Archive for the creative writing Category

‘Alternative Stanzas’: Shakespeare on Trump

Posted in creative writing, criticism, stupidity, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on January 25, 2017 by drayfish

shakespeare-trump

This past weekend something amazing happened!

I was hunting through my garage and I stumbled across some original William Shakespeare manuscripts.  They were just sitting there, tucked underneath a box of old Robotech toys and a punctured inflatable pool.  Original, signed documents by William Shakespeare, the English language’s most extraordinary poet and dramatist.

I know, right?!

Obviously, had I made a statement like this in the past, I would have been attacked by the liberal media and the intelligentsia for having nothing to prove my claims.  “But don’t you live in Australia, nowhere near Stratford Upon Avon?” they would have asked.  “And wasn’t your garage only built in the 1970s, centuries after Shakespeare died?” they would tediously continue.  “And wasn’t this poem clearly typed out in a Microsoft Word program, when Shakespeare was probably more of an Apple guy?”  On and on.  Asking questions.  Demanding evidence.  Getting all up in my grill just because no such material has ever been discovered in four centuries of painstaking research and because of my track record of being a ridiculous, inveterate liar.

Well, shut it, eggheads!

We live in a bold, post-truth, fake news, “alternative facts” world now!

Truth is relative!  Objective, demonstrably provable facts are suspect!  War is peace!  Freedom is slavery!  Ignorance is strength!

I found a Shakespeare poem!

I said it.  Loudly.  And Angrily.  So it must be true.  Period.

Enjoy.

‘Alternative Facts’

When Don Trump swears that he is made of truths,

They do believe him, though they know he lies,

That he might think them some untutored youths,

Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.

Thus they excuse the tax returns he fled,

The “proof” of Birtherism, his grand “wall”,

(That Mexico shall pay for, so he said),

And “record crowds” flooding National Mall.

Divesting his stocks, Cuban embargos,

His “charity”, vote fraud, and Russian hacks,

Bankruptcies, draft dodge, failed casinos,

Dozens of women and “unfair” attacks.

They welcome these falsehoods and plate them gold

To buy the lie that “greatness” can be sold.

So anyway, this is clearly an astonishing find.  Not only do these precious artefacts blow open our entire understanding of modern literary history, but I can finally, definitively end the centuries old debate over the real identity of the great bard.  Shakespeare was not secretly Christopher Marlowe or the Earl of Oxford.

He was (as I think many of us always suspected) a witch.

With his powers of prophesy, familiarity with the concept of cyber theft, and lazy, poorly-scanning rhyme structures, he was, undoubtedly, a practitioner of the dark arts.

Also, he appears to have had a Kenyan birth certificate.

And as if all that wasn’t amazing enough: there are notes and drafts for extra stanzas!

See, sonnets, by tradition, are 14 lines long, but it appears that Shakespeare had so much material to draw from in his foreknowledge of Donald Trump’s outrageous, galling, hysterical lies (oops – I mean, “post-true alterna-facts”) that he had to cut several extra lines of verse. Here are just some of the additional stanzas that didn’t make it into the final edit:

Election was “rigged”, but his win’s no fluke,

Clinton need not be stopped with a weapon.

He knew nothing about a David Duke,

But saw Muslims cheering 9/11.

That disabled reporter was not mocked,

And nothing was crooked about Trump U,

He didn’t say Megan Kelly bled on Fox,

And always opposed the Iraq war too.

And “Check out sex tape” was not what he said;

It’s a Chinese hoax, not a warming crisis.

Do “Blacks” shoot 80 percent of “Whites” dead?

No wonder Obama started ISIS.

Ted Cruz’s father probably killed JFK;

He saw footage of cash coming off that plane;

We cannot trust proof from the CIA;

But don’t worry, the swamp will soon be drained.

This is yuuuuuuuuuuge.

Secrets Revealed!: Lost Poem of Coleridge

Posted in creative writing, literature, stupidity, Uncategorized with tags , , , , on June 13, 2016 by drayfish

LOST wheel

Samuel Taylor Coleridge was an extraordinary poet.  Alongside William Wordsworth, he was one of the founders of the English Romantic movement, producing exquisite works like ‘Frost At Midnight’ and ‘This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison’, and ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’.  Sadly, it is also part of his legacy that he was negatively impacted by a crippling addiction to opium.  Whether the story is apocryphal or not, it is said that one of his most famous poems, ‘Kubla Khan’ was both the product of a drug-induced vision, and was unable to be completed due to the debilitating effects of his usage.

