My friend suggested I picked the name brain grid game for my puzzle game. Entering this text into AI art generators yields some haunting images. A crossover of scifi dystopia and demoscene. #demoscene#sciencefiction#horror#mentalhealth#movies#aiart
@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