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No human or posthuman race of the Golden Oecumene was absent from the festivities. Fictional as well as actual personalities were invited. Composition-assisted reconstructiosn of dead or deleted paladins and sages, magnates and philosophers, walked by night the boulevards of the Aurelian palace-city, arm-in-arm with extrapolated demigoddesses from imagined superhuman futures, or languid-eyed lamia from morbid unrealized alternatives.
I'm gonna get a "NOMAD" tatoo on my forehead, with the "O" a male sign, and then have the tattoos removed so as to be undetectable to anyone as long as I keep my temper, except for the blind girl who sees heat.
Spell a word both wrong and right in the same sentence, Hugh? What kinda cracked-out fuck are you, anyway? I thought I raised you better. You're a disappointment to us all.
"As you know, the Washburn Protulon Blaster engines allow ships to travel faster than the speed of light by exploiting the well known 'ant-tunnel' theory of space-time" Dr. Rachel Xqyxphur explained, while she slithered in to her skin-tight pressure suit, perhaps for the last time "but what you don't know is that .... AHHH!" she screamed, as the collison warning klaxon sounded. Whatever she had to say would have to wait... Zebulons were attacking!
The zebulons were ugly. universally ugly, pan-species ugly, horrible across sixteen different eye structures, methods of respiration and trillions of species sentience hours of aesthetic divergence, everybody hated them, everbody vomited on sight of them (except the klee-tict who stopped vomiting on sight of them, abject horror).
It was unwise to irritate them, in this case they seemed downright pissed.
Wino begins to suspect he is the last living human on Mecha. Now I will have as much time as I want to read all my books. *drops glasses, steps on them* NOOOOOOOOOOOO!
I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die, FUCKER!
The hallway to the Big Sleep Room was drab and utilitarian, Royce noted.
"No fanfare for the sleeping dead," he thought as he stretched in his thin pajama-like suit. Ahead he could see the techs preparing the room and had an odd moment of nostalgia.
"When we all wake up, the children of the children of the children of these people will be dottering fogies."
He continued down the beige corridor and stopped at the doorway. A man in an orange jumpsuit looked at him quickly, then lowered his eyes and moved away with a muttered "Thank You".
Royce sighed, took the final pill from his side pocket, and went to join the other designated Nappers gathered and yawning at the side of their slender beds.
I have traveled back in time to post this comment. You will not see me again until far into the future. Sarah Connor says "Hi" as well. She's sitting right here.
This is timely: while I was out walking the dog just now, we ran into Tom Skerritt. He lives on the other, swankier side of the hill and was out walking his dog, too. Mine wanted to eat his.
"The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel."
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges.... I did not know that then, but it is a profound mistake to believe that we must know of such things to be influenced by them, and in fact to believe so is to believe in the most debased and superstitious kind of magic. The would-be sorcerer alone has faith in the efficacy of pure knowledge; rational people know that things act of themselves or not at all."
photo by splunge
photo by TheophileEscargot
photo by Kronos_to_Earth
photo by ethylene