What is less well known is that Coleridge was also huge fan of binge watching high concept serialised genre fare.  So even though he died in 1834, technically before the term ‘water-cooler television’ was ever uttered, he somehow managed to write the following reflection upon ABC’s sci-fi/supernatural/drama series, LOST. 

I know.  Weird, right?

Thus, I now present this completely real and not made up work for the first time in history:

Dharma Da
Or, ‘Six Seasons In A Dream.’
(A Fragment.)

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

To ‘purgatory’ plunged the flight
Of Oceanic eight one five,
Toward an island built, it seemed,
From maddened, nonsense fever dreams,
And the Twilight Zone archive.
And so six seasons came to falter
Sacrificed upon an altar
That worshiped vapid mystery boxes,
Of stall, delay and plot regressions,
Where mysticism was sour and noxious,
And characters ne’er answer simple questions.

But oh! That ceaseless hope of revelation,
A reason to the tangents, jumps and asides!
Smoke monsters, polar bears, and Dharma stations,
An entire season where they went back in time,
And lazy ‘twist’ character suicides!
That iced wagon wheel of space vortex jumping,
The ghostly cabin where Jacob was slumping,
Egyptian statues with only four toes,
Was Hurley hiding a stash of Ho Hos?
The hatches, the numbers, the hieroglyphs,
Astrophysical dimensional shifts!
And ‘mid this tumult came the writers’ assurance
Reward awaited every fans’ endurance,
Even for those who liked Nicki and Paulo.*
But six meandering years: for a dumb fist fight,
Some faked up church to greet eternal night,
And all to stuff a cork in a magic grotto.
Scarce wonder the fans, with gnashed teeth and scorn
Enflamed the internet the following morn!

No Sherlock for their witless Watson,
They wept that such a fertile tale
Adrift amongst pretentious flotsam
Had left a corpse so trite and stale:
From fuel for weekly water cooler rants
To synonym for ‘fly by seat of pants’.

A boy called Walt with psychic powers
Once unknowingly foretold:
The let-down of the following hours
The ripening set-ups left to sour
When the actor got to old.
This nonpareil ‘chosen’ one,
The Others sought obsessively
Suddenly bundled on a boat and gone
The day he’d entered puberty.
For just as Walt was painted off
The writer’s ‘plan’! their grand canvas!
Those ‘truths’ that kept the plot aloft
Mumbled away with no payoff,
Reassured by Cuse and Lindeloff
That truly it was always thus:
There ne’er was need for explanation,
T’was the ‘journey’ now, not ‘destination’,
As soon t’would be in Prometheus

* No one liked Nicki and Paulo

LOST_polar_bear

(Another of Coleridge’s works, ‘Christabreaking Bad’ does not survive in its entirety.)

Boasting, Hubris, and One Exceptional Birthday Present

Posted in creative writing, literature, stupidity with tags , , , , , , on April 15, 2015 by drayfish

Vogels 2015 shortlist

IMAGE: The Vogel’s Shortlist (The Weekend Australian, 18-19th April, 2015)

I’m not very good at boasting.  I’m just a completely awesome person that way.

…See what I did there?  Seamless.

But this past week I had the extraordinary honour of being one of four writers shortlisted for the Australian/Vogel’s Literary Award for my as-yet-unpublished manuscript, Sign. 

If you are interested in reading an extract from the work, or seeing my pasty, egg-shaped face (the photographer from The Australian performed some kind of dark magic and made me look vaguely human), you can find the announcement article here on The Australian’s website.

The entire experience has been delightful.  From the welcome and kindness shown by everyone at the publishers Allen & Unwin, to the encouragement of the judges, to the continued generosity of the Vogel family and company for funding the award, to the other nominated authors who could not have been more lovely.  I keep waiting for everyone to yell ‘Psyche!’ and push me in a puddle.

The winner was the richly deserving Murray Middleton, whose exceptional collection of short stories, When There’s Nowhere Left To Run, proves yet again that despite what conventional nay-saying wisdom has been bleating on about for the past few years, the short story form is not just still alive, it is happily, proudly thriving.

So, a rare, good week.

And again, not that I’m going steadily mad with hubris or anything, but did Shakespeare ever shortlist in The Australian/Vogel’s Awards? Nope.  Didn’t think so. So that’s one/nil Shakespeare!*

Murry Middleton Cover

IMAGE: When There’s Nowhere Else To Run (Allen & Unwin)

* Don’t wave those exquisite, soul-penetrating works of immortal artistic wonder at me, Shakespeare!  You’ve been riding on those for years.

