Elle le vit en s'engageant sur le pont. Elle n'avait jamais réalisé à quel point il était beau, obnibulée par son esprit. Il l'embrassa. Quand il relâcha son étreinte, elle éclata d'un rire heureux. Et se souvint soudain qu'il était mort vingt ans auparavant.
Le brigadier-chef n'aimait pas expliquer, et il n'aimait pas non plus les petits malins. La situation s'enlisait, et il voulait être rentré pour l'apéro.
On peut pas prendre un sens interdit monsieur, parce que c'est interdit par définition. Et en marche arrière non plus, on peut pas.
Foutus boomers, toujours plus malins que tout le monde. Le brigadier-chef espéra qu'il y aurait encore du pastis quand il rentrerait.
Alain avançait bien dans son projet de recopie du dictionnaire, patiemment, définition après définition. Il mit un point final au laïus sur les "procordés", satisfait.
Pour "procrastination", on verra demain, pensa-t-il in petto, l'ironie de sa réflexion lui échappant.
I thought keeping a timesheet tracking 30 second intervals was ridiculous until I discovered how much more productive I have become. It’s amazing. I think I’m so focussed that I’m finding that I have completed tasks that I can’t even remember doing.
I’ve spoken to the others on the team and nobody else was asked to keep a timesheet. But the instructions sent to me were quite clear. I won’t be the one on the firing line come the next restructure. Bring it on!
I’ve always loved stories of time travel. Doctor Who, Bill and Ted, Marty McFly. They were my heroes. Imagine having a time machine and travelling back to see the dinosaurs or forwards to a shiny future!
That was the dream. The truth is a lot less fun.
“Unless you sign up for this, you’re out the door.”
Yeah, I’ve got a mortgage and a kid on the way. I can’t afford that.
“We need this yesterday!”
That’s what they always say, but there are only so many hours in a day.
There used to be only so many hours in a day.
Turns out that management go hold of the time machine and thought of a way to squeeze more productivity out of workers. Send us back in time now so we can put twice the effort into our work before.
“Never, ever, meet yourself.”
I knew that rule from the stories. But how to do it?
The timesheet. When you’re sleeping, I’m there. When you are off at lunch, I’m there. When you are pissing in the bathroom, I’m there. I’m there at your desk doing your work.
Who gave you the instructions to use a timesheet?
That was me.
I am you and you are me. You just don’t know it yet.
« Quand la vie vous donne des citrons, faites de la citronnade. »
J'ai fait de la citronnade. Du lemon curd. Des tartes meringués. Des vinaigrettes.
Et j'en ai marre. Alors je vais trouver le zinzin qui s'amuse à faire pousser des agrumes - toujours le même, par dessus le marché, et je vais lui faire passer le goût du scorbut pour un moment. #microfiction#tootfiction#writever
The issue with battery-powered long-distance air travel is that you have to lug weight of those batteries with you for the entire trip.
The whole problem would be considerably more tractable if airliners could do as rockets do---jettison exhausted fuel storage as they go, especially since maximum power requirement is at takeoff. We've done the math and it absolutely works, we use our support drones to catch and reuse the jettisoned batteries.
Well, most of the time. Sorry about your cow; we'll get you a new one.
The owner of the facility was famous. Well, Meta famous if you know what i mean. Famous for being a famous rich asshole, dedicating his twilight years to outliving all the other famous rich assholes.
Collectively the six trillionaire oligarchs who had built their burrows—each on their agreed post-apocalypse continental domains—had all hired the same experts to design those enclaves. Location: deep in the ancient stable rock of a continental craton. Supplies: Food, water and medicines to last a century, until farming could resume. Knowledge: a full archive of the Internet. Technology: every conceivable machine and the parts and tools to maintain them. Serfs: entirely separate accommodation for necessary technical staff, and hibernation for many more. Security: no, not the armed-thugs-with-shock-collars you’re thinking of; spider drones are what’s in favour with apocalypse consultants this decade.
When the Event came it blindsided even the Six. While everyone was watching the climate fall apart, the brown dwarf grazing the Oort cloud went unnoticed, obscured by the glare of the Starlink Belt. A million comets had their orbits stirred up by the visitor. It only took one, impacting in the south atlantic ocean, to tip the biosphere into chaos predicted to last three to five decades.
The balloon was up, the Six and their families executed the well rehearsed Plan Scram, and settled into their cosy bunkers to wait out the Dark Times. Serfs (sorry, “employees” in this decade) likewise. Human security personnel (unknowingly already inoculated with a delayed death sentence once their mechanoid replacements were online) set about battening down the hatches and bringing up the Evironment (2.0).
“Hey Sarge, this droid won’t boot!”
“Yeah this one too. What does ‘502 License server unreachable’ mean?”
Rendez compte, sergent !
La liaison radio était mauvaise. L'adjudant devait absolument connaitre ce que voyait la section de reconnaissance. Ils étaient quelque part là-bas sur la crète.
Fox Bravo rendez compte.
Après un temps, la voix sortit du transmetteur parmi les parasites :
A nos pieds s'étend la plaine.
