#floating advertisements litter the sky

[syxnewt]

Why don't we have flying cars yet. All the movies and shit said that we would

[mangohobbit]

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CoD OC X TF141 (Platonic)

Authors Note: Hello to anyone this reaches (this feels like a message in a bottle) For over a year now I've writing both a storyline and drabbles of my Call of Duty OC with the 141 boys. I just love her so much, and I've been having a blast writing her and the boys. This is me finally getting the courage to post her story. Maybe my style of writing isn't for everyone, and I'm not a great writer or anything, but it's my story and character that I've grown very attached to. I did try my best to research how the military works from different parts of the world. Not gonna lie when I say it can get very overwhelming with the information. But I'm here for the fun times so inaccuracies will happen but I don't think they detract from the story or the characters as a whole. So I hope you enjoy :)

Story Note: When I tell you this is a slow burn...this is a SSSLLOOWWW BBUUURRRNN. The first story is simply for you to get to know Daniela (my OC) and learn how she got recruited to the 141. I want you guys to care for her story and struggles throughout her journey with the 141. Her relationship with each of the boys is purely platonic and each dynamic with them is different. The romance will come later I PROMISE!

*please be nice with me! I tried editing as much as possible! (Being bilingual makes me dumb sometimes)

Tigger warning? Well there is a kidnapping and your regular warfare violence but not in this chapter.

Word Count : 2938

Harpia and the 141 part 1: The Boys and the Bird

Chapter 1: The Harpy and her cake

BANG! BANG! BANG! 

The fireworks went off as the last of the set of military groups passed the line as their anthem faded into another marching band song. Streamers filled the sky along with stray balloons floated all around from children's slippery fingers. As a special anniversary of some hundred year old treaty to allied forces from long forgotten war, the militaries from all around the world were invited to show off in the hosting country. This time it was in Paris, France. The streets were littered with thousands of parade watchers and hundreds of military personnel showing off their fancy parade outfits. Shiny black boots stepped on fallen streamers and confetti as some sixty different countrymen and women advertised themselves to the civilians who decided to come out and enjoy the merriment.

“Come on Ghost, get into the spirit of it,” Soap waved a small Scottish flag in front of his friend's face. 

“I hate these things,” Ghost gruffed.

“It’s a beautiful spring day in Paris. How can you hate it?” Gaz nudged on his comrades crossed arms. 

“Because it’s annoying and loud,” Simon huffed. 

“You just have to get into the spirit,” Soap fiddled his flag at Simon’s face. 

“Soap, if you value that shit little flag then get it away or I snap it in half. Make a choice,” Ghost threatened. 

Soap glared at his party pooping lieutenant, who always had a hard time in crowds. 

“Haven’t been to one of these in awhile,” Gaz waved the U.K flag. “Have either you ever participated in one of these?” he asked. 

“Once,” Soap and Ghost responded at the same time, though in different tones. Soap in a happy way and Ghost in an annoyed way. 

“I’m gonna take a guess and say you hated it Simon?” Gaz chuckled.

“Got a free meal afterwards for it so whatever,” Simon huffed.

“I got to wear a fancy kilt and sash,” Johnny remembered the event fondly. 

“Come on boys!” Captain Price called out for his boys from behind. “Let's get something to eat that, for once, we don’t have to pay for.”

The rest of the 141 followed behind the captain. Winding through the crowd they were curious as to why Price had brought them to the parade in the first place. This morning they were in their regular base across the English canal and by the afternoon they were surrounded by people while the music of marching bands pounded into their ears. 

Soap moved up to Price’s side. “So are you goin’ to tell us why we’re here. Captain?”

“Not yet MacTavish. Let’s get some grub first then I'll get you in on it,” Price replied. 

“You don’t know either do you?” Ghost spoke up. 

“Something like that,” Price confessed. 

When the group went around the corner of the street, a familiar face looked up to them. “Boys?” It was Laswell standing in front of the entrance to a giant white tent where parade performers were walking into. 

“Kate,” Gaz was the first to come up to his mentor with a handshake and a smile. 

“Good to see you again boys,” she grinned back at them. “Come on in and grab a bite while I talk with your captain,” she gestured for them to follow her. Before walking into the tent through a separate line, Kate flashed a laminated badge to the two security guards standing watch. They nodded to the agent for her to go with the 141. 

Soap, Gaz, and Soap did as they were told by Kate. They were pretty hungry from all the walking and endless standing in the heat of the day. The three filled their plates to the brim with all kinds of good stuff while Price went to talk to Laswell on the side. 

