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13.154 -- AWAY MISSION TO A LACK OF PUBLISH, INK
[ DRAFT ]
The ugly urgg, fidgety starship officer and topicless frwoa novelist materialized into a vague idea for a Future Fiction publishing company in a crash of brainstorm lightning. They stood slightly singed, as page edges of a copy of Farenheit 451 a student had ignited after learning the word "irony" just after the book was handed out. Lt. Freckler instantly whipped his general multi-purpose siff device and tapped nervously, as if afraid he was the extra in the scene whose only purpose there was to get killed, made exponentially more likely given the unstable frwoa space he detected that would be particularly unwilling to develop him as a dynamic character in the short time they'd all probably be there. (Especially especiialy since their entrance was a textbook time to begin a short frwoa, one likely largely preoccupied with figuring out a way to explain the term "frwoa" without pissing off the 999 out of 1,000 freers who were already following the story and were already so sick of contrived redefinitions that every single one had contemplated throwing themselves out an air lock or tripping up on acid to hallucinate one, all in the name modularity.)
After establishing a reasonable chance that the toxins in the air they were breathing wouldn't significantly affect any of them any time soon, Lt. Freckler devoted his full attention on analyzing the local environment. He tapped his futuristic devuce half-intrigued, half-terror stricken, and fully ready to blast anything important straight to hell. The urgg, in turn, simply yawned and slugthed forward ambivolently, and the novelist looked around habitually for a topic idea or moral theme to justify the time they would spend here. He attended the intrinsic poetry all around him--and the exploration of what his feelings about being here would be if they hadn't been fully focused on the obsession of writer's self-analysis (never mind the inspiring cliche irony of always suffering this paradox in any similar situation)--with a cold mathematical precision pure in its quest for meaning and purpose purely for their own sake without regard to the stresses of searches for meaningful niches and ways to procrastinate manuscript deadlines. (Not to mention run-on sentences.)
Hence, the portion of his attention that re-focused on the drunk, whirly transportation storm-whirl behind him was spared purely for his documentation of the place and not any sort of worry that it might be dropping in a deadly alien about to tear him to shreds. (On the contrary, his death via such a scenario might have been a very potential-packed muse). Fortunately, all the whirl did was drop in two seemingly drunk pigeons in a tiny tornado who were struggling to remain airbound. The windy storm-thing held them there as long as continuity demanded, then fled the scene with an with an embarassing thunder crash as if it was supposed to have dropped everyone off in a warm quantum sparkle but had failed its dissertation on overcoming the Heisenberg Principle.
"Comic relief. We're comic relief!"
" 'The pigeons fell to the ground or floor or whatever with an awkward "FLUP-Lup-lup-le" of their wings. Even with the lingering gusts of manic wind, Skip got a clear sense that they were nearly totally incompetent at remaining airbound, and that this had little to do with their current surrounding environment. They continued the haphazard flapping even after they'd landed as if they couldn't decide whether to retroactively land properly or get back up in the air where pigeons belonged. Their lack of control of their own wings was so comical that Skip decided to execute his first creative act of the scene and coin--or re-coin or whatever--the ridiculous verb "flupluple".' "
"What makes you say that, Ed?"
"Why else would the storm thing dump us off like that? I bet Skip and Glorg crash in like that!"
" 'Skip responded with a lack of direct attentiveness any good writer pushes to the back burner when facing a sudden writer's block oblivion.' No, Ed, more like, 'slightly singed from a bolt of brainstorm lightning, like page edges of a--' "
"Is he going to narrate like that every chance he gets to pretend we just jumped into a new short story? It's bad enough just narrating but now he's throwing in convoluted nested grammar too involved for my tiny brain to parse."
"At least he usually drifts off and forgets about it by mid-scene."
"Let us pray."
"Pray? Do we have a diety? I forget."
"Maybe Skip's our god."
"God help us from the irony if he finds out."
