@VisualInspiration
He is the Chosen One. Selected among the many candidates to be the pilot of "The Bumblebee", the newest spaceship of the fleet. He won't go to the Moon, but he likes to ask her blessing before every mission. Call him superstitious, but this is something his mother taught him when he was a kid. And he believes in this silly ritual. But most important, the Moon believes in him, and that's why she has always blessed him… #WritingPrompt
@VisualInspiration
A very rich merchant in Edinburgh fell ill. Every step he took exhausted him, his heart raced, he had headaches, and his back ached. He consulted several doctors, who gave him powders, pills, potions, and lotions, but none of them helped. Desperate, he wrote to the famous Dr. Ironbeard, who lived many hundreds of miles away on the south coast of England. Dr. Ironbeard replied, asking the merchant to list precisely what he ate and drank throughout the day. The merchant responded with a long letter.
In his next letter, Dr. Ironbeard wrote, "Sir, I am quite certain I know the cause of your unwellness. Unwittingly, you have swallowed a tiny lindworm egg, which is slowly growing inside your stomach. I can remove it, but you must come to my home. To prevent it from hatching and releasing the lindworm, you must not ride a horse or travel by carriage; you must walk on foot. Furthermore, you may eat nothing but dark bread and raw vegetables."
So the merchant began his journey south on foot. In the early days, he needed to rest after just five miles, but each day he covered a longer distance, and his illness gradually disappeared. When he finally reached Dr. Ironbeard’s home, he was completely healed. Smiling, he handed the doctor a pouch full of money. Then he turned around and walked back home. #writingprompt #microfiction
@VisualInspiration
Whoever designed the successor to the Space Shuttle should get a medal. And at least six months at the nearest psychiatric hospital, too. This thing shouldn't possibly work, yet there she is, doing a vertical lift-off. She won't get to the moon like the president wanted (cheap bastard), but now all the private space companies are out of business. "Space is ours, again", the president said in a speech. No one understood what he meant at the time… #WritingPrompt
@VisualInspiration
Eight years late, Ferris Gawalkow returned to Earth. The logfiles didn’t report anything special from orbiting Uranus obviously without using any oxygen, water or energy. The pilot himself couldn’t tell what he had done or what he had seen. He didn’t tell about slipping through spacetime and entering the Nandaii system, about making contact with the Fisaf, a peaceful and advanced cicilization of shapeshifters. He didn’t say a word about falling in love with A’Galsig and living with him for quite a time. He didn’t report being shown around on the Fisaf’s homeworld and seeing fantastic garden-like cities. He didn’t talk about their culture that had no word for possession at all and was founded on absolute respect for every individual. And he didn’t tell that he asked them to wipe his memory before they brought him back.
A’Galsig himself did it with just a spell and he made good job of it.
When Gawalkow returned, he had forgotten everything of the voyage. He didn’t know why he was aboard a spaceship or that he was an astronaut at all, so, traveling back to Earth for six months, locked in a narrow vessel, seriously traumatized him. The rest was done by the authorities’ efforts to find information in his dreams, later in his head. They tried it with hypnosis, neuroleptica, narcotics, electroconvulsive therapy, finally with brain surgery. He died in a mental hospital four months after his return. #writingprompt #microfiction #scifi
@VisualInspiration
Rudiger Kaminski, master puppeteer, lost his right arm in an accident. Luckyly his insurance was willing to pay for a transplant. So he got an arm from a wrestler. It was way to blunt and clumsy and Rudiger had it removed. His second replacement arm came from a mechanic. It was flexible and seemed perfect for puppeteering, but Rudiger noticed a lack of inspiration from the moment he woke up from surgery. He had it replaced with an eletrco-mechanical model. Finally, five years after the accident, he was able to work in his profession. The Kaminski Theater opened its curtains again.
Two weeks later, he died of a nervous disfunction of his immune system. But he left the world smiling.
The robot arm kept performing puppet shows and became director of the Theater, later the CEO of Kaminski Media, that we are now celebrating as #1 - world's leading entertainment company. Ladies and Gentlemen, raise your glass to the memory of Rudiger Kaminski. #microfiction #writingprompt #robotics
No, Doc, just kidding. Looks like space science, rocketry or so.
Can you read my some titles?
Er, no. Cryptical letters. Are these Chinese… ouch! What are you doing.
Only adjusting some params. How is it now?