Yeah… So I Guess I’ll Just Write A Pulitzer Prize Winning Novel Then

Posted in creative writing, literature, stupidity with tags , , , , , , , , , , on March 31, 2014 by drayfish

Writing writer stuff

THE PLAN

An award-eligible masterpiece by drayfish

The first sentence grabs them. The second proves it wasn’t by accident. The third sentence fleshes out the subject matter, maybe alluding to the inherent ironies and minor twists of the absurd that will litter the work. The forth is just along for the ride. The fifth sentence, while being completely practical, and serving certain fictional necessities, perhaps fleshing out the mimetic breadth of the work, maybe developing an empathetic tie that allows the reader to invest in the protagonist’s journey (whether providing further description, or entering deeper into a character’s psyche to unveil the deeper motivations of their social, surface behaviours), is entirely too long and convoluted. The final sentence should tie up a neat little metaphor begun in the opening line.

The second paragraph expands the story in a new direction. Perhaps the introduction of a new character, or a small contradiction to the previous few lines of thought. The next sentence says something subversive, or quirky, or just gosh-golly fun, dangnabit. The next one introduces a crisp new simile so as to sound rather more poetical – but like the hand-made pottery of a giant praying mantis doesn’t really make any sense.

This sentence is just boring exposition. Unfortunately, so is this one. This one is a little more lyrical; punctuated, paddling in the penumbra of a point; it fools the reader into overlooking any previous sloppy storytellinglyness…

‘Maybe you could put in some dialogue?’ you say. ‘To flesh out the characters some more?’

‘And squeeze in a little underhanded exposition while we’re at it?’ I say. ‘Well, I may be just a poor sap from the country, with a slight limp and a handful of broken dreams, but I say we go for it. Gee, I need a cigarette (which has always been my one principle vice and is perhaps symbolic of a deeper, destructive self-loathing).’

Now comes a perfect opportunity to enter the mind of a character. Using italics will make it look artsy. But it can be cheesy, so it’s kept short. And refer to sex somehow.

This sentence is a thinly veiled admission of the writer’s own prejudice. The next one contains a missstake that spell-check missed. This one is punchy. This one frantically slam-dances around with wildly elaborative, excessively worded description, and too many adjectives. The final diadem of this paragraph makes an indulgent reference only the writer and a forth year mythology major can share.

Then there comes the padding. Every story has to have padding. A bit of padding anyway. But padding can be good. Actually, no, it is good. Padding is good. Everything needs some padding. That’s how houses stay warm, after all. Y’know, in winter? With padding. But not too much.

NOW the story jumps back into motion with a tacky shock-tactic. Maybe it has some fucking swear words in it too, so it sounds all gritty and real. It might even mention a celebrity in a really negative way, so the writer can seem caustic, and uninterested in fame.

This sentence is witty, and memorable; it has that unnerving ability to silently slip behind you and glide its hands over your eyes, so that when you guess the ending you feel as though you had a part in writing it. It can also show that the writer is manipulative, and tediously self-involved.

‘This bit doesn’t make any sense at all,’ you say. ‘It seems completely unrelated.’

‘But it will later,’ I say. ‘It’s foreshadowing.’

The format of the story widens here, introducing a new character or moving the narration to another scene. Perhaps the description of a guy the writer saw once at a bus stop. He gets an additional quirk though, that makes him unique in a metaphorical way – like Ahab’s leg, or the imperfection of Tess d’Urberville’s lip. But then he does something unexpectedly, unremarkably normal, like picking his nose, or reshuffling the cards in his battered wallet; something the reader can relate to. Something to help them empathise.

That character gets screwed over. Quickly. Sadly. It proves to be a chilling portrayal of the bleak unfeeling void of existence. It shows that the writer read Camus and went through adolescence.

Then this part. This part is action. Each move is fast. Each sentence quick. No lingering description. Cause and effect. Like stylised journalism. With imbedded onomatopoeic words like thud, and crack, and waaaaahh…KRA-SHANG! With commas, and full stops… and exclamation points as far as the eye can see!!! And when it’s over, an elongated line to cool off the frantic writing, to soothe and slow the speed of the story to something resembling normal.

It’s ripped off from a television show, this sentence. But it sounded better when the angry cop snarled it to the fidgeting junkie.

