Posts tagged ‘stories’
Mark said we should start the ogre game, so we did. Rachel and Michael got the part out of the box and Alex opened the service tunnel, we ran through the hallways, down to the fixtures and found the valve in question, and then tag “you’re the ogre!” everyone took ten steps back, Rachel said, “oh no the ogre!” and ran to the wall and then I began the slow work of replacing the valve, wrenching slight shifts of pipe off and occasionally turning around, everyone froze, “Michael froze last,” screamed Rachel and so Michael went back to the wall, resisting against the sweet plastics condensing the impurities and humidity into something we can breath. Rachel began an eventual swoop to my left side while Marco pinced me on the right, all the time I was feeling back there for the right nut. Finally, I found it and wrench! Off came the piece and snap the replacement in place and then, “gotcha!” Someone had tagged me with my back turned. The lights flashed, Rachel was recorded as winner and the panels began to dim down into dullness. A flicker arouse in one of the vents and Marco ran into it, we all followed afterward.
On march first Mom got her first batch of passwords from the Doctorow act. She decrypted the keys and began siphoning through the scroll of passwords. 666morde666 DEathc4mp roger Williams, 414 oak dale drive, Missoula, Montana, directgib.com
666morde666 Deathc4mp, Jesuitacademy.com
666morde666, deAthc4mp, missesfeedies.org
What were these doing in Mom’s files while the first question she asked and then She clicked on Jesuitacademy and and logged in.
Rachel had given this day to making flowers in photo booth for grand ma. She started out with a series of portraits of them, and then she zoomed into little details, a skirt here, a teddy bear, grand pa’s ancient Mac book, and put them in fractals that scrolled out into floral arrangements that she bean to trim. After a few minutes she exported the whole thing to grand man’s funeral wall and recorded a short video of her saying good bye. I got the job of cleaning out old comments, archiving the pretty ones, and deleting any especially potential spam. When we were done grand man’s wall pristine with just one love filled message sitting there, almost instaneosly, like a hug capable of pulverizing a paparazzi, a hundred new comments came up, some text based, a few videos of grand ma in various games, one friend recounted the time they jumped through Koopa’s castle, another on the Doctorow act and how she didn’t need to know what it would reveal, and she loved her anyways.
the maintaince game was the one the boys played in the walls between the compartments. these spaces had been designed for maximm game play, miniscule chutes chunneled the children down floors and into the spaces where the pipes lay. markus made it first and found the wrench his mother had pulled out of printer this morning. he eagerly went over to the pipes and sang, “I am an oger! I am an oger!” the other chlidren instintively group into sleath units, “I am an oger!”, he sang twisting the wrench onto the pipe and with a tug he suddenly flung it back, the other children all spun their back to him, but the wrench pointed directly at a yonger boy who sat their n silence, “and now so are you!”, he said and the other boy came towards as the two other children obeyed the rules and took two steps back. Marcus and the younger child took a moment to reattach the wrench and then, “we are ogers!” and the other boys began to wittle towards them slowly so as to interrupt their work.
marcus took out the elbow he had been given that morning and put it in place, they kept singing, he cold hear the footsteps, the other boy put the elbow n place and markus gave one big turn and then beep beep, marcus turned around and ran into one of the other boys, “that was close!” “we just let ya score,” said the other one, and then the lights went out and a single dot appeared in the distance, the boys made a dash for the next goal.
She began the hunt with a return address, which of course lead back to hotmail where she had first found the subject. She had tried e-mailing back, but the subject refused any solicitations from her. Additionally, the whole operation was operating on a shared web server, and she had no idea if the physical address Whois had given her would actually lead to anything, so instead she called. A creaky and weary voice answered the phone. She had been doing this long enough to know the man on the other line was not her target, but she talked to him anyway and he eventually mentioned renting out webspace to other users at steep discounts. She now knew she was dealing with an entirely different type of scum. She made tentative plans to host a site on the man’s web server and then she went down to the office and reported his address as a possible site. The other’s in the office gathered around and discussed their day, two found in an Indian pc bar, another waiting in line at customs in Cambodia. Her target had been located in Cuba.
The promenade around the house had worn down into the sea and low waves crashed over the beach. A group of kids out in the bay played with nurse sharks as she passed row after row of faded brick houses. Eventually she found the door, but as she expected someone else lived there. The couple at the house were quite nice, she sat down with a seven foot tall basketball star and her husband a smallish engineer at the local motorcycle repair place. The two had never seen or heard of the target, they did however know the former occupant and after a few coffees, she retreated to the street with a new address in hand.