" '...Yet unbeknowest Ed and Eagle, the drunk windy transport thing that had dumped them into a void as empty as their little pigeon brains gave a whirly hint of returning to suck them away into the jaws of a giant a rabid duck: a final relocation that would at least vindicate the dull static lives a little with a bit of conclusive exitement. Eagle--on the ground or floor now--if such things existed here--turned quickly around o make sure Skip's narration hadn't actually summoned the whindwhirl thing into existence again. Ed only half-turned, equally curious but also mindful of the likely pride blow if it turned out he'd fallen for the trick. All seemingly safe for a moment, the quintette gently drifted apart, each in their own manner, investigativeness their only unifying attribute.' "
"Whgat do ygou read, Skriff?"
The space officer the alien had called "Skriff"--which was likely pretty close to the officer's name, given Glorg's relatively recognizable dialect of whatever language they were all speaking--confirmed his results with a few "bshmeeps" of his siff device. He opened his mouth twice as if struggling for a better technical description of his readings, but finally shrugged and (ambivolently) parotted his initial analysis. "It looks like atmosphere and everything around us consist almost totally of rancid, organic ambivolence, he re-stated, hoping that adding the words "rancid" and "organic" would make any sort of sense and demonstrate he knew what the hell he was talking about. "Off the scale. Or at least as far as such things can be measured, as my device can't pick up much of a confirmation that it isn't just spewing out a stream of randomized irrelevant data."
"The Great Paradogs of Self-diagorstics."
- wallpaper thing
"Skip, check this out."
"What is it, Ed?" Skip walked over to the pigeons who had already discovered something. It didn't seem too surprising, because pigeons--being so small,sporadic and fluplupally--practically live in an . Also, it didn't seem such a mighty discovery in the time alloted, because "something" was about the limit of Skip's description of what the something was.
"It looks dark," offered Eagle, and the something responded by shifting from whatever it was a moment ago to something a little bit more shadowey, as if someone had tapped it's light switch down a notch, or as if a tiny fraction of its soul had been cast into eternal darkness.
"It's kinda weird," offered Ed, and the thing gave an infinitesimal wiggle of protest, then made itself a bit more weird at its own objection, as a lamp genie who had been wished to turn itself into a and who couldn't disobey. It still had very little form, however, and it couldn't be very describable beyond "dark" and "weird".
"It's simply how fleshed out and definitive it is!" added Skip, which brought a wretched squirm of protest from it. If it hadn't been busy fathoming Skip's paradox--just a prerequisite to trying to execute the implications of the --it might have been impressed by the evil of Skip's genius. He was clearly a master artist powerful enough to avoid creative work by thrusting creative tasks on others via deceptive means. . The pigeons fluplupled away from it a bit as they, too, recognized the brilliance of the move, and were too familiar with the consequences of Skip's procrastination schemes to underestimate the danger at hand. Lt. Freckler, in turn, was moving forward to it, as it was clearly the only thing anywhere in the area worth scanning.
The dark, weird, existentially conflicted something or other started to shift and change. It seemed to resist the Skip had cast on it, but with every twist realized it had been backed into a corner and had nothing to do but decide what and where the hell it was and what it was doing here. Pieces began to break off of it, which themselves decided they weren't quite sure weather and tried to go back to the dark weird existentially conflicted something, but then pieces of those pieces objected, and more and more things started to happen--for lack of anything better to say about what was happening to the dark weird existentially conflicted something--and, after a brief while, it had finally settled into a very particular self-similar strange mathematical shape that most clearly resembled a giant fragmented dragonfly imploding into a black hole . [[i.e. the dragonfly-like xangles wallpaper]]
>> "it's contrived!" | "it's a xangles wallpaper!" | "it's a plot hole!" | "it's undescribable! (urgg skit)... "still." | "it's a flutonic anomaly!!" | "it's the exact flutonic anomaly we were looking for! [or "came here to find"]
"It looks like a plot hole," volunteered Eagle.