This bit wins over the literary types again. It shows, but doesn’t tell. Then comes the part where the atmosphere is truly evoked. It’s a recipe for the senses. A dabble of visualisation, with a simile or two for spice; a dash of aromas, stirred in for measure; perhaps the zest of a distant sound drifting in from the ether; and if someone rubs their arm across the texture of something and murmurs a sigh: et Voila!

This one confuses the present tense by having been wrote in the past tense.

Eventually the protagonist picks up an object, or maybe notices something, a smell perhaps, and it triggers a memory. This is a lazy dissolve to their past, but helps flesh them out, gives their journey motivation, and is blatantly stolen from a passage by Virginia Woolf.

This sentence wasn’t meant to, but halfway through its meaning starts to stir, it swells, hardening, rising, and suddenly enters into a whole different kind of imagery, it pushes through the mind, waits a moment, and then begins to grind a little, testing, developing a rhythm, until increasingly a desperate, insistent thrust takes over and the sentence continues, committed, unstopping, moving on, going on, keeping on, until finally it peaks, and at its climax, in the calm, once the frenzy has gently cleared, the reader is left unsatisfied, wondering if it was all a mistake.

Perhaps a child walks in here. At the exact moment an adult is doing something ghastly, obscene, or immoral. The child symbolises innocence. It is freedom; it can still pick its nose. When the child speaks, their words are so profoundly naïve they fill the room like a diamond splitting light. This lets the writer toy with the corruption of purity, of growth and the blessing of ignorance; it makes the light points lighter, the dark points darker, and flips the morality of the story on its head. If you actually bother to think about it though, it has little more substance than a fortune cookie mantra.

The narration at this point lingers on an image that seems entirely unnecessary; completely unknowable, like the bottom of an undrained coffee cup, or the depths of the human eye. The protagonist is haunted by the vertiginous spaces and incalculable immensity of the world. In their mind they use words they would never understand out loud. When they speak, only the reader hears them.

Because here – if there can be said to be one – comes the point of the story, the moral unearthed from this play of shadow puppets:

‘It’s brief and it’s curt, and when the character speaks it, it’s uttered as though unwillingly believed.’

It will be quoted on the dust jacket.

Then this part seems oddly familiar.

‘Oh, now I understand that bit from before,’ you say.

‘The foreshadowing?’ I ask.

‘Yes, but it hardly seems worth it.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘But it rounds it all off neatly. And everything needs to have an end.’

A Brief (Once-A-)Fan-Fiction Interlude…

Posted in creative writing, stupidity, video games with tags , , , , , on February 18, 2014 by drayfish

[For anyone not a fan of Mass Effect, the following post will no doubt be mystifying.  Indeed, it’s likely that for anyone, fan or not, what follows will be completely baffling.  …And not particularly amusing.  But inspired by our recent return to the discussion of Bioware’s anticlimactic trilogy (and in no way using this as a lazy attempt to prolong my still having not produced that 2013 retrospective I promised …yikes), I wanted to return to a sarcastic fictional jab at the whole Crucible narrative of Mass Effect 3 that I penned a year or so back.  It is very, very stupid – and you have my sincere apologies.  Regular programming will soon resume…]

Crucible constriuction

‘CRUCIBLE PROJECT’ PROGRESS REPORT #75 (2186 CE)

TO: VICE PRESIDENT of CRUCIBLE CO HUMAN RESOURCES DEPARTMENT: Hal Von Billain

CC: iamnottheshadowbroker@shadowbroker.com

FROM: FOREMAN: Terence Props (Professional Builder, Contractor, Electrical, Expert in Weird Imaginary Alien Tech What Glows and Stuff)

*

Yeah, look, this is Terry, Lead Project Builder out here on the Crucible.  Look, I don’t want to tell you Alliance fellas how to do your job, but me and the lads, we’ve got some concerns, and the regular chain of command these days seems about as useful as an Elcor ballet school.  (…Yeah, sorry about that.  Sully warned me that joke wouldn’t land.)

The things is, you hired me not just to be some company yes man.  My crew do good work (you saw the Capital building we knocked up before those big cuttlefish came and lasered it all to ash), and you know we don’t stuff about doing half-assed work.  We do things efficiently, and we do things right.  That’s why you hired us.  (And not to talk out of school, but I saw the half baked job your Alliance crew did on that Normandy ship: half the consoles weren’t installed but the fish tank in the Captain’s room was a priority?  Sometimes you have to wonder who these senior officers are sleeping with.)

I know this Crucible doohickie is a big deal.  Enough of your Alliance big-wigs come around each day to strut (seriously, does that Hackett guy not have a real job or something?), so we get the picture: it’s important.  So then why is it that every time we put in for overtime, every time we ask for more funding, every time we make a suggestion about the way things are getting done, we get ignored?  I’ve sent plenty of memos like this, and seen no reply at all.

