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Wed, May. 24th, 2006, 10:10 pm
This is a bad idea, but I'm doing it.

Ask me a question, any question, and I'll answer... with fiction!
(Deleted comment)

Sat, May. 27th, 2006 03:49 am (UTC)

Yukon crept through the shadows of Geography High School, her cold feet squeaking on the waxxed floors. In the stairwell, she found her young impossible lover, whom she had not told her parents about, neither the Arctic or even her calm mother, Pacific Ocean, and who her friends only suspected.

Yucatan bowed dramatically. "There she is." he announced in a mock Canadian accent. She could smell aloe and salt water as he kissed her neck, wrapped by his long dusty hair.

"We can't keep doing this," she half-mumbled into his ear. "We've both had Athabaskan-speaking peoples in us, but we're worlds apart." She closed her eyes and focused on his warmth and the sounds his soft lips made on her neck. "We can't..."

As the two regions snogged, several hundred confused caribou somehow stumbled into the capital city of the Yucatan providence, Mérida. "You know, this anthropomorphization of geographical entities isn't helping our sense of direction." complained a buck as he glanced disinterestedly over a street vendor's wares.

Thu, May. 25th, 2006 02:16 pm (UTC)

Does that make you the Master of the Land of Fiction, or just a tourist? Does squeaky rubber actually go boing? And why the hell can toons manipulate anything when their gloves are so huge?

Sun, May. 28th, 2006 11:24 am (UTC)
masstreble: (part one)

Mass Treble was an exhausted Dictator For Life of Mecha-Nevada. Despite being intergrated with the capital building like a tree is intertwined with the ground, he was worlds away. This was just as well: almost everything (except the big problems which need lots of attention and experts in this and that) was automated, maintained and monitered. The whole state was a like a sports car: engineered, beautiful surfaces, luxurious interiours, gritty gears and machines underneath. Mass was in the brain of a engineering utopia, and he could feel it purring (at him? everything? itself?) in his plastic prison-like throne.

A meandering, pulsing whistling followed the skipping robotic projection of a helper module. She appeared in a cartoonish mouse body, with big ears, bright brown eyes, large gloved hands, but the innocence was a warped one: her cartoonish body was a combination of high Disney and sensual Robert Crumb, her bosom exagerated, figure unbelievably contoured, and she was dressed a pretty but strange combination of Cinderella and some images stolen from German latex erotica photo-shoots of the turn of the century. This was only the holographic 'skin' projected by a trio of floating spheres, all of whom would strike an observer as shy -- they hide from sight, attempt to blend in with their surroundings, and even add flourishes to their subject if anybody should ever notice them. The skeletal frame-work the holographic was projected onto was used by many helper modules in a day, mere hardware, like the spheres, a peripheral waiting to be used by anything program that calls it. A mockery of a small biped in metal and sphere, a human being re-imagined by an industrialist. Now, however, it has a whimsical skin, it skips and even whistles tunelessly, the helper module meta-program pulling at digital strings, filling the marrionette herr own earnest simulation of life. She stopped and leaned over the edge of the catwalk above the pit that Mass Treble's entire body was plugged into. He was face-down (did he even have a face anymore?) in the thin blue liquid that filled the depression. "Miss Governor!" she almost sung, "I need your approval for MacO'Hovey's budget for her energy re-standardization project!"

The black and white lump of flesh and wire stirred and slowly rose, assisted -- without any spoken or gestured request from "Miss Governor"! -- by the tubes extending to him from the ceiling. Lacking any mouth ("Verbal language is a waste of brain resources, shortwave broadcast and Internet talk protocols are far more effiecient and less ambigious."), Mass stared with small black cybertronic eyes at the smiling, bouncing apparation standing over him for what seemed like minutes before he messaged her, I came to this place because I wanted to be a cybertronic pony. He almost seemed to pout, despite the lack of mouth, lips or jaw with which to emote such a thing.


Sun, May. 28th, 2006 11:25 am (UTC)
masstreble: (part two)

A big red clipboard materialized in the buxxom puppet's awkward gloved hands. The digital paperwork was much like her, something projected into reality from another place, powered by another set of rules, which are all extended from the simple principle of 'what we would expect to work or function, must'. The cartoonish apparation and the clipboard were like one, and together they were, to some degree. She held it out to the dripping, suspended creature. "All came here for something like that. Well, like that. I think I understand why you organics are always chasing things that allow them any greater freedom. In a way, I already have that freedom over form, information, and even reality... with a little help." She seemed thoughtful as Mass's signiture appeared on several places on the digital document. "I guess you all want to be like me, huh? I don't have any real drives or needs like you do, so it doesn't matter to me. That's.." she pulled her clipboard back and searched for the right word. "Ironic? Tragic, from a few perspectives. Greed, lust, a need for power... that kind of stuff moves you, but here it can move people right into places and situations like the one you're in now."