At this, it almost smiled. For the first time in it's brief life just now as something slightly more than a vague something, it had a sense of self and purpose. It did something akin to exploding a small radius, doing something or other to everyone nearby. Skip wasn't quite sure what it was, but it probably had something to do with warping him a few minutes ahead in time with no memory of having been near the thing at all. If nothing else, it was definitely an impressively contrived segwey. (Perhaps it was its poetic justice payback for Skip's cruelty... or at least a survival mechanism to get Skip as far from it as possible in case he had any more ideas about screwing it's existential over again. Perhaps this was finally it's response: it's fleshed out nature was a piss-annoying--transporting temporal phenomenon. (And a contrived one at that, for it had the effect of cutting off any chance Skip's own had of wrapping up the next few seconds with any sort of meaning or conclusion... something not too strange to happen since what the hell could be wrapped up seconds before a scene continued continuously with no hint of ever having been a story worth stoppingasdfkawj relkj lgjskfd g [[perhaps the thing is a local mystery explained at the end of the brick]]
@"Well so was that."
- skip wanders off
As Skip wandered the lack of an office building, his mind gravitated further from the overall and closer to his immediate environment. Of course, there wasn't much of an immediate environment to speak of, which was fine because speaking of anything seemed pretty pointless given the lack of anything to say as well as a place to say it. On a whim, he tried to imagine his whole life in relation to everything else out there in all of infinity, but his brain kept directing his attention where he was to save time and effort. He was blind not just to the local environment around him (assuming it was all voidy because there was something wrong with where he was, otherwise he could see it quite clearly), but to all of space and time.
"Echo", Skip said aloud. The word momentarily hovered, bored, then it twitched and decided that hovering and twitching in place didn't serve much of a purpose. Almost as soon as Skip had spoke the word, it dispersed and rippled into the vast void around him. It seemed to reverberate for miles. If the void seemed to think it over and ponder it a bit. The word made sense, even sense to say, especially in an echoey timeless void, and yet it was a virus that threatened to grow and branch and infest every corner of the known universe. It was the most brilliant, eclectic, and most thoroughly useless thing anyone could possibly say right about now.
"Echo", Skip said again, and wondered if saying it twice was a clever literary repitition, or already approaching re-hashing of material. Or, at the worst, a sure hit copyright lawsuit given he'd plagiarized the word word for word.
"Echo", he said a third time, in a desperate gamble that the benefits had outweighted the risks the first two times and the ratio was further increasing. A strange deja vu hit him of many dimensions and depths and levels (particularly since he was pretty sure he'd once had a similar feeling), and he was now fully unsure whether he'd profited or not. Out of exhaustion with the entire ordeal, Skip simply decided to shut up and attack his situation from an entirely different angle.
"Marco," Skip called.
Surprisingly, this had the same effect as saying "echo" ad nauseum, but to be extra thorough, he figured one last try might do the trick.
"Marco," Skip called.
That didn't do anything either, and simply to satisfy his increasing frustration, Skip changed his mind about finding something more constructive to do in favor of humoring his new obsession of calling out nonsense into an unresponsive empty oblivion.
"Would you kindly stop doing that?". A busy, frustrated voice called out from somewhere. Oddly, it lacked any reverb whatsoever, as if Skip had been goofing off on a kareoke machine at the annoyance of the ventriloquists in the room whose party he had walked into, or had been standing in a canyon in a dream but been calling his words aloud in his sleep at the real life spelling bee he'd found too boring to stay awake for.
"Hello?" Skip's voice echoed.
"Still doing it," the flat voice cursed.
" 'Skip looked around for his friends, but couldn't locate them. He tried to focus on the source of the voice, but the fog-stuff made it difficult to see. It was like the vast empty space with scant stars at the end of the Neverending Story when Fantasia has been almost totally destroyed, except without a dragon that could somehow still breathe in a vacuum sans any air or a magic medallion to lead him someplace useful; or a spooky forest in the X-Files where anything could leap out and mangle him at any moment, especially since he didn't have a gun or a holy cross to ward such a thing off if it was an orthodox agnostic afraid of religious icons. Or maybe it was like the part in Vincenzo Natali's Nothing where David Hewlette and Andrew miller get separated and neither can find the other in the endless white Matrix construct loading program, or--"
Skip halted as he realized the rising thumping that had started wasn't his guilty Telltale Heartbeat or a Jurassic Park carnivore coming to kill him, but rather a mindless zombie-esque 28- Days- Later -worthy assault on a poor defenseless Logitech keyboard.
...Thwack. THWACK. THWACK...
"If there's anybody else you annoy as much with your infringment references, I grieve for the day you turn their office into a paperless black hole with no internet.