And I’m telling you: we have some major issues up here.  This place is a mess.  And unless something’s done about it, I reckon there’s gonna be a big stink when someone actually flips this nonsense on and tries to make the idiot thing work:

First up: floor space.  Now, I don’t know who drew up your designs (sometimes I think you found them in a whole in the ground), but you should see the wasted floor space we have going on up here on the top level.  Sure, there’s the big laser water-fountain in the middle, but aside from that, and the one elevator (that no one seems to be able to get working) there’s just two big long pathways that lead to nowhere and a boring old view out into space.  It’s big, it’s gaudy, and it’s almost impossible to heat.  Seriously: the central air up here is ridiculous.

My wife, Sal, she’s an interior designer, real professional (she’s even worked with some of the Quarian fleets), and she will tell you, straight up: it’s about using the surface area intelligently.  Mirrors.  Feng shui.  You don’t need to design the thing to fit into a football field.  I get the whole lets-make-it-majestic-so-that-the-whole-span-of-creation-can-impress-itself-upon-the-viewer-compelling-them-to-consider-their-place-in-the-universe-thing, but it’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?  And couldn’t we be using that space a bit more effectively?  Maybe have a gym or something?  A day care?  Three walkways on multiple levels that all lead to fixed points?  That’s ergonomically irresponsible is what it is.

Secondly (and maybe I should of started out with this, come to think of it): Health and Safety.  Put simply: we need to get some – because this place is a bloody death trap.

I don’t know how you lot usually built your freighters and your what-nots, but my teams like to do things safely, and a lot of what I’ve been seeing going on up here would make your hair stand up.

First things: I’ve been sending requisition orders about missing parts and unfinished flooring for weeks now, and I’m just not seeing any action.  Over on the blue side of the room (don’t even get me started on the ugly colour scheme) I’ve been requesting a panel for one console for weeks now.  I hope you realise that’s fully exposed electrical wiring there.  That’s actual arcing electricity shooting about all over the place – and no one is doing anything about it.  I can’t even get someone to bring us safety cones to wall it off.  A bit of tape.  A sign.

I mean, what if someone plunges their hands into there for some reason?  What if some maniac stumbles along and grabs hold of the handles?  (And why did they want handles?  Who thought that was a good idea?)  If some nutter did that – for whatever reason – you’d have a bloody lawsuit on your hands, quick smart.  In fact, two of my lads have already gotten a little close and got singed by it.  As we hosed them down and they were still convulsing they were talking all sorts of nonsense about ascending to the status of a god, leading an unstoppable armada of galactic monsters.  And that’s not fun!  That’s no good!  Two fellas who now think they are the overlords of a horde of weaponised abominations?  All that paperwork I have to fill out?  Heck no.

And that’s before I’ve even gotten to the Red side – which is just as bad.  Did you know that’s a main gas line?  That’s superheated fuel pumping through that console.  I don’t know which genius thought that was a good idea, but there’s almost no insulation, and I’m pretty sure I smell a leak.  If one of my guys decides to take a sneaky smoke break over there one time, the second they strike a match this whole damned place will go up.  Your whole Crucible, all that eezo you keep shipping up here (still no one can tell me what that stuff is for), your whole protective armada, the lot of it: up in a puff of some very radioactive smoke.  I wouldn’t be surprised if it nuked the whole Relay system.  It seems twitchy enough.

Oh, and by the way: you can stop sending all the EMSs.  We’ve got enough damned Electro-Magnetic Seismographs to last us until the next Reaper cycle.  I’m not sure whose bright idea it was to keep heading out into the galaxy to hunt for EMSs, but we don’t need them, and it’s just wasting time.  You know what we could use?  A freaking army.  How about you go drum one of those up.

Also, there’s this weird hologram that keeps floating about trying to get our boys to hurl themselves into the big green fountain of light.  He wants them to remake the universe in one gloriously self-immolating eugenic purgation, he says.  I think it’s one of those joke A.I.s you buy on the Citadel (the Macauley Culkin one if I’m not mistaken), but the damned thing is running rampant in our filing, and it’s really starting to creep out the lads.  Gets all tetchy if you shoot it in the head too.

So if someone out there in the Alliance brass can pull their head out of their collective asses and maybe send us a little help, I would really appreciate it.  So far the only one up here who talks any sense is that Kasumi woman – although I’m pretty sure she’s nicking all of my pens.