“So why did you need me here on such short notice?” the captain of the 141 asked. 

Without saying another word Kate handed John a manila folder which only meant one thing. Although, with Kate that’s what most of their meets up and conversations were about; assignments and favors. Which would it be this time? 

“Who is in need of saving this time Kate?” Price grinned sarcastically. As he opened the folder the first thing he noticed was the family photo as it was on top of the pile. Just a family of three; a father, mother, and daughter (a young woman) lined up together in front of some historic looking building. All three were smiling happily for the shot. 

“She’s been taken,” Laswell said, then sipped on some champagne. 

“And her importance? Price asked. 

“The man is Juan Carlos Morena. He’s an environmentalist recently elected as mayor to a town in the south of Colombia. He's become infamous in the conservation sphere. And with him being elected as a mayor only made him more famous. It’s given other activists hope that people want change to happen in the region.”

“But?” Price looked to Laswell finding the “but” in this topic. 

“Climate activists in Colombia have always been targeted by a number of greedy people. They are the disruptors to their illegal operations so it’s common for activists like this guy to be killed. Only this time instead of just killing him off his daughter has been taken by a confirmed cartel group operating in the area.”

“How is it confirmed?” Price asked. 

“To make a statement they kidnapped her in daylight in front of people. It was filmed,” Kate took out her phone from her pocket and played the video on silent. It was a shaky shot but it was definitely a video of a young woman being shoved into a car while fighting for her life.

“How do you know it’s not some staged act? Daddy’s girl wanted to get away from parents?”

“I asked the same question but she’s also just as giving to the community as her parents are. She’s a lawyer and leader of her own organization of helping women leave their abusive households. She’s active in the community so trust me when I say she doesn’t seem like a spoiled, rich girl that got into the wrong crowd.”

“Christ,” Price flipped through the pages. “You said a confirmed cartel as well? How do we know that?”

“The symbol on the jeep is the symbol used by this particular organization. They’ve been within our radar for some time so it was recognizable. Not much has been done on our part to suppress them but this could finally be our chance.”

“So moving drugs and inciting violence is one thing but you finally draw the line at kidnapping a major figure of the community?” Price looked at Kate in suspicion. 

“There have been plenty of stories that have come to me about these guys, Price,” she got defensive. “But stories weren't enough. Now we have footage and a kidnapping. It's a chance to finally put these guys down once and for all. And you and your boys are the best in the business for this kind of job. So what do you say?”

Price kept glaring at his old friend. Although she tried to hide it, Kate had a look of desperation and concern. Price gave in with a heavy sigh. “What are our villains' names?”

“They call themselves “The Jungle” or in Spanish it would be “La Jungla”,” Kate revealed in a rough accent. “They used to be a small sect connected to the Medellin cartel but have operated for the past twenty years as their own separate organization. These are dangerous people John. And the civilians of this region could use one less threat to their lives,” Laswell put the now empty glass onto a passing tray. Price stayed silent for a moment looking over the rest of the files. “You don’t have to accept this but the squad that’s being formed by their own military could use some people like you and your boys.”

The captain looked at the family photo one last time. Those smiles cut deep into the soldiers heart in thinking how scared they all must be. Her family weren’t the only one’s in pain. This was a whole community of people trying to make their lives better and it only keeps being interrupted by vile people like this cartel. 

“Well, alright then,” John closed the folder and handed it back to his friend. 

“Your support will be very appreciated, John,” Laswell grinned. 

“How did you even hear about this mess?”

“Through the grapevine kind of situation. A friend, of a friend, of a friend contacted me.”

“Looks like you’re the most popular kid in the schoolyard Kate,” John chuckled with Kate following along with him as she found the comment humorous as well. 

“There is one slight problem John.”

“And that is?”

“You and your boys have no experience in this region or a landscape like this and only you and Gaz know Spanish that’s passable at best. This is a region where English speakers are rare and communication will be a key,” Kate explained. “There could also be encounters with non Spanish speakers as well.”

“So what are you saying?” John crossed his arms.

“Your team is being loaned a new recruit. But don’t worry they have plenty of experience for this kind of stuff,” Laswell looked to her left and gestured for a man some feet away from them to come join her and Price. The man came up and greeted Price with a firm handshake. He was dressed in a formal military uniform with the flag of Peru patch on his left arm. “John, this is Colonel Alvarez of the Peruvian Air Force.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Captain Price,” the man nodded.

