm. Inchworms of blue light snake up and around my wrist. All of my servos lock up as the electricity slowly washes over my elbow and overloads them.

I get up my feet up and plant them on the big guy’s chest and push off just as it hits my shoulder. I land in an efficient roll but now my right arm might as well be a feather boa for all the good it’ll do.

This guy. Big, round, shapes of impact liquid armour coat all of his joints. He’s a new model, no sharp edges. Like a bunch of pillows with a video camera on top. Pillows that turn to carbon-fibre steel at a punch.

Ever since these fights started being targeted towards families a few months ago, the chassis designs have gotten friendlier. Designs that two-year olds won’t poke themselves in the eye with. Designs that can be mass-produced as toys for more profit.

I am mirror shards, guitar wire, and kitchen-knife puzzle pieces wrapped around razors and open-air tendongears. Suddenly, I get it.

The fight is fixed. I’m not going to win. Corporate won’t have it.

The big guy lunges, taking my moment of realization as a weak moment of fear. He’s wrong. I have no fear now. I'm going to lose even if I win.

My reflexes are hard to control. I shudder a little as his fist closes around my other shoulder. I hear it crush with a squeal of metal that sounds alive. We both go down, him on top.

He’s staring at me with his big red HAL eye above the bulbous armour.

Slow. Move slow. Slowly. I move one of my feet up. Slow. I snuggle my foot under one of the big guy’s pillowy armour pads near his hip. If I’m quick at all, it’ll harden to concrete.

I scream and whine to distract him. It works. His red eye is focused on my construct’s sensor array, feeding the view to the paying audience.

My toes are close to his spine now. I’ll only get one shot. I slowly make a fist with my foot as he puts a hand over my lenses. There's a crunch and my eye-feeds stutter and fail.

I open my foot quickly, pushing out my claws. The armour around his waist fluffs up and goes rock solid. My foot is destroyed. I heard that spine spit sparks, though.

He falls to the ground, paralyzed from the waist down, spine severed. My leg is ripped off, trapped in the folds of his activated armour.

Both of my arms are dead and I’m blind. Only one of my legs works. That’s okay. All I have to do is stand. Last one standing wins the bout.

I hop around the ring as the automated referee counts to ten. I win.


tags
skonen_blades: (dark)
Evil is a thick, black river.

Good can only stand in the way of it. Evil knows no defeat, only frustration regarding obstacles and determination to overcome those obstacles. Evil picks at the cracks of its cage. It presses up against the smooth walls and looks for a mouse hole.

Good must be cautious in how it fights evil.

Evil must be overcome with good. To use evil in the battle against evil makes one a soldier of the night with no recourse. Selfishness will over-rule team goals. Laziness will trump discipline. A need for glory will open the door for vanity to destroy what has been achieved.

There is no grey. A human soul is white gauze and evil is a drop of ink.

There is strength involved in being passive. There is strength in sacrifice. There is strength in going with evil to get to its source before making one’s stand but that is a dangerous gamble and only for the strong.

Turn the lights out. Hope for the best. Grab the controls.

Pull up.



tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
Hey there! I've been hearing about this for weeks but I didn't realize that it was tomorrow!! Where is the time going this summer? Yeesh! It's been a great summer so far and shows no signs of slowing down. Cross post this event like a crazy person and let's see how many people we can get to turn up to this tomorrow. It's sure to be great.

Vancouver's Largest Water Fight
Saturday, July 14, 2007
1:00 PM - 1:15 PM

Stanley Park
Yahoo Maps
Google Maps
event takes place at the Lumbermans arch/kids waterpark in Stanley Park

Stanley Park Drive
Vancouver, British Columbia


London, Frankfurt, Scotland, Toronto and Victoria are having their waterfights as well. There have been over 3400 RSVPs to this event so it might be a record turnout. Weather forecast for tomorrow is scorchio so it'll be a great way to cool off.

MORE DETAILS HERE
yahoo events
facebook events
flashmob on facebook

BASIC RULES

DRESS PROPERLY
Bikinis, shorts, water wings, whatever. You're going to get drenched so don't be bringing nothing you don't want getting all wettified.

NO DYES IN THE WATER
Don't want to be permanently screwing up anyone's clothing and/or the pavement. That's vandalism. We want fun.

NO REAL LOOKING GUNS
Don't want the cops coming and arresting suspected terrorists. Make sure your water guns are brightly-coloured, transparent, what-have-you.