The car the UN gave her broke down after a few days, she walked on foot and then waited at car share sites till she had trekked half the island. The house was instantly noticeable as a slum dwelling. Kids ran around outside while inside hundreds of children managed web servers. Kids poured out of closets, some at ten wasted with the onsets of HIV. She quietly spoke to a few kids around the house, they rushed up with trinkets, little island momentos, she bought a few. Inside the house she could see them sorting emails, working through excel sheets, and working on ad copy, at ten years old a few of the girls could speak English better than she could. Groups of children sat around typing on ancient keyboards, long since dilapidated, her own roll of smart phone sitting in her pocket began to beep. She pulled it out and answered a few calls, then she showed the boss where she was, the government would be by in a few days. She took a few of the ones that could speak English by the hand and led them out of the house. She told them to tell the others that their parents wouldn’t be coming home, but they needed to stay there until the UN people come. She also asked about the man, one of the kids managed to draw him, the usual suspect, she clicked a copy to hq.
At first it was like leaves stirring in her belly, then the soil accumulated, she began to swell. The belly was a blessing, she liked the idea of this soil churning into life. The dna test gave her thousand of snps to o through, the clinic had given her a small collection of medications to assist with the firstvfew days. An anihestimanine in case the slight autism lead to tantrums, an amyglda stimulant for the baby’s mild psyhopathy.
Kim met her in the park. Kim was famous for diaper grand pry, the toddler racing game that her husband had helped finance. The two walked by the moss covered trees and into the lake’s frosty complexion. Kim had two children, Magdalen and Amir, they spent their days with a maid who doubled as a house keeper. Monsieur was working on some soft bodies, their crocheted geometries taxing any video card Apple threw at them. Kim was skimping on ram and discussing the new game she was beginning, a photography romp through procedural cities. Monsie began to nod off when Kim returned to the same old subject, how much they lost on her blockbuster.
Of course she had diaper grand pree free of charge on an ancient sd card tucked away in the folds of a garnet. No one wanted to pay 39.99 then, no one did know. Increasingly software was like a party, she paid 5 or 6 bucks here or there to see a recommendation, but the big events, she coul not afford. She paid a small fee for an anonymous account that she torrented through, the Manitoba public net and her carrier’s network long since lost to monitors. She had no desire to
“The water runs into the hull and then the ocean becomes cooler. The ark is ventilated by the sea water and returns to normal.” The announcer’s voice was sterile as if the boredom of the room he recorded in came out in the vocal cords. She sat there staring off into the catacomb of ventilated materials, the surf that was no surf, the voice consistently anesthetizing her thoughts, the clarity of it producing an unnaturalness, a calm no human being was supposed to have. His words rendered all the wonder of the ark into concise familiarity. The ark was a mystery, a huge vessel with the ability to produce seas, and the sea under them was no exception, but now, in this voice’s hands, she just wanted to get off and explore, when the headphones went silent a little Muzak hit her ears and she almost pulled the things off. To her right large spirals of the ark’s native plastics cut into the air, mysterious and yet their exact tuning was what churned the waters below, the voice cheerily noted this, but with out the awe she always saw in the cluster of ideas, the means of water the ark contained.
The rocks when he reached the rocks the birds were there. Just a little, a trickle of them. Squared away around the rocks. The surface of the rock hadn’t changed. He began to scramble over them. When he reached the first shelf there was a plank of white plastic balanced on a rock. He picked up the enlarged hammer and began to try lift off. 1, 2, 3 and then he felt it, like a huge burden was weighed on his back. Fell off the see-saw and sank into the earth, dirt ran against his face, he felt the first of several urges to breathe, and then the earth had has back, he was inside, somewhere down, and then blackness.
The earth was a long surface, the senses didn’t shut down, rather they were muted. The earth against his skin occasionally pulled, sometimes jostled him, a gradual flow of erosion weathered him down, he felt his skin give way then the cool burn of tendons, the explosion of organs. Somehow he felt like he was in the woods.
The birds were still playing in the trees. He reached for some bark and stuffed it in his face. Hunger slowly abated. He walked along the tree line until he saw a creek. He began to drink and then bathe, that’s when he saw himself, the eyes popped into the head like a cartoon. He vomited out breakfast.
She remembered the first game they made. cradle cakes, a crawl through a dungeon of milk before the baby made it to the planet of cheese. The following year they tried a first person shooter, but that blew up in their face. It was only after some hesitation that they tried a dancing game. Epsilon tried to make it touch only, but they ended up with some basic pad moves. That was what haunted them, the necessity of subjecting amensia’s white wash to their childhood. Epsilon personally felt like a Ballard character, trying to make memory into a mould and then squeeze the little razors of ABA out. Monsie on the other hand had little problem cultivating an anti controller habit, it was merely that she arrived at ideas slightly behind the competition. The competition were a conglomerate of Korean game makers that produced software in days they took months through.