“Pleasure is all mine, Colonel. It’s not you who will be joining me for the mission will it?” John didn’t want to be rude but the man had some years on him to be doing a mission like the one he just accepted. 

“No, no captain, I have recommended someone to Laswell for you to take on the mission. She is a very valuable asset to the air force and will be very helpful in this situation.”

“What does the Peruvian military have to do with the affairs of the remote region of Colombia?” John asked. 

“That we share many common enemies and most notably…we share the Amazon,” the colonel noted. “It is not uncommon for military troops from different nations that share a border to assist one another on missions like this.”

“I’m going to take a guess and say you’re the friend of a friend Laswell was implying about?”

“Indeed,” the colonel nodded. “This is who will be joining your team captain,” the Peruvian man handed Price another manila folder with the name “Harpia” in the front. 

John skimmed over the impressive resume of the recruit. Kate was right about her experience even though she had only been in the military for the past five years. “She’s quite the academic,” John noticed the bachelor's degree in her education side of the file along with a number of certifications. Then there was a list under the languages section that left him surprised. “What are all these?”

“Your recruit is an expert in indigenous languages, captain,” the colonel explained. “Where you are going, not everyone speaks Spanish. Not many military personnel have her knowledge and even fewer civilians have her experience and clearance for this kind of mission.”

“Alright, so we meet her over there?” John accepted the outcome. 

“Not necessarily John, she was in the parade and is right here,” Kate said. 

“She would be right over…” the colonel scanned the area of the dining tent. “There she is,” the colonel pointed to a young woman holding a small plate with a half eaten slice of cake.  

“Does she know about all this?” Price asked. 

“Indeed she does,” the colonel nodded. “You can go and meet her now if you like.”

“Then if you’ll excuse me,” Price nodded to the two higher ranking agents as he went off to the side and meet his new temp. 

Not one for sneaking, John came up to the young woman directly. She was dressed in a dark green coat and knee length skirt in the same color and some low square heels. She had a fancy sash across her chest and a spiffy looking hat that lay on top of her neatly slicked back hair that was tied on a braided low bun. She was fully decked out as much as the other parade performers. 

The young woman saw the captain make his way towards her and she put down her plate immediately. There was a cheery grin on her face once John was finally in front of her; towering over her frame. “Captain Price?” the decorated woman asked. 

“That would be me,” John smiled at her. The most notable thing about the lady was her small stature. She seemed to be even shorter than Farah. Her cheekbones were high and sharp but also maintained a very round face. There was something very unique about her face but then he remembered the list of languages she knew. 

“It’s an honor to meet you Captain,” she shook Price's hand enthusiastically. “I am Lieutenant Daniela Huari of the Peruvian Air Force.”

“Aka Harpia,” John added. “What’s that stand for?”

“The harpy, like in Greek mythology but in this case it’s after the harpy eagle of South America,” Daniela explained. 

“Can’t wait to find out how you got that one,” John chuckled. “So you’re the one who’s joining me and my boys?”

“It would seem so,” Daniela nodded.

“You know what you’re walking into, right?” John had his concern dad tone switched on.

“I do,” the lieutenant nodded a yes to the captain. 

“Good,” John smiled at her eagerness. “I mean clearly you more than qualified for this,” he held up her file. “Very impressive stuff in here.”

“Thank you Captain Price,” Daniela grinned at the praise. 

“Alright lieutenant, you meet us on the base at 18:00 hours. There isn’t any more time to waste here.”

“Si, capitan,” Daniela saluted the higher ranking officer.

“Meet ya there Harpia,” John grinned once more to the young woman and made his way back to his boys who were stuffing themselves with all sorts of stuff on their plates. “Come on lads we have some packing and explaining to do,” Price waved for the other three men to follow him out of the tent. 

“Who were you talking to Cap’?” Soap asked while taking one last bit out of his dessert. 

“Who was that with Laswell?” Gaz then questioned as well.

“And who was the shrimp you talked to next?” Ghost added to the list of questions to his captain. 

“Let’s talk about this at the base boys. There’s a lot to unpack here,” Price led his task force back to the base on the outskirts of the city. 

Task Force 141 made their way to their assigned aircraft that would be crossing them over the Atlantic all the way to a base in Venezuela. Price was right about unpacking a great deal of information to the other three men. The mayor, the mayor's daughter, her kidnapping, the cartel, there was much for the boys to intake. 