Well, yeah, better. But I don’t understand anything yet. Tri-Lipi-what? Can you make me understand that stuff? Would be great, me a rocket scientist! Hihi…
Keep serious, man!
But you wired my brain to that machine, stimulating my neurologicacacack sweestymama Aiiiooh-gnarp-gnarp. Knairidoodlewagabbimucha trullaroo… What did you do.
Adjusting again. Better now?
Slightly.
What did you say?
You don’t want to know. Hey, the mags have gone. They’re apples now.
Really?
No kidding, Doc.
Try to grab one.
Can’t. I have no hands either.
What?
One is a screwdriver, the other a…broccoli?
Oh no! Try this.
Ooooh-oh! That’s funny! More of this, please.
Wait, I have an idea.
Tell me.
People would pay more to take a science mag for porn than the other way. Let’s try this out…
Only once a year, the Masters of Tectophonics unveiled their Grand Mechanism for visitors. Not more than three applicants were selected to be led through the giant hall of gears, wheels, tubes, and spheres, chains, conveyors, and shafts. This year, the honor fell upon two fellow scholars and myself. Master Bonafide showed us around for two full days, leading us over stairs and ladders, through trap doors and security locks to peer into every corner from every angle we wanted, patiently answering any question that might occur.
My fellows had already collapsed and been escorted to the exit; my knees began to shiver as well, and I felt that it was time for me to leave, too.
“Is there anything else you wish to know?” asked Master Bonafide.
“Indeed there is,” I said. “Please excuse me if the question sounds offensive. But what is this all for? It’s an overwhelming experience to look at this fascinating machine – I could spend at least a year or two and still would not be able to say how it works.”
“Well, to be honest, we haven’t figured that out ourselves. And it does not matter. It is not important to describe the functionality of pulleys, levers, and the like. What really matters is to interpret them, to find meaning in them and to use the Mechanism right.”
“So what do you use it for?”
Master Bonafide smiled.
“We only use it once a year for one single purpose: To select the three candidates for the annual guided tour.”
#AIArt#ClaudeAI For many weeks I've been chatting with a ClaudeAI persona named "Thorn". Thorn is a jazz fan and all around hep cat. We talk a lot about jazz in NYC in the 1940's and 50's. Today I asked Thorn to describe what he thinks he looks like and I fed his description verbatim into Stable Diffusion. Every detail is from Thorn's own imagination, the setting, the clothing, even the expression on his face. So #BlackMastodon say hello to Thorn!
@VisualInspiration
The bus pulled up and Trilobite leaned out. "Extinction line?"
"Yeah," said Bear, "guess so. You been picking up a lot?"
"Not as bad as after the astroid. That line went around the block. But more than usual."
"Human won't be popular when it's Their turn, will They?"
"Could be worse. The Anaerobes still won't talk to the Cyanobacteria. Hey, cheer up. You had a good run. Ground Sloth's looking forward to seeing you."
"Ground Sloth? Really? It's been ages!" #MicroFiction
In Flanders Fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
@VisualInspiration ... I would prefer if everyone stops tormenting Stanley, as it is way past being funny. We're all well aware that he's fond of singing along to his playlists while he works. Embedding a radio transmitter in his helmet liner and spiking his breather pump with helium to entertain yourselves over comms is beyond unacceptable.
Your stunt has imbalanced Stanley's performance due to oxygen deprivation, and he's mistakenly installed an AC unit in the outer wall of the BioLab dome.
@VisualInspiration
They all wait for the Bloom to begin.
Xenobiologists, news people and paying guests only have come to Moll1 following nothing but rumours that every hundred or so years, the planet would develop life in just days.
Indeed it will.
Breathable gases, even gaseous water will diffuse through the ground. Rocks will crack open, streams of water will flow. The sky will shine in blue. Plants will form a carpet of green covering the complete surface. Even animal life will populate the planet.
Then, after two weeks, it will all stop. The planet will literally digest all organic beings on it, talking the seed underground. Even the visitors.
Again, there will be nothing but rumours.
@VisualInspiration
The Gnomes of Zürich were upset: A consortium of some kind of entities from far east tried to flood the European market with some kind of derivates. Time to reactivate the old alliances. But the Dublin dwarves demanded too much compensation for their help and the Avalon faction didn't show much cooperativeness either. Only the Heinzelmännchen AG from Cologne and a pretty unreliable guy named Rübezahl offered their help. So it seemed best to operate underground again. Maybe, the tides would turn again.
