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I'll sacrifice my position on the list so he can be bumped up a rung...You'd be so low-priority that it wouldn't be worth it.C'mon. Don't you have an enemy's list to put me on or something?Yeah, I can see that.Funny, when I enter ...
** spoiler omitted **
... I'm told I write like James Joyce.
* wipes tear away *
Very kind of you, Yellowdingo.
* low sobs *
Just key his schwinn or something...
I have Cory Doctorow on most of my writings. I'm not familiar with his style, but he seems like a cool guy from the wiki entry.
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My Corey Doctorow style short stories:
Robyn pulled the trigger. The fifty Calibre rifle recoiled into Robyn’s shoulder as the round jumped from the barrel and closed the half kilometre distance to the Target.
On the step in front of Ten Downing Street, the Prime minister paused and waved to the increasingly indifferent crowd. The Worst of the Hecklers were well back. The round caught him in the left eye and exploded through him as he stepped forward towards the Car. The Policeman in his shadow caught a handful of skull and frontal lobe as the body went down. The policeman hurled his body against the smiling Minister for Defence pushing him back through the doorway.
The Press went into a photographic feeding frenzy. That smile would cost a political career.
Robyn moved. Looking one last time at the English longbow and arrows in a black drawstring hood for a quiver he had placed deliberately on the roof. He then picked up the rifle and moved back through the building. It was teeming with Government personnel. Perhaps it didn’t matter to them that the Painter was carrying a large rifle wrapped in a drop-cloth. The rifle was still cooling as he dropped it into the Storage Box and closed the locks.
Passing through Security and out into the backstreet, he loaded the box into the Transit.
The big man in the back looked at him.
“Done?” Little John was a man of precise words.
“Yes.” Robyn stared at his sombre giant.
London, 2000
Robyn stared at it again. The government of Afghanistan was hiring professional soldiers to train its people and work on bringing order from chaos.
“So you’re saying we get paid to train the troops in Afghanistan’s new army?”
“Yes. They are very interested in building their nation.” His Contact had brokered quite a few of these deals in the last few months.
“Okay, why not.” Robyn had done his bit for Crown and Country, so this little Crusade would be to help someone else build something from the rubble.
Afghanistan, 2002
The towering giant of a man smiled at him.
“John Foster.” The big man smiled. It was all he could find.
“Robyn…” Robyn started at the Jets overhead. The Americans were invading a Sovereign state and killing or rounding up anyone who got in the way.
Robyn focused on the old Taliban soldier talking up front.
“They said they are heading over the border into Pakistan.” Robyn looked back to John Foster.
“F%!$.” Foster smiled at Robyn’s profanity.
The explosion ripped them from the back of the Toyota as the rest of the convoy vaporised.
Bandits came out of the darkness to pick over the bodies.
John woke Robyn. They were being sold to the Americans. The CIA front man handed over a wad of cash and waved to his band of Soldiers to load the pair up.
“How are you doing lads? Where is the Airport?” Robyn put on his best friendly face.
“Shut the f~%* up!” The rifle-butt in the back of his head told him they were not going home just yet.
The CIA Operative dropped the black drawstring hood over Robyn’s Head and pulled the cord.
“You terrorist bastards are going to get yours.” A vague voice whispered in his ear.
American Occupied Cuba, 2004
“Think you’re going home, do you?” The Interrogator sat on the chair on Robyn’s chest that much harder. Robyn’s bound hands were crushed beneath the weight of his own back.
“Where the f%~$ is Osama Bin Laden?”
“Never f*~#ing met him.”
This would take a while.
His cage sat opposite John Foster. The Giant no longer smiled but his lack of communication had caused his interrogators to do bad things to him.
“How you like your holiday in Cuba?” Robyn smiled through bloody teeth.
“Robyn Hood and Little John f!~& your Norman Wenches.” Robyn unleashed with the protest Song.
“And when you go home you’ll hear them moan and find them up the trenches.” Came Little John Foster.
Their Jailer opened with the Fire Hose.
“Rest Well. It is three Suns to the Springs of Ur and we must cover the distance by the first.”
The Nemec roused from their sleep to the last evening meal in the water-caves. The wilted fungus baked in a mudpack in a fire burning even more wilted fungus as fuel. The aroma of its spores filled the caves.
The narcotic spore aroused them into assaulting their food with amorous fury.