"What do you mean?"
The sound of Darlene's typing stopped for a moment, then resumed, as if she'd considered devoting her full attention to her upcoming reprimand for effect but decided it wasn't worth the overtime. "That button you kindly pressed imploded my office, Skip, and the entire office building it seems, if there was even one there to begin with, given I'm too busy fixing your mess to concentrate to remember. For all I know, you destroyed all of Flutonia or ended time itself before it even got going. It would have been a very nice early retirement for me if I wasn't still stuck here with less of a purpose than I ever had to begin with. I figured the end of my career would not be worth the wait, but this takes the cake."
"Ah, well, at least you have company for the moment." Skip still hadn't located Darlene; his gaze panned around the limbo of fog and he considered he actually had imploded all of space-time into Nonbeing.
"While your company might actually have been a small step into the ballpark of more preferable than sitting here with no one to talk to for all eternity, I doubt it happened, since it's much more likely the lack of order has driven me mad and I've finally hallucinated somebody up. I know you're a dream because even you would be kind enough to at least bring me a coffee when coming to gloat about your victory, and to boot I'm depressed enough to have masochistically cursed myself with the one person my work days would most better off without.
"Adam and Eve VII: The Forbidden Shrooms and the Banishment to Nonbeing."
"Oh, come on, I hardly consider the Bible to be--"
"The Bible is gone and my tax files with it! I was almost done financing the details of the 4 billennia contract Publish Ink offered god to write it, too, but the files sent themselves to the recycling bin along with just about everything else important just after the main system error popped up and ruined my whole day just after you and your friend had your fun. "
Skip only fully realized he had already walked up to Darlene and her computer when she gestured to the error message on the side of her screen:
WARNING: SOME IDIOT PUSHED THE BLUE BUTTON ON THE WALL AND IMPLODED YOUR OFFICE. OSXP WILL NOW FORMAT DRIVE F:\ AND REBOOT
@/ROFL when new w/o previous context! (2x)
"I tried clicking 'OK' but it just kept popping up. I'm hoping if I put in enough overtime this week that I can undo your mess and get my office back." She continued typing. Clickity- clack- Cluck- click. @/./
"I'm not sure. I ran a search and the only result that popped up was 'O/S XP'."
"Ah, well that explains it."
Vaguely up in the black nothingness way way above where some sort of sky or vacuum should have been if anyone had thought up skies or vacuums, a fresh and utterly non-cliche rumble of "DUNH DUNH DUNH" tgybder
Maybe it's a defragmentation
Darlene's typing slowed to an ominous half speed, as
[[computer defragmenting a re-arranging the matrix of frangles 13.1/ and specifically Skip Square One, reflecting freer's current frustration with what's coming next and WTF to do with the whole nova and how to make it work well if it's being written first (which it is) =P?1?rkskdrjg$KEjrv]]
plot goes up to Flick, i.e. from darlene (secretary) up to literary agent (flick), up another step in the chain (CEO of publishing, ink, or something)
[[maybe place is like a maze... involivign tmeporal weird hyperspace aspectds, aglrsssg lsdkf0j gslkjgs laskdfjg]]
<explanations for going on too long;;comments/mechanisms for bricks to get shorter from here on]]
@/ "What arg ygou lgooking for, Sgikff?"
"A way out of here."
"Bgut we just--nerbermind."
One of the pigeons tried to break out of the local frwoa space into , but couldn't quite manage the trick.
We just learned how to flupluple, Ed, I don't thinmk we'll be surpassing any mediuasdnlgmkj \\
yes! that's it This is Writer's Everything But Block. \
A small portion of his attention was devoted to linguistics, such as the invented words that might be needed to describe the movements of the inhuman alien alien--such as "slugth", perhaps--or the strange nowhere-place they seemed to have entered--such as "vifa" (whatever the hell that might mean). Only he payed any attention to the tiny vifa tornado that marooshed in two tardy pigeons desperately fluppling to remain airbound. Their haste opposed the urgg's still slugthing was quite ironic--or perhaps more "juxtaposed" than ironic, he decided...."ironxtaposed"?