“A rescue mission and taking down a cartel. This’ll be fun,” Soap laid a friendly soft punch on Ghost’s shoulder. 

“Just dandy, Soap,” Simon gruffed. 

With heavy bags on their shoulders they finally found the lot for their transport. The loading dock door was fully open, ready for them to load in. But as they turned to go up the ramp all three men stopped dead in their tracks at someone already strapping in their own bags. 

“Who the hell are you?” Ghost partially yelled at the woman. 

Daniela bounced in her turn to the 141 crew members as she didn’t hear them come from behind her. “Oh you’re here, great,” she walked up to the men who towered over her. 

“Lieutenant Riley, Sergeant Garrick, Sergeant MacTavish, it’s a pleasure to meet you boys. I’ll be working with you on this mission,” she extended her hand for one of them to shake but all three of them just looked at her confusingly. 

“Boys! Be nice,” Price came from behind them. “This is lieutenant Daniela Huari. She is joining us as a pilot, guide, translator and interpreter, and survival expert,” Price came up to Daniela and gave her upper back a quick pat. “She’s on loan to us from the Peruvian Air Force so play nice with her. I want a good report about us from her when all this is over.”

“Survival expert?” Soap asked.

“The biggest disadvantage we have is that neither of us have ever been to this type of region. We’ve been to the country before but the place isn’t the streets of Bogota. This is the Amazon, a hostile environment we’ve never been to. Even though we’ll be assisting a military squadron from Colombia, I was informed that she will be needed.”

“For what?” Ghost asked.

“To make sure you don’t wipe your ass with a poisonous plant,” Daniela teased. 

Gaz and Soap couldn’t help but snicker at the comment. Even Price couldn’t hold in a soft scoff to his chest. “Alright soldiers, let’s get going. We have a whole ass ocean to cross.”

Johnny laughed quietly to Simon. “She’s a lieutenant and you called her a shrimp.”

“Shut up,” Ghost rumbled beneath his breath.

——The captain meeting Daniela Huari

[onlinebestpresent]

Have you ever been struck by how effortlessly colorful balloons glide in the air? Perhaps you've even held one and felt the gentle tug as it tried to escape your grasp. These beautiful objects, helium balloons, have fascinated people for decades. This article will delve into the science, history, and various applications of helium balloons, uncovering the magic behind their ability to soar through the sky.

The Science Behind Helium Balloons What is helium? At ambient temperature, the chemical element helium exists as a gas. It is lighter than air, making it an ideal candidate for filling balloons. After hydrogen, helium is the universe's second-lightest element. Helium is safe to employ in balloons since it is not combustible.

How does helium make balloons float? The secret lies in the density of helium compared to air. Helium is much less dense than the surrounding air, which causes it to rise. A balloon filled with trapped helium expels an equivalent volume of air. Because helium is lighter than air, it exerts less downward force, creating a net upward force that makes the balloon float.

The density of helium vs. air To put things into perspective, helium has a density of about 0.18 grams per liter, compared to 1.2 grams per liter of air. This significant difference in density allows helium-filled balloons to defy gravity effortlessly.

The History of Helium Balloons Early uses of helium in ballooning Although the concept of employing gases lighter than air for flight has been around since antiquity, The late 18th century was when the idea started to take shape. Helium was discovered as a less explosive substitute for hydrogen at the turn of the 20th century. The US became a world leader in helium production, using it for scientific and military applications.

The first manned helium balloon flight On November 21, 1783, the first crewed flight in a hydrogen balloon occurred in Paris, France. However, in the 20th century, helium-filled balloons gained popularity for crewed flights due to their safety advantages. In 1935, the Explorer II balloon, filled with helium, reached a record-breaking altitude of 22,066 meters (72,395 feet).

Helium balloons in celebrations and events Over time, helium balloons became synonymous with joyous celebrations and events. From birthday parties to weddings and grand openings, these festive decorations added an element of whimsy and cheer to any occasion. They continue to be a staple of worldwide festivities, captivating children and adults alike.

Types of Helium Balloons Latex balloons The most popular kind of helium balloons are latex balloons. They are produced from natural rubber latex and come in various sizes, shapes, and colors. Latex balloons are biodegradable, making them a more environmentally friendly option compared to other materials.

Foil balloons Foil balloons, or Mylar balloons, are made from metallic-coated nylon or polyester. They are durable and can retain helium longer than latex balloons. Foil balloons often come in intricate shapes and designs, making them popular for themed parties and special events.