L'adjudant, exaspéré, se dit que si ça ne tenait qu'à lui, on n'enrôlerait jamais de littéraires.
The maiden and her cat strode boldly into the castle.
"I'm here to court the prince."
This was met with laughter, and she was thrown into the dungeons; her cat chased away.
Her loyal companion visited every night, first bringing her pen and ink, then food, and then somehow a gown and slippers. Then more food, and some soap.
After a week, the prince rushed down, "I want to know you better, your letters have been so compelling!"
Le premier soir je me suis donc endormi sur le sable à mille milles de toute terre habitée. J'étais bien plus isolé qu'un naufragé sur un radeau au milieu de l'Océan. Alors vous imaginez ma surprise, au lever du jour, quand une drôle de petite voix m'a réveillé. Elle disait :
— S'il vous plaît... dessine-moi un mouton !
— En tant que large modèle de langage, je ne peux pas dessiner, mais je peux décrire un mouton pour toi. Veux-tu que je procède ?
A la lecture de l'annonce, Mickael avait souri devant la caricature. Ancienne à rénover, fort potentiel, au calme. Une ruine croulante sans eau ni électricité, loin de tout. Il avait visité par acquit de conscience et découvert une chose que l'annonce ne précisait pas : il y avait là assez de vieux outils pour ouvrir un écomusée.
The world is unequivocally a better place since we stopped burning coal for domestic heating. However I’ve always been a little sad that Kids These Days (™) don’t get to experience soot sprites.
Then just yesterday I walked into the garage, flicked on the light, and I got that familiar scramble in the corner of my eye. They’ve evolved! My inverter has Solar Sprites!
#PennedPossibilities 324 — SC POV: If you could relive one day of your life without changing anything that happened, which day would you choose? Tootfic: Reframing the Experience
[When my SC says armor, it's really a weightless magical exoskeleton that melds with her body. It looks like blackened bones, because it is. —R.S.]
Oh, there's plenty of days I'd relive unchanged. Like the day I fledged, when I first flew on my own. Or the day learned the thrill of hauling things through the sky. Both good events in a rather dull and awful childhood that turned to cinders when my parents disapproved of the way I wanted to live my life. Said I aimed for the dirt not the sky. Maybe they weren't so dumb—I ended up badly, flying messages for a crime boss over a dozen years. But, then, there was that day last week...
I've told you a few times how I ended up with the armor and a new job training as a pretorian, you know, having faced down the greatest thaumaturge who ever lived, having nearly killed her. Impressed her.
I thought.
Well, my drill instructor was training me that dawn. I wore the armor. The thaumaturge dove at me, full speed. She's a monster flier, taller, more massive, immortal. I jumped into the sky. Fled.
She followed.
Though the armor let me fly like a sparrow, change direction in a heartbeat, and take a thumping only slightly changing my course, it had been her armor once. She kept appearing before me, striking at my face or heart, sending me into spins toward the ground, stalling me out, almost panicking me into flying into trees or buildings. For all her mass and the inertia that implies, I barely avoided her, half the time with her cackling at my barrel rolls or dives that sent down feathers flying. She had muscle; I tired despite the armor until I thought my heart would burst from my chest, at which point a flyby pitched me into the ground.
I skid across the running track on my belly right up to my instructor. I don't know how I didn't break a wing or my neck. Ok, I do: The Armor.
She landed beside me with a loud thump. She wasn't even winded! She told him, "She lacks stamina. Train her harder."
She leaned down until her face was in my face. I smelled maple syrup on her breath. She said, "You need to use the magic in the armor. There's a class at first bell in the Ivory building, room B7. Shower and be there ON TIME."
I have wings.
I don't do magic.
I showered though, once my legs stopped shaking. I slunk into the class still half-frightened out of my wits. My new friend was there, the curse breaker, a former prizefighter, the one I'd fought beside against Her, that ended up with me getting the armor. It was some sort of advanced special Ed class for mages. I suddenly felt totally inadequate and I cried. Me. At the age of 27, I cried telling her my story, pointing to my purpling bruises, complaining that had She gotten in a good strike She would have caved in my rib cage.
My friend was having none of it. She said, "You're a day angel who just went ten minutes fighting Her. Somehow, you're still alive."
I hadn't thought about it that way. I later learned the word, "Reframing."
The instructor came in with a truckload of tomes and grimoires. She had prepared him for me. He gave me a magic primer. I knew it was a primer because it had PICTURES of youngsters playing. Despite the stares of the other students, I read the book.
Half hour later, I got the armor to glow dull red, like iron out of a forge. Truly. Awesome. Didn't know what it did except look intimidating, but still...
Awesome.
I felt my heart grow large in my chest, and it struck me. Someone (okay, the ruler of the nation) wanted me for who I was and who I could become, and because I was capable. She wanted me to aim for the sky. My new friend supported me and pushed me forward. I liked this, who I was, what I was finding I could be, could become.
And.
Oddly.
I realized, for what it was worth, my parents would approve. (And flap them if they didn't!)