RESPECT NON-COMBATANTS
This is only for people that want to take part. Don't attack innocent bystanders. Let's not ruin it by making kids cry and parents angry or something like that. : )

PICK UP AFTER YOURSELF
If you bring water balloons and the like, make sure to clean up the shreds as best you can. We want to leave the area clean, wet, and happy.

CAMERAS
If you bring a camera and participate, it will get wet and you will have an camera-shaped paperweight after the fight is over. There will be photographers present who's sole job will be to stay out of the way of water and take pictures. Don't risk your cameras if you want to take part.


That's about it. It's going to be a blast. Get suited up and come on out. I'm sure it will be legendary.


tags
skonen_blades: (gimmesommo)
There’s a moment in everyone’s life when the subject of death becomes a certainty and ceases to be abstract. It’s a final shift of perception that kicks the mind into a different level.

It usually lasts a few seconds. Sometimes minutes. For the really unlucky, it can last weeks.

Spelunkers feel it when they start to get drowsy and know that help is not on the way. Pilots feel it when they can see the leaves on the trees just meters away from the windshield. Jumpers feel it just after their feet leave the sill.

The strong hands wrapped around Martin’s throat were having that effect.

Moments earlier, the fight had taken a turn for the worse when epithets were thrown concerning the assailant’s girlfriend. These comments had whisked the fight from street brawl to primitive battle. It had switched from assault to probable homicide in a few syllables.

Martin’s vision was starting to gray out and with a shock, he realized that he was actually dying. There would be no act three. He wouldn’t wake up in a hospital bed. The other guy’s rational mind had completely checked out.

The inarticulate red face pressed close to his was fixed in a spasming mask of rage. The owner of that face would keep squeezing until bones broke.

It was a horrible thought. This man was going to take Martin’s life with his bare hands.

It was that thought that made Martin’s body spasm and buck like a fish. He thrashed.

The hot fingers around his neck adjusted their grip.

Martin’s leg connected with his assailant’s testicles and suddenly, a world of painful air whistled through his constricted throat. The other guy had let go.

Martin ran, sucking as much air as he could into his lungs with every hobbling step.

He never wanted to come that close to death again.

Martin was a different person after that.


tags
skonen_blades: (meh)
In a rush of blood, the fight was over. Dripping and snarling, they let their hearts slow down. Antlers pulsed with the knowledge of war. Skin hung in flaps off the bark sampled forests. It was one blue eye that looked out on a broken landscape of hearts and anger. One lay down to end the fight and the party began.

Masters cheered and hugged. Money changed hands. This was the recipe of conquest.

Duke pulled the switch and water rushed across the floor to cleanse it. Marble glistened, blood-free, in sudden sparkling new-morning clarity.

He flailed his way in an off-balance gait to the healers. He needed to be put back together sharpish for the festivities. The man was huge with the head of an elk.

He left red footprints for the gods that watched or cared.

Funeral curtains flapped slowly in a breeze coming off the stagnant river outside. Dishes of flowers and scented candles tried and failed to fight the stink.

The fighter lay back on the healer’s bed.

The healer came out dressed in white. The bandages across her face were red and wet around the eyes. The stigmata of her eyes marked her profession. She saw with her metal fingers.

Needles hissed under each nail as she ran her fingertips over the fighter’s long body.


tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
I know there's a pool going for worldwide flashmob pillow fights but I didn't see any Vancouver specific ones. I started one up and it's here.

http://www.flickr.com/groups/313222@N24/

I sure would appreciate it anyone who's got shots would add their photos and invite others that you know to do the same.

Thank you very much.

d
skonen_blades: (Default)
I'm passing this on. I missed it last year and I do not plan on doing it again.

Call out to THE PARTY PEOPLE young and old, in and around Vancouver.

VANCOUVER FLASHMOB PILLOW FIGHT- Art Gallery South Side (Robson Steps)

Same as last year!!! and Next Year. THAT MEANS 3 PM
First Saturday after the First day of spring.

This year. March 24th 3pmSharp (not a minute sooner).

Finish at 3:15 sharp. Then disperse quickly to the afterparty of your choice.

Don't boff anyone who is not armed with a pillow.

Use common sense and be compassionate.

March 24th at 3pm sharp!!! (Synchronize your watch to Transit Time)

At Robson Square on the street, south side of the Art Gallery.

TELL EVERYONE!!!

The Rules are:
-Look inconspicuous (For effects don't draw attention to yourself)
-Hide your Pillow so it's not visible (preferably feather)
-Do not congregate in the location try to be generally around it.
-- It will be really weird when "Out of Nowhere" all these people start to
Pillow Fight.