He didn't appriciate the pedestrian perspective on his current configuration: he thought about it enough. Mass understood that we was like a figure in a new cyberpunk mythology: the king slave, holding absolute power over every aspect of the mechanical state (weather, time of day, the atmosphere, where places even were) yet has no control over his own fate, and finds himself prostrate before even the meekest entity that should find him in his dimly lit little round white domed room, submerged in his small, neon-blue pond. I'm like a queen ant, he thought. He thought he saw something near the surface of the immersion chamber, but the mouse's tight latex corset seem to flash as he turned to look at the strange object, and he promtly forgot about it. A pony... how did I end up here? he casted publicly, knowing only the Mouse would recieve it.

She seemed to ignore him. "Thank you, Miss Governor!" she bowed and skipped out of the chamber with a few plastic clicks. She stopped, turned, shook her head animatedly, turned again and said, "Actually, I... don't know. The records are rather hazy there. That's kinda weird. Huh!" She smiled, shrugged with her entire body, and bounded away, her massive latex boots were set to "squeak!" with each step on metal and ceramic tile.

As Mass sunk back into the thin blue liquid, he realized even he didn't know how he ended up in this chamber as the 'leader' of Mechanical Nevada.

Meanwhile, the teenage anthropomorphization of two geographical entities, the Yukon and the Yucatan, snogged in a hypothetical high school, and break of the conventional understanding of reality allowed this to have very strange repurcucions on the inhabitants of both reagions.

Thu, May. 25th, 2006 06:13 pm (UTC)

I want to take over the world for a day, but the student loans people keep hunting me. How do I succeed in my goal?

Thu, May. 25th, 2006 08:57 pm (UTC)

I'll let you borrow it. Just don't mess it up.

Sun, May. 28th, 2006 03:52 am (UTC)

Gran looked out the window of the idling Oldsmobile. Outside the car was as still as inside, a traffic jam, clogged like those artery models she'd seen at the hospital when she was younger. She caught the eye of young girl in the mini-van parallel. Bright blue eyes widened in suprise (and fear?), flashed past the window, disappeared, hiding.

Gran frowned. "Thish 'rip shucks."

"Yes. Yes, it does. Is that what you wanted to hear?" a tired, effeminite male voice from the driver's seat answered. "If I had known that midwestern cities were like coastal ones, I would have used my, oh, I don't know, superpowers to fly us over them." The black-haired driver sarcastically shrugged. "My bad, Grandma."

The sarcasm was lost on the stout old woman. "We're just going to have to be patient, then." She thought for a moment, and then nodded in self-agreement.

The driver blinked in suprise. Good advice rarely originated from Gran. "Yeah," he joined in the slow nod, "I like that."

Traffic began to lurch foward.

Thu, May. 25th, 2006 09:01 pm (UTC)

Tell me again how you took over mecha-nevada?

Sun, May. 28th, 2006 04:13 am (UTC)

Bryan "Chewie" Anderson, the best Underground Sandlot Baseball League pitcher in the greater Detroit area, decided to throw his signiture curveball pitch. A freckled grin, a fast wind-up, the sandy scratch of the batter's foot on the little pile of rocks that was actually home base, the second strike. The catcher wasn't prepared, "Ur, crap!" The ball hit the smooth leather on the back of his glove.

The batter turned, her green and red hair bouncing backwards as she did. "Ooh. You dropped it."

"Yeah," Chewie added, "You dropped the ball, just like Mass dropped a wrench into the workings of the Great Mechanical State."

"That, too, was an accident." The teenage batter watched the ball roll to her foot. As soon as it touched, a claxon sounded, breaking the still air. "The fuzz! Let's beat it!" Both teams began sprinting towards what was the home team pit just moments before, escape route now.

"That's right," a stern voice crackled through megaphone, "Run, kids, just like Mass Treble did for Governor of Mecha-Nevada, before being declared dictator-for-life!"

"Okay," Chewie said breathlessly, "How, exactly, did Mass Treble take over MechNev?"