Signed,

Terry Props

p.s. – And by the way – the Racchni may not be our enemies anymore, but can you at least have a talk to them about conduct in the workplace.  I’m not sure what ‘sexual harassment’ means to a space bug, but they’re all hands.  …Well, feelers.

crucible blueprint

‘CRUCIBLE PROJECT’ PROGRESS REPORT #76 (2186 CE)

TO: VICE PRESIDENT of CRUCIBLE CO HUMAN RESOURCES DEPARTMENT: Hal Von Billain

CC: iamnottheshadowbroker@shadowbroker.com; selfawaregeth@wearelegion.com

FROM: FOREMAN: Terence Props (Professional Builder, Contractor, Electrical, Volunteer Fireman, Basket Weaving Enthusiast)

*

See, this is just the sort of response Sully warned me I’d get from you bureaucratic Mucky Mucks out there!  With your legalese and your penny-pinching and your blame shifting!

Have I been out to see the project?  I’ll tell you what, Hal Von Billain, I’ve been out here since day dot.  I was the first one to put up the original girder!  I lost a toe when that lazy Volus crew you sent us were clowning about on the gravlifts.  I’m the one who every day has to scare off those damned Keeper things with the garden hose before we get stuck in to work.  So don’t tell me which way is up in the cold, relentless vacuum of a pitiless universe we shall all hail the oncoming storm…

Sorry.  I mean: up.  Don’t tell me which way is up.

So I dare you come out here!  I dare you and all your buddies in financing and human resources to get out from behind your desk (where you all live) and get your hands dirty.  I dare you to come out here to the site, slip on some overalls, strap on a breather …and some gravboots (you’ll need those)…and a spinal harness (we’ve still not compensated for the screwy physics) … and maybe get inoculated (no one talks about it, but the Racchni do have some nasty parasites), and then you tell me that we’re not working our darndest to get this thing up and running.

(…Also, you’ll need to replace the majority of your organs with plastic counterparts – turns out that much eezo that close together is like standing inside a microwave.  Who knew?)

And if you have the gumption to do that, you’ll see right away that this is the most efficient, hard-working crew in the universe.  Certainly better than that clean-up squad you assigned to the Citadel after the Cerberus attack.  From what I’ve heard they’ve just been sweeping up the same broken glass for months now.  Apparently there’s even a fire in the Presidium Garden that no one’s bothered to put out.  Weeks, just blazing away.  Families sitting in the cafe just breathing in the noxious fumes…  But no: those guys get raises, bonuses, off-hour recreation time at Purgatory, functioning 401ks.

What do we get?  We get our lungs eradiated with piles of glowing biotic slag (much appreciated), and last weekend I spent four hours chasing a Pyjak out of a circuit grid.  …And I can’t be sure, but I’m pretty sure that whatever that space monkey got a hold of in there might have accidentally changed our course direction.  I’ve looked at the navi and we seem to be heading to Earth now.

At least when the timeless machine overlords return to free us from the terrible burden of life we will exalt their glorious…

Geez.  My head.

Wait, what did I just type?  …Something about machines?  Oh, yeah: Like I said before: enough already with the EMSs!  We’re up around 7000 now.  It’s ridiculous.  We do not have the storage space!  And they’re just not doing anything!  They just sit there.  I swear, it makes no impact at all.

Oh, and the hologram says hello.  We’ve been talking.  Turns out he’s actually an okay guy.  Got some funny ideas about politics – little racist maybe, but generally okay.  Just – seriously, don’t get him started on synthetics.  He looks like a kid, but he’s got some very old-fashioned ideas.

…Although he does seem to want me to put more explosives in the flooring for some reason.  I remember thinking that was a bad idea, but the more he talks to me the more it seems to make sense.  And I’m not sure why, but when I think about it too long things get a little hazy.

Phew.  My head is buzzing.

And just to let you know, I am going to install that trapdoor in the lower console section.  I know it’s not on the plans, but there’s lovely guy here with glowing eyes (gives off a bit of a President-from-The-West-Wing vibe) who thinks that would be a great idea.  And after he injected that thing into my brain (you knew about that, right?  He said he cleared it with you?) it suddenly seems like a fantastic idea.

Signed,

Terence PrEPARETOBOWBEFORETHEHARBINGERSOFOURPERFECTION!

I mean: Props.  Terence Props.

p.s. – Also, what the hell is a Tribble?  Suddenly they’re everywhere.

Crucible chamber

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