Months though were something they had. Pennies from the app store had commensurate their pregnancy and a flow of 50,000 us had come in, Korean competition or no Korean comp the apps did sell. Monsie waited on her hormones through the crisp clip of virtual keys. She and her infant were in unison when it came to the various metaphors the compiler puzzled as they waited for their latest app to finish. The baby had done something to her programming, during the periods she wasn’t sick a new found concentration had come over her and her drawing had improved too. The infant kicked and squeezed gently, she looked down and then saved her emacs just when the first compulsion hit her a wave of vomit came through her and tablet discarded she made it to the commode.
Vomit drenched the water stayed while she cleaned herself in the shower and watched the uv’d food stuff drop to the tile. Exhaustion came out of her waist and up her torso over the belly well for a second the other one absorbed it like a shockwave and then groggily she climbed into bed. She put the covers over herself and dreams came in the air not bothering with ears they went straight in through the forehead.
Baby x was in a crypt in the park. Silence, the uncommon, Kim down a well, the baby carriage, clouds, that park in taipei, orchids. Pause?
Squeeze the rag doll to make it move. She finished her doll app. The little thing blistered through harried platforms like Charlie Chaplin in a crack rock. She pinched it’s jaw expanded and swallowing a billboard, it vomited, but she felt fine.
With each boyfriend she got another song. One week LORD DRAGON’S WIZARD would be a ring tune, another SKELETON CREW would sound off any ims. She had begun them the moment her middle school band teacher saw her play violin. Possesed he came over and examined her, a week later Mom and Dad were in the building, “your daughter has talent,” the teacher said, mom smiled. She went to classes after school, first violin, then later guitar. Her first boyfriend asked her to play in his band. He played bass, she wafted notes from the violin, and another boy drummed. They dressed in black jeans and shirts. The band played a high school talent show. Then the boy scored a gig at a local coffee shop. She still remembers the fear of the coffee shop, these other people were impossibly cool. Some of them smoked, some of them drank, she ended up smoking pot in the back seat of a large immacutately maintined chrome beast. She kissed some dude and ended up with his number. A few different people gave her their number that night, except the really weird art dudes that gave away e-mails.
Jeremy was what she saw at home. She spied him through slated doors. He spent all his time in his games. Some times he read things (usually magazines and comics she discarded), but mostly he played games. He was particularly in love with a platformer. She liked to play it with him. The large puffy dogs would rise in the air and land on candy clouds. Jeremy would do impossible things, like jam a cake and a dog into a platform and them wiggle and waddle the beast until the cake spat out in comic mischief, rising impossible miles into a virtual sky, even their hi-def tv couldn’t handle it. She sometimes gave him things, he loved a pink slider ring she wore when she was 12. He also preferred her old bracelets and the tube socks she left in soccer cleats long out of use. Father had tried to convince him to wear the other socks and occasionally asked him to take off the rings, he refused to go outside with him unless he dressed “normally.” Finally, he enrolled him in little league.
Little League was something she was to busy for. Once, on the way to a gig, she saw him through the window, getting ready to bat at the game. The other team all came up close and she just kinda winced. At the very least they were nice to him. The guy next to her stirred as he shifted the clutch. She opened up her tablet and clicked through a few updates, she calmly palmed a few messages away and then wrote a little blog post. The gig was in less than an hour, so they had to hurry for sound check.
The skin had somehow changed in the night. He could feel the brittle turtle like protusions of the tree as he wandered over a few feet to the brook. The brook in turn had changed, the water was sour, strange, he recalled a candy a flash a childhood, but couldn’t center on it, he stopped drinking. The air was strangely ashen like a fire had broke through the place, and then he walked. A group of gila monsters were already sniffing around. A lonely dolphin plunked through the streams grazing on darting bits of refuse, somewhere an amalgalm of sight and smells told him, something new had broke in. He could barely make out the difference, by noon the new skins, the new smells had become normal. He saw shifts in trees, large comprehensible flocks of birds sat down on branches that faded to sour colors and dissipated like a pinch. The birds cowed to each other in swarms, their octaves breaking into impossible sonics, a borealis of sounds echoing upwards leaving only a liminal trail of wisps in the palette’s floor.
The Yeti were gathering the mountains. If he tried he might be abler to seduce them into talking to him. When a Yeti spoke the words he thought in became incomprehensible, an imitation of language that tasted like plastic on the tongue. The bird canopy existed for kilometers, but he sped up and made it out of the forest and where the rocks began, their grain was suitably familar, he could remember the slight confidence of their solidity, the way rocks speak out to you: you won’t slip. Of course when he did slip, the rocks hurt him quite bad, but at least they had the same skin, the one he’d known before.