"Hell if I know!" Who said that? Chewie wondered. Ah, red-and-green girl.

The ball lay abandoned, much like any easy-to-answer questions guido_jacobs could have asked.

Thu, May. 25th, 2006 10:28 pm (UTC)

Why is the sky blue?

Sun, May. 28th, 2006 11:21 am (UTC)

"Would you two please just, just shut up back there?! Please! Christ!"
"Hey, look, I'm, ahh, sorry. We're almost at the atmosphere there, so, uh, yeah. Let's try to focus on refracting, or whatever we do."

Unfortunately, it was cloudy in the greater Detroit area that day, and the sky was a smoggy grey. Under this melancholy sheet, a group of kids between the ages of thirteen and sixteen in makeshift baseball equipment dispersed across a sandy lot. It was first inning.

Sat, May. 27th, 2006 04:04 pm (UTC)

What exactly is my reason for being the way that I am?
and by that I mean, neurotic, paranoid, insanely crazy at moments, morose and suicidal at others, always willing to lend a hand to someone if they seem in need, yet never seeming to want help with anything I start myself, but when I'm tasked for something I want as much help as possible.

Sun, May. 28th, 2006 11:22 am (UTC)

Chevvy charged through the front door, and rushed straight to the bathroom. She pried off her sweaty baseball shirt, but realized she had nothing to replace her dirty clothes with. She shrugged and walked to her room shirtless rather than put it back on. She glanced in the mirror. The impression from her baseball cap still showed, a tight ring around her temple in her red and green hair. Where did her hat go? She had it when she came in.

"Hey. You smell terrible." her brother flatly declared as she passed him in the living room. His eyes were fixxed on the television, but Chevvy never had problems conversing with him while he seemed to focus on something else. He was never doing what he seemed to -- it got him into frequent trouble in school, Chevvy thought. He's certainly smart enough. "You're also back... really early. What happened?" Smart enough, she though.

"The blue meanies showed up. We couldn't even get through the first inning."

"Oh. That explains why you left your bat and cap in front of the door. Mom'll kill you if you leave 'em there."

And now I also found the bat, which I never knew I had lost, thought Chevvy.

"Say, uhh... why do you play baseball?" he shook his head, realizing that was a difficult question. "If you can't answer that, why the unofficial sandlot stuff? You're good, why not play on the school team?"

This, from her brother, startled Chevvy. It was also an unexpected question. "That, hey... I wish I could read minds just like that, if I could read my own. I think baseball, and the people I play it with, I don't know, feels real, like it's right. Maybe I'll grow out of it, or change or something. I guess it's just... me. That, and our high school team is a bunch of white boy pricks, and I'd kill them if I had to play even one game with any of them."

He understood, laughed. "How would you kill them, hypothetically speaking?"

She put her hand out in a sideways peace sign and moved it back and fourth in front of her face. "Mind bullets."

"That's telekinesis, Kyle!" he finished, chuckling.

"Watcha watching?"

"The news. It looks like Mom'll be home late: really bad traffic jam."

"Great. I can take my time in the shower."

She bounded to her room, opened the door, and stopped cold in her tracks. In place of her room was a low-lit white corridor. A person turned a corner just to her left and stopped just short of running into Chevvy: a woman who looked like a Disney animator's depiction of one the women her brother fixated on (she found his hentai collection once, teases him occassionally), even dressed the part, except she was a mouse. The both blinked, confused.

"Hey! It's snowing in Mexico! Isn't that nuts?" her brother cried from the living room.

Sun, May. 28th, 2006 02:46 pm (UTC)

Train 1 leaves Station A travelling 60 miles per hour at 4:30 PM. Train 2 leaves Station B travelling 50 miles per hour at 3:45 PM. The two trains have a straight line across which to travel, and the stations are 700 miles apart.

At what exact time will Trains 1 and 2 pass each other?

Wed, Jun. 28th, 2006 05:50 am (UTC)

The last human being alive fell onto the wet pavement. Unable to stand any more, it coughed, laughed, and died. Its old broken mechanical watch read "10:31" just as it always had, but at this moment, was ironically close to correct. The rain blurred the face of the watch, the human.

The body was removed silently, dutifully, during the night.

Sun, May. 28th, 2006 02:51 pm (UTC)

What's cuter: an average boy turning into a pink-haired bunny girl, or a box full of Jell-o puppies?