1: At exactly 3pm Pillows OUT!!! And descend onto Robson Square.
2: ONLY Pillow fight those with Pillows
3: DO NOT hit bystanders or cameras unless invited.
4: At 3:15 walk away.

That's it TELL EVERYONE!!!
No one knows why or for whom it "Just happens"

For those of you on this list that are paying attention.
Assume you are the "Organizer" and start looking around the Net for people.
Just send this message to all the goodvibe people that you know.

Cut and Paste and PASS IT ON !!

tags
skonen_blades: (appreciate)
These are the battlewhores of Plentha. They are warrior concubines. They are dark blue with white eyes and dark red hair that they keep short. They are close in structure to athletic humans except for the extra set of arms and the tail. They have a crest of quills down the middle of their spines. The quills go up like the back of a cat if they’re startled or angry. The adults have mastered their emotions so this doesn’t happen. They fund an empire by selling their bodies for sex and death. They are wonderful killers and the best lay in the galaxy.
They get high off the smell of freshly mown terran grass.

This is the living computer of the Elexan Shield. It’s dressed in hanging chrome plates hiding thousands of long umbrella skeleton arms tipped with weapons. Its giant red eye scans like an old school Cylon Kitt for enemies. It was created to protect. It killed its creators and went freelance but it doesn’t kill for money. No one knows why it has accepted the missions that it has. Its treads are well oiled. It’s humming in anticipation.
It has recharge dreams of the death it has caused across the galaxy and shudders in shutdown sleep with android ecstasy.

This is the Grundle. The Grundle is part of a hive mind. The plural is the same as the singular. It’s giant and purple and dense like a bodybuilder carved from veined marble. Grundle can heat up. Grundle has no circulatory system. Grundle is in contact with all the other Grundle mentally. It has a planet of experience to draw on.
Grundle have no fear of death because they have no sense of self.


tags
skonen_blades: (meh)
Hey there. I just watched Pump Up The Volume for the first time. Anyone here see that movie? As I understand it, I'm one of the few people left that hadn't seen it. I think it's verging on being an Important Film. It somehow managed to stay away from wacky hijinx and happy endings. There were some refreshingly honest exchanges between the characters. The parent characters and especially the eeeevil principal were a little hammy but the talk between the teenagers was actually intelligent and passionate. Y'know, like real teenagers. People wax nostalgic about adolescence without remembering what a cesspit it can be. I was watching it and remembering when the fashions in that film looked cool. I was listening to the message and remember, this film was nearly pre-internet. At the end of the movie, Christian Slater is urging everyone to open up their own pirate radio stations. Over the end of the film as it fades to black you hear a bunch of different voices hosting their own pirate radio stations. The message has been received. Express yourself. Throw your voice out into the ether. Express yourself. It is only through hearing others that you realize that there are things that bring us together. Express yourself. The life you save could be your own.
I had an idea once for a book where the earth had gone through the tail of a comet or something and made everyone on the planet share their brains. A total planetwide mindmeld. It lasted for a few minutes and then bam, we were clear. Years of chaos followed. Do you understand?
A slew of artists kill themselves or change professions because they find out that their ideas are common and mundane. Language ceases to be a problem. People find their true loves no matter where in the world they are. Or more to the point, they realize that 'true loves' are more common than previously thought. That's a good thing. All goverment secrets are let out. Undercover agents, spies and moles are killed immediately. Cheating spouses are caught. All the pin numbers, all the passwords, gone. The evil ones in our midst, the truly evil ones, decorate the lamp posts.
We don't live in a world like that but it's getting closer. I think there needs to be secrets but I think that there also needs to be a hivemind we can all share to let us know that we're similar. What we're going through is cliche. There is nothing and I mean NOTHING that you're experiencing that hasn't been experienced before. Every generation thinks they invented sex. Every generation thinks they invented misery.
Like Ernest Kline said, the internet is the only true medium of expression left as it is not controlled by any one goverment, corporation, or media cartel.
Blogs, livejournals, groups, online communities, it's all happening. The dream is becoming a reality. Anyone in the world who has a computer can read what I am writing...right....now. I am expressing myself to the world. True, only about five people are probably listening but hey, you know what I mean?
I want to tell you a story that I love. This actually happened at a school a friend of mine named Alex went to. I might have a few of the details wrong but here goes. I've never heard anything like it.
So there was this dorky kid in school. He was always getting picked on. Not in a huge way but enough. One day he pushed back and shoved the name calling jock hard into a bank of lockers.
"After school, dipshit!" came out of the jock's mouth. The toll of death. After school. Word spreads. Everyone mills about afterwards seeing if it'll go down.
It happened in the upper field.
The dorky kid had attempted to go home covertly but the jock had seen him by sheer stupid luck and stopped him.
A fight started.
The crowd converged.
Cheering began.
Here's what happened.
The dorky kid put the jock in the hospital. The jock never looked the same again.
The fight lasted the better part of five minutes and by the end, the dorky kid was beating on the unconcious jock over and over again. It seemed to take years. The dorky kid rocked him. It was touch and go at the beginning but the dorky kid won by anyone's standards.
Afterwards, bleeding, the dorky kid stood up and looked around.
No cheer went up. This was so off the scale wrong that no one knew what to say. Even the dorks in the fight audience didn't know what to do. No one did.
The dorky kid said nothing. The dorky kid went home.
The jock came back to school a few days later, bandaged but healing, scarred for life.
And no one said a fucking word.
I mean people didn't even talk about it with each other behind closed doors. It just wasn't mentioned. No one bothered the dorky kid again but he didn't become super popular or something like that.
The jock stayed a jock and still pushed other dorky kids around but half heartedly, like he was playing a role that he no longer believed in.
Nothing changed on the outside but on the inside, I think everyone who saw that fight did a quantum leap of growing up. It was super real. And I think that's the lesson of real rebellion.
People want to see rebellions fail so that they can continue to feel repressed. They want to be led while whining about not having any choices.
This is why no one has taken Bush out of the picture. This is why we keep suicidally voting in people who bring us closer to world level death.
I guess. I don't know.
What do you think?
Any other crazy stories? Tell me.