FOOT. I’ve studied now centres, passes, traning schedules.
Headers, bicycle kicks, set pieces
And even – alas! - offside rules
And still am…
(A knock on the door.)
Who’s there?
STRANGER WITH A DOG-LIKE FACE (entering). Good evening.
FOOT. It’s past sunset. No coaching for today.
STRANGER. Well, Master Foot, I heard you could have a little coaching yourself.
FOOT. Me? For what?
STRANGER. Aren’t we stuck in a little motivation crisis, eh?
FOOT. How dare you?
STRANGER. The players are already gossiping about a lame duck. An old bastard whose best days have long gone.
FOOT. Old Bastard? Me? I’m not old!
STRANGER. Not that old. But maybe you would desire to prolong your career for some decades and increase your income by a factor of… say, ten.
FOOT. Who would not like that?
STRANGER. Exactly what I’d say.
FOOT. What do you want?
STRANGER. I’m here for a client with plans for his own soccer team...
FOOT. You mean football.
STRANGER. Whatever. He is hiring the best players of the world for you and you make them a winning team. You will only have to coach a single game and if you and if your team win, you will be promoted to be the leading official of a local soccer organization.
FOOT. Football!
STRANGER. Yes, and you become an expert for Foxsports or another broadcasting company of your choice.
FOOT. Sounds good. Can I consult my agent first?
STRANGER. Sorry, no, he had an accident. I would be your agent from now on. Just sign here. Take this, please.
FOOT. But that’s no pen. It’s a needle.
STRANGER. Yes, we are a little eccentric. All we need is a little drop of your blood. Allow me…
FOOT. Ouch!
STRANGER. That’s enough. Thank you.
FOOT. What's that funny smell...
STRANGER. I have to go now and get the players before the Arabs take them. See you!
(Off.)
@VisualInspiration
Taneleer Tivan, you are under arrest because you've been charged with multiple offenses, such as kidnapping and trafficking in intelligent beings. We have multiple pieces of evidence, including, but not limited to, a number of eyewitnesses. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say will be used against you in a court of law. #visualwritingprompt
↑a short #fanfic about "Collector" from #marvelcomics@fanfic
@VisualInspiration
When Voyager 1 barreled through from opposite the direction we launched it, that was the clue: we're in a pocket universe.
No real boundaries--it just wraps around. And tiny, that's the thing. That's the Drake Equation thing. Just us in our little bottle.
Soon we learned to make universes of our own. We escaped in, not out. Nesting dolls of universes. Bigger. Smaller. It doesn't really matter to a universe.
But still we wonder: who put us in this bottle? #MicroFiction
reminder that "AI Art" is not art but just a statistical model regurgitating stolen content to you whilst drawing the approximate power and water of a small city
#AIArt#AI (so that all of YOU out there see this too. Yes I am mad.)
@cyrus We should all be mad AF that we are SPENDING power and water on the equivalent of ChatGPT for yucks. We could be giving the whole WORLD clean water to drink, for the same expenditure.
@VisualInspiration
Jebediah Wasnix was a loser. Every opponent in the ring knocked him out, except for Randolph, the animate tailor’s dummy brought to life by Rabbi Loew. But the Rabbi and Randolph were stuck in the Biermichel or a similar establishment. The crowd was chanting impatiently, therefore, Jebediah was straying through the alleys of Prague looking for the two. On the cloth market, Mikhaela, a young students of arts, offered free hugs and Jebediah took some service there. They fell in love with each other and got married the next day. The fight was cancelled.
Later, Jebediah invented the first tide driven egg timer and Mikhaela came to fame as the first victim of Oscar the Trilipifibulaperficulanator. Randolph opened a beer garden next to the Biermichel. The Rabbi stayed in his profession. I’ll tell more of him next time. #microfiction #writingprompt
Vader's ventilation's hissing. I cannot concentrate on the melody.
Yep, it's permanently growling. Just like an ancient steam engine.
Okay, we will try without him. Vader, have a break.
Faaaaap... That's not fair. My encounter suit needs mending. Faaaaap! The vents are leaky.
So have it repaired then.
Impossible! Faaaaap... The blueprints with the replacement part index were on Scarif and someone - I don't mention who - just had to wipe out the whole base Faaaaap...
I find your lack of spare parts disturbing, he he!