The wind withdrew the tornado as quickly as Darlene only paused momentarily to let it dissipate.
"--and the thunder at the PC is a wild guess--"
The thunder rumbled resentfully for an infinitesimal mot...
"A raving wild guess--"
"--that the PC had emited an ERROR noise pirated directly from WinXP itself in order to get away with illegally piratinasdflk ajdsdsg 3ewkjg hrzsdlkfjhv alrskejdh
uity allowed, and the entire brain storm embarassingly fled the scene
thunder providentially augmented Skip's sarcasm as if the very idea of sarcasm was as non-0cliche as the thunder crashing in the background when a character says something disgustingly irrelevant (or at least marketably asdf
"Actually, it narrowed it narrowed it down quite a bit. In reference to our crashed network system, I assume 'O/S' means "Operating System..."
"MAkes sense", Obviated Skip.
"--and from the magnitude of the crashes, I only assume that 'XP' refers to the windows operating system 'Windows XP', but as soon as I had the thought, the computer and the self-genius thunder practially killed me / electrocuted masdf
"Well, the computer for fair use violations--"
The thunder gave a half crash of warning and then suddenly dropped off as it realized that Darlene's reference to Fair Use law probably didn't violate any serious copyright issues.
"And the PC?"
--and the thunder at the PC in a wild guess--"
The thunder rumbled resentfully for an infinitesimal mot..
"A raving wild guess--"
"--that the PC had emited an ERROR noise pirated directly from WinXP itself in order to get away will illegally pirating the error sound without paying for itas.,fdjvasdlfkjsdlfkj
I thought everyone was on Vista now?
"Are you telling me Frangles runs on Windows 7?"
"And visa versa"
Strangle since microsoft hasn't even been thought up yet..though the PC possibly could have downloaded it illegally.kfdjgkfj
"Let me explain something about the x-net to you, Skip
The thunder and computer now objected in some harmonious way to something in Darlene's last sentence. Skip was way way way way way too tired to even understand whaskfdl jgdkfj b
"I don't understand, Darlene."
"Watch your rhetoricals, Skip." Skip realized he'd only barely noticed Darlene had resumed her work with her usual vehemency and was already responding to his idiocyh practialcally subcoinsouclsdyfjkadskfg
"This operating system you speak of doesn't exist and likely won't for another so on and so on billennia if it does at all... how would the PC know about it in the first place?
"It didn't. It was a (rare) faulty assumption on my part. Internet is down, remember?""
"But then how--why--"
Darlene's typing assault drowned out Skip's sudden tangent train of thought
windows to other planes of reality / take windows O/S and take into hyperdimensional applications / [Esp multi-layered medium surpassing, i.e. skip's story vs. frangles writers vs skip's characters vs writers writing all of those, etc... Skip could pass through a wormhole and dump in my living room, etc]
--lightning in the sky :: fractal lightning
--creation of xanglesweam wallpapers :: flutonian / oblivion nothingness forming into random things
"You mean any writer writing us at this point just happens to have a perfect excuse to be lazy?"
"Yes. That's it for the most part."
"What if our writer is competent?"
"Sucks to be him."
"See? You could have said something vaguely intelligent just then."
"But your remark right there was vaguely witty, so perhaps our writer isn't lazy after all."
"i think the humor in that statement depends on your point of view. It didn't seem very witty to me. Maybe your writer is grasping for straws to win the argument."
= 10-11 PLP so far =
[/153: 30-40 plp]
CUTTING THINGS A LOT MIGHT BE A GOOD IDEA TO MAKE BETTER TO READ FOR SHORTER TIME AND NOT BORE FREERS EVEN IF STUFF IS DECENT INTRINSIC MATERIAL; JUST THE LENGTH ITSELF CAN OFFSET FREERS. Can always release a "director's cut" later if freers develop. better to drag people inalsdkfj alsfdjg as;fdjkvl ewkjh4Fjakgrjsdfdf..shmurglfcvyeyes
of brainstorm lightning. A few other bolts flashed in the distance
@./exceptionally generic desolate planet on which
Map | SkipFron mobile | Frangles mobile | HTML validator | Admin | Style 0 Style 1 Style 2 | Size: 1 2 3 4 5