toe
skonen_blades: (no)
The ice in the drink she throws at me clatters on my glasses a millisecond before her entire gin and tonic slooshes across my face and down my shirt. The lime gives me a parting rub of a kiss on the cheek and skitters off behind me into the darkness. Her straw spears wetly past my ear, missing me by inches. The drink that I bought her soaks into my clothes and drips off of my earlobes and the tip of my nose. I'm standing there, stunned enough to be amused, when she lands the first punch.
I'm expecting a slap but the lights in the club are flashing and the music is loud. The gin is starting to sting my eyes so I don't see it coming. It's got a wide arc and manages to connect very, very well with the side of my jaw. I have a chance to be happy that she didn't hit my glasses just as I see the glasses in question fly away from my face and bounce away across the ancient tortured carpet and out under the heels and boots of the dance floor. I'm off balance and trying not to spill the drink I have in my hand when the second hit catches me right in the nuts.
I'm not a dirty fighter and I am surprised at her actions.
My nuts do the other thing they're good at. The five second pause it takes to know that the train is coming is just enough for me to look blurrily up at her with half a smile on my face. It's a smile that refuses to really guess that the main attraction is over we're watching the credits. The pain from the first punch is starting to cut through the numbness. The idea that I've already lost this fight and that I'm getting beat up in public by a girl is still fifteen seconds away. My nuts are not generating the real wave yet. They're just giving me this feeling like I've just had a shot of strong rum and my stomach's all warm.
I guess I must have stayed still like that for a few seconds because that's when she broke my nose.
I could feel her ring connect with the surprisingly delicate bridge of my long aquiline snout.
My head snaps back and I can feel my knees buckle a bit.
I can taste blood which is novel because there's a lot of it. I can't smell a damn thing. The front of my face has suddenly been to the dentist.
I dimly hear someone gasp as the people around us finally start to see what's going on.
Great. I'm gonna be famous.
The shot to the nuts starts to rev the engines and the excruciating sick-making swells start in the pit of my tightening stomach and do nice tap dance up my back to my brain. The Ache starts. The pain from the first punch cavorts in as well at this point. My gushing nose is really starting to clamour for attention. The full horror of what is happening starts to get in there with the 'more pain than I've ever felt in my life' party that has become my face.
Now, normally I'm not much of a cryer.
My memory gets a little spotty after that point.
I remember a lot of laughter, none of it mine.
I remember amusing the patrons with my impresson of the locomotion of a sidewinding desert snake.
I remember doing incredibly accurate whalesong through my gritted teeth.
I remember doing a few circles on the carpet that would have made Curly from the three stooges proud.
I remember having absolutely no idea what emergency to tend to first and opting for waiting for one of them to be first in line. They couldn't decide.
I remember the taste of the carpet made me throw up.
A bouncer helped me to me feet. He was still chuckling. I think he ended up sleeping with her that night.
Later, in the ambulance, the paramedics also thought it was pretty funny. I think they ended up sleeping with her as well.




toe

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