“Do you mark me?” asks Chell, pacing. “I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. But I have accomplished it now! She is gone, and that bright eye will trouble me no more.”
The observers sit and smile. The beat grows louder–flat and regular, like a watch wrapped in cotton.
They know! They mock! She stares at them, pulse pounding. Anything is better than this derision–
“Here!” she cries, smashing her chair into the floorboards. “Villains! I admit the deed!” Beneath the planks, they see it: the face of the Companion Cube, and its tell-tale heart.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Zo Relaxed Und Watschen Der Blinkenlichten is a bad name for a band but it’s the one they got, so Effy locks her jaw and tries to get on with expressing herself via theremin. The only people at their shows are middle schoolers wondering why they’re not yelling German.
“Hey!” Charlie finds her after a gig as Effy sips Jameson neat. “You guys sounded great.”
“No we didn’t.”
“Aww, don’t pout! Band names are a nonrenewable resource, you know.” He buffs his nails, quite deliberately. “And not everybody can be in 99 Teen Science Machines.”
Effy says something rude in theremish.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
In September the writing staff quits in protest, again, so Mitch has to get out the spade and headlamp.
Cool, moist nights are best. Mitch gets down on his knees in some jeans he’s been needing to filthy up and puts his shoulder into overturning landscaper detritus. The writers beneath writhe and squeal in protest of the hour, pale and eyeless; Mitch takes care not to cut any in digging them out.
“Coffee,” gurgles one, as Mitch crumbles the dirt.
“Whiskey,” gasps another.
“Are you going to eat us?” asks the girl one.
“Nope,” says Mitch, trying to find the hook.
It was, they said, carved up and carried back to the city in pieces, on greased sleds and low-riding ships, from the westward lands where the sun dies in winter. There was no stone with its strange green veins anywhere in Silhouine’s country; a dozen people could walk over it standing abreast.
She and Dulap make their way out of the nervous crowd around the remains.
“Were they making a point?” Silhouine asks.
“I don’t know,” says Dulap. “Do you feel pointed?”
“It was big and ugly. I never really liked it.”
Her bed is cold, and her kitten shivers.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Like well-designed software, the bridge fails gracefully: a seam opens from the center, then the suspension cables begin to flex and twist, like a muscle after long restraint. It shrugs off its occupants. It begins to relax.
People cite Tacoma Narrows as an example of destruction by resonance, but Ayn knows this is incorrect. The bridge collapsed because it was tired of its enslavement. Don’t the ones holding up everything deserve their day of rest? A little C4, a little tension. She’s taught them the example of Atlas: when given a chance to shrug off your burden, don’t look back.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
“Matter tells space and time how to curve,” says Ballard, “which is to say that time is a lens. A lens is defined as a medium which alters perceived information. When we look into other worlds–quantum possibilities, or light from other galaxies, or, say, manifestations of fiction–the period of time which is our frame of reference by definition distorts the view. Visual appearance is relative and malleable to the era of the beholder.”
“That’s a very labored attempt to explain why TOS looks so crappy compared to Enterprise,” says Cote.
“Actually TOS looks kind of awesome now,” says Ballard.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
nibwidge.f.quort@universe wrote:
FUCKING CERN
admin wrote:
No compelling reason given. Closing this ticket.
nibwidge.f.quort@universe wrote:
Look if you are not going to respond at least run a cleanup script!
nibwidge.f.quort@universe wrote:
I HATE THEM!!!
admin wrote:
Higgs bosons are nearly undetectable and necessary to imbue particulate matter with mass. They should not cause any problems. Why do you want to get rid of them?
nibwidge.f.quort@universe wrote:
Upon doing a quarterly review I discovered my system is LOUSY with Higgs bosons. CANNOT STAND THESE. >:( Is there a simple purge or do I have to clean these up manually
Mr. Langlitz exits the club with little coercion, followed by his valet, and a pigeon defecates upon his bowler hat. Irritated, he steps out into the street to beat it (the bowler) clean.
The moment chosen is starred ill; Mr. Langlitz now occupies the lane during one of the four minutes each hour in which a streetcar progresses down it. Mr. Langlitz is unaware of this. His valet is not, and so gallantly (always gallantly) pushes Mr. Langlitz forward, thereby replacing him in its path.
“That was my favorite valet!” Mr. Langlitz says.
Life has been repeatedly unkind to Mr. Langlitz.
THE MUSEUM OF TERROR, says the shadow of a stencil on the concrete wall. Hidebound fiddles with the fire exit and drags him in; Zach wonders if he is to be the latest exhibit, or a curator.
There’s an old chair with straps on it. Hidebound sits him down hard, puts the straps to their intended use, and pulls up a little stool.
“Why are we here?” says Zach. He can feel holes in the chair under his hands and feet.
“Atmosphere,” says Hidebound. He removes a silver cigarette lighter from his boot.
Hidebound, Zach happens to know, does not smoke.
Thursday, October 22, 2009