Browns makes the best boots, but they're ugly. If one wanted to change the situation, one would need to blend with the Kowloon ship traffic, like so. Then slip into their factory control, like so. One would--oops! avoid those cameras, perhaps by (carefully) walking across the beam they hang from. Then update the design... and everyone gets nicer boots. With (ding!) a special delivery for oneself.
Jean-Hervé était un héros du quotidien. Son passionnant travail consistait à regarder des bidules à la loupe, à tripoter des machins et malmener des trucs électroniques "pour voir", et s'assurer ainsi que quantité d'appareils essentiels à la vie moderne remplissaient leur office sans coup férir. Satisfait, il rédigea une note au sujet de la facétieuse résistance R302 de la platine, qui était systématiquement mal soudée. Une petite victoire dans un océan d'ennui.
The cheque said “AMOUNT: two dollars and forty cents BEING FOR: classified ad”, rounded block letters in green ink amid the printed prompts. My mother never wrote cursive. “Thanks Mum“ I said, “I’ll pay you back from my paper round money on Saturday”
“No need” she said, “I’m going out; if you have the ad ready I’ll post it for you.”
I folded the cheque and the form I’d clipped from the newspaper. It had been tricky writing on the newsprint with a pen “HOME COMPUTER Amstrad CPC6128 with monitor, printer and external 5.25 inch drive. Original software plus over 30 games. $425. Ph 551806”.
After Mum left I went to my room and booted up my new PC, with its Extra Beige system unit and Different Beige monitor. I patted my 6128’s screen sitting on the floor under my desk. “Sorry old girl, no room to keep you but I’ll find you a nice home”.
Before I even got Kings Quest loaded the doorbell rang.
The visitor was a woman with amazing purple hair, and cat ears. “Hi, she said, I’m Kit, here about the Amstrad”
“But…it’s not even posted yet. And I only listed a phone number!”
“Never mind that”, she smiled, bouncing on her toes “do you still have it?”
I nodded, too flabbergasted to speak
“Four twenty five, right?” she said, thrusting an envelope at me, “here’s five hundred, keep the change. Now, what I want-“
“Wait, what are these things”. I’d opened the envelope to find five slippery rectangles of plastic bearing “100” in large letters, coloured variously green and yellow with a transparent region in the middle. “These aren’t-“
“Oh shazbot!” my visitor said, snatching the envelope back. “Bee Arr Bee”. Then she vanished, with an electric ZZZZAAPP sound.
ZZZAAAPP. She was back, holding out a sheaf of five grey paper rectangles, the recently introduced but rarely seen $100 notes, thick linen paper with subtle colours - easy to photocopy and colour in with textas, I’d seen on TV. I held the note up to the sky to see the metal thread and watermark. “Are these real?”
“Trust me,” she said, “they were hard to find but totally legit.”
“Okay, uh do you want to see the computer running?”. I felt like I was running to catch up with this interaction.
“No need” she grinned. “I’m giving it to you. Box it up and stash it in Mum’s roof. You’ll be glad to have it when you’re older.”
“Wh…what?”
“Do they speak english in what?” she muttered half to herself?
“what?”
“Exactly! Right on script”. She poked me in the chest. “You’ll be alright kid. Forget about the ‘strad for a couple of decades, OK?”
She ran hand through her brilliant purple hair, vibrating like she was having the best time ever. “Oh yeah, you’ll need these”. She tugged at her cat ears and i realized they were a headband. She handed me the band with its two ears. “One last thing“—a suddenly serious look—“listentoyourdreams. You’ll know when it’s time. See ya!”
"There's not enough room in the bunker for us and his new family. He knows that."
"But it's gotten dangerous out there! When we were his age, chain twisters and hurricane trains didn't even exist. What if they take the bunker and we go on the road?"
"I suggested that. He wouldn't hear of it. He said we wouldn't stand a chance out there. She grew up as a New Nomad. She knows how to dodge the weather. It scares me, too, but they'll be ok."
The mushroom ring was drawn in chalk, so I'd thought nothing of it...
As the fae realm drew me in, I tried to remember - was it just local fairy food that I needed to avoid? Was the lunch in my bag safe since I'd brought it with me?
"It worked! It's a human!" exclaimed an excited pixie.
"They-them, please," I blurted instinctively.
"They're a human! Humans exist!"
"Ugh, you won the bet, now let's send them back..." grumped an elf.
Anita savait qu'elle ne pouvait pas aller à la réunion avec un bouton de chemisier décousu. Elle décida de s'arrêter à la mercerie, poussa la porte pour se retrouver face à un hipster entouré de cigarettes électroniques. Anita expliqua qu'elle s'était trompée de boutique, mais le barbu déclara que "Ha bah ouais j'ai repris le bail mais bon ça fait bien six ans qu'elle a fermé, Marie Bobine."
"No, I'm not going to tell a campfire story. I'm an axe. I chop things. That's what I do. That's all I do, and I'm very good at it. I might be a magic axe, but that just makes me better at chopping. You want a story? Ask your smart phone. You can get them to do anything for a few coppers."