Giant helium balloons Giant helium balloons are larger-than-life creations that capture attention wherever they go. These colossal balloons can be several meters tall and are commonly used in parades, advertising campaigns, and outdoor events. They are impossible to miss due to their sheer size and striking colors.

Helium Balloons in Popular Culture Balloon Releases and Environmental Concerns While balloon releases were once a popular way to celebrate and commemorate events, there is now a growing awareness of the environmental impact they can have. Released balloons can become litter and pose risks to wildlife when mistaken for food or entangled. Many organizations now discourage balloon releases and promote alternative forms of celebration.

The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade When you think of helium balloons, one iconic event that comes to mind is the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York City. Since 1927, larger-than-life character balloons have floated above the streets, delighting millions of spectators. These gigantic balloons require enormous amounts of helium, making the parade a true spectacle of creativity and engineering.

Hot air balloons vs. helium balloons While helium balloons are filled with a lighter-than-air gas, hot air balloons rely on the principle of hot air being lighter than cool air. Both types of balloons offer unique experiences and have a devoted following. Hot air balloons provide a serene and panoramic view, while helium balloons add an element of playfulness and whimsy.

Helium Balloons for Advertising and Promotions Advertising benefits of helium balloons In the world of marketing, capturing attention is crucial. Helium balloons offer a cost-effective, eye-catching way to promote products, brands, and events. Their vibrant colors and floating presence naturally draw people's eyes, creating a memorable visual impact.

Promotional events and brand visibility Helium balloons can be used strategically to create buzz around promotional events. By incorporating branded balloons into the decor or distributing them to attendees, companies can increase brand visibility and create a festive atmosphere that leaves a lasting impression.

Creative uses of helium balloons for marketing The versatility of helium balloons opens up a world of creative possibilities for marketing campaigns. From floating product replicas to floating messages in the sky, businesses can leverage the inherent joy and curiosity associated with helium balloons to engage their target audience memorably.

Safety and Environmental Considerations Helium shortage and conservation efforts While helium is abundant in the universe, it is relatively scarce on Earth. The demand for helium has been increasing, leading to concerns about its availability in the future. To address this, conservation efforts and stricter regulations on helium usage have been implemented to ensure its responsible use.

Proper handling and disposal of helium balloons Handling and disposing of helium balloons responsibly is essential to minimize environmental impact. Balloons should be securely tied to prevent accidental releases, and when no longer needed, they should be punctured to deflate before disposal. Recycling programs for balloons and responsible balloon releases are also gaining traction.

Alternatives to helium for inflating balloons Given the concerns surrounding helium availability and its finite nature, alternative gases, such as air or nitrogen, can inflate balloons. These substitutes for helium may offer less buoyancy, but they offer a more environmentally friendly method of balloon inflation.

DIY Helium Balloon Experiments and Tips Making a balloon float without helium If you wish to appear a more powerful, floating balloon without using helium, there are alternative methods you can explore. One popular approach is using simple physics principles, such as static electricity or lightweight gases like hydrogen, to make balloons appear to defy gravity.

Creating balloon decorations and displays Helium balloons offer endless possibilities for creative decorations and displays. From arches and columns to centerpieces and balloon walls, these inflatable wonders can transform any space into a vibrant and festive environment. DIY enthusiasts can find various tutorials and ideas online to bring their balloon decor visions to life.

Helium balloon safety precautions for DIY projects While working with helium balloons can be fun, it's essential to prioritize safety. Ensure that balloons are securely tied to prevent accidental releases. When inflating balloons, follow the manufacturer's instructions and avoid overinflating them, as this can lead to bursts or pose choking hazards.

Helium Balloons in Science and Research Helium balloons for atmospheric research Scientists and researchers use helium balloons to collect valuable data about the Earth's atmosphere. These high-altitude balloons soar to the stratosphere with scientific equipment on board, where they may assess atmospheric conditions, keep an eye on air quality, and research climate change.

Helium balloons in space exploration Before satellites became prevalent, high-altitude helium balloons were crucial in space exploration. They sent tools, telescopes, and even living things to the edge of space, shedding light on important questions and opening the door for more developments in space technology.

High-altitude balloon flights For amateurs and researchers, high-altitude balloon flights present a rare chance to feel the exhilaration of near-space exploration. These balloons provide stunning vistas of the Earth and an exhilarating sense of adventure by ascending to heights of 100,000 feet or more.

[goldenagewebnovel]

Volume 1 Prologue

Virtual Reality. 