Givan the Elder pointed to the others.
“Sataru!” Chanted his voice.
“Sataru!” Vinois the Wild cried with narcotic pleasure and the others followed.
They ran now through the night covering ground that was still warm from the terrible heat of the day. The Narcotic devoured the pain of their journey and closed the great distance into a single night.
Just before Sun, the Nemec found the foliage wall of an alien jungle and they were able to rest for a while in its shadows.
Junam the Swift drew the attention of Vinois to one plant that was obviously feeding off another.
“See it? Like a bore-beetle, it feeds off the victim until it dies.” Junam pointed at an older fallen plant that had rotted.
“It would be like waking up and finding that the wilted fungus is growing in us as we eat its spores.” Vinois cringed at the thought as he chewed down some spore.
Givan the Elder laughed at their conversation as he patted the warriors on the back.
“That is why we chew our spore, not swallow whole… Come! It is cooler further in.” Givan walked slowly into the undergrowth.
The shadow of the jungle allowed them for the first time ever to travel day and night.
They watched as foliage opened with the morning sun and tracked it across the sky. Flowers that bloomed at night closed up during the day, and others opened to replace their departure.
Junam spotted the strange flower waving a pollen tail. He could smell a strangely familiar and arousing scent.
What ever it was, it was feeding on an underground source of Wilted Fungus Spore. He stuck his face in its stamen and sniffed.
The ground at its base swelled, the stalk expanded instantly as it pushed up the narrow tube.
A strange worm burst from the foliage covered jungle floor to envelop Junam the Swift. His scream was terrible as it crushed him into a digestible juice.
The others watched as the bulge of Junam was drawn into the ground and the flower returned to being a flower.
They gave the flower-that-ate-Junam a wide birth now. Certainly the hungry plants would easily be recognised amongst the many strange plants.
The Springs of Ur fed the alien jungle. The tallest and oldest plants grew in and around the springs feeding on their life-giving power.
“The waters are poisoned with their feeding.” Givan shook his head with concern now. They needed water soon. He chewed down more spore and pushed forward through the jungle. The other Nemec followed.
They could see it as they emerged from the alien jungle that had come to infest their valley. A great black dome that was only slightly darker than the stone of the cliffs from which it had been carved.
Vinois the Wild choked on the idea of something so alien.
“How far away is it?” Vinois looked to his Elder for answers.
“Two Suns! But we must stop at Wadi Bloodwater. It is the only shelter from the Sun and there is a spring there.” Givan chewed down some Spore of the Wilted Fungus, and ran forward onto the grassed plain that separated their warriors from Wadi Bloodwater.
“Will it be any better than the other springs?” Vinois chewed down the last of his spore of wilted fungus and followed with the remaining Nemec.
Time is continuous change in Possibility.
The Singularity the moment of change in Possibility.
Life alone that which may create change in Possibility.
String Theory invalidates Religion and Evolution.
I sit on the edge of the great tower and watch the Aerospace wing descend through the atmosphere over the Saharan Gigalopolis and shift to stealth in the dark of the starless sky. What wretched war were they bound for?
“What are you doing out here?” Did I know this man who had joined me on the single rooftop of my single tower in this million-spire Polis now so strangely, strangely quiet for a city of a billion people? How far from me did he stand in the truth of all things? I know that all is me separated by change in possibility, but what of them?
“Watching the Stars fly by.” I think of them, very last one ignorant. Ignorant and unconcerned that all we have loved and hated, all we built and ruined was of no value, every life a failure for whom the truth was irrelevant.
“What stars?” The city gave off a thirty terawatt electromagnetic field; combined with the natural heat of such a great city, and the dust that rode the perpetual convection current had put out the stars. We had built a city for a billion who would have died in crowded slums, and refugee camps, and shanty towns, from plague or worse, but we had not cured it. Would never cure what could not be cured.
I know that if and when I step from the edge of the tower that I will fall silently into the Rainforest that grows in the spaces between these towers of Stone and Diamond, and Steel, fed on the waste of our Civilization.
Ever the Logician, I indulge myself in the last moment of my self imposed exile of child-like innocence. I watch the stars fade and die.
Joyce-writing, it found me.
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not even kidding you get "I Write Like Stephenie Meyer" by entering this:
seriously, try it. its the funniest thing i've seen all week