The ever sought after paradise for everyone who loves video games. 

The first virtual reality developments came in the beginning of the century, but they were all based on external hardware. Awkward remotes and gloves, bulky goggles. The hardware became smaller, sleeker, more immersive over time. But in the end, all they were was an entertaining trick — limited by what it could show and who could even physically use it. 

They brought the player closer to the screen then ever before. But they could never bridge the gap between the real world and the game. The true holy grail of gaming would lie in fully immersive virtual reality; that would take you to the very edge of the screen, and then pull you inside. To wake up inside your favorite game, whenever you wanted. It was the dream that could never be.

And then came the Digital Mind Project.

A private think tank based in the city of Seattle. They gathered the world’s best programers, neurologists, biologists, and psychologists. After working for over a decade, they did it. They mapped and named every possible neural pathway in the human brain and explained it’s function. They created the first complete, digital model of the mind, and it could think like one.

Overnight, the processing speed of all technology in the world skyrocketed. Data could be processed faster and more efficiently then ever imagined. Brain diseases that seemed incurable now had mapped explanations and accessible cures.

The digital and physical revolution that resulted led some people to question where the limit really was. If you can put the human mind in a machine, couldn’t it work the other way around?

Countries, governments, armies, corporations — they all fought to develop and control this untouched potential. But the leaders of the Digital Mind Project had decided to join the race, and, just like before, they won. They developed a full scanning pod, that only required a user to sit in it. The pod would sync to the electric signals of the nerves pathways and, upon triggering sleep, allowed the person to fully connect to the machine.

They sold the design for the pods to every business that could afford it, all at the same time. In the middle of the 21st century the age of Virtual Reality had truly begun.

The first games to come out were… disappointing, to say the least. Barely more then tech demos. Allowing the player to get a unique experience but hardly qualifying as a true game. A rushed attempt at formatting a classic MMORPG as the VR game, Fields of Fighting, was a disaster. It was riddled with horribly coded AI, clunky, unnatural movements, invisible walls everywhere that could physically trap players by accident. It was unplayable.

All the technology you could ever need for VR was available, but game designers were struggling to catch up. They had to learn to think and create in a whole new dimension. The old techniques wouldn’t cut it.

That learning curve led to a drought in Full VR games. Most companies stuck to their tried and true dimension of game design, and if people were lucky they might see a halfway decent Full VR game release once or twice a year.

Then, without any warning, two of the biggest games to hit the market were released in the same year.

The first was a sprawling, open world RPG called, Record of the Ancients. Set in the fantasy genre, this was a single player game that offered its players absolute freedom of choice to explore the world and affect it however they wanted. The game held its own share of bugs and the occasional empty plain or lack of detail, but there was nothing else like it.

The second game was a massive multiplayer sci-fi battle called, Solar Forge. Players could freely participate in large scale, solar system spanning battles. Anything from piloting a ship, to organizing a galactic cruiser, to dropping into and storming an enemy vessel with your squad. Two teams ranging anywhere from 50 to 300 participants all fighting a space war to decide a victor. The largest scale fights could even span days, and a lot of people became addicted to acting as a space marine.

These two games sold more then anyone dared to dream, proving just how unique Full VR gaming could really be. They also set the trend for how these games would be approached. Either broad, if shallow, experiences in a large environment or the chance for rich world building but in a very narrow and strict environment. No one would even attempt to make up for the failed promises made by the flopped Fields of Fighting experience.

Things stayed this way for over a decade. New games came and fell, but Record of the Ancients and Solar Forge remained on top. 

One day, without any big press releases or industry fanfare, a new game started putting up commercials and advertisement. It promised to revolutionize Full VR and offer an experience greater then any of it’s predecessors. Deeper, more detailed worlds. No restrictions on player freedom. An MMORPG that could support millions of players across the world, all at the same time. 

These claims were so preposterously huge that no one believed it. Especially because they were being made by a brand new games company called Aurum Productions, that no one had even heard of before.  

But the ads kept coming.

And once people started looking into the game, and more specifically, Aurum Productions, they learned that this new game had some shocking secret weapons going for it. The founder of Aurum Productions was a man named Mike Wirth, one of the former lead programers of the Digital Mind Project. He had brought a gift for this new game: a new piece of technology called, Player Perception Tuning (PPT). 

In order to allow the most robust, flexible, and realistic experience possible a machine alone couldn’t cut it. Instead, PPT allows the players own brain, already synced with their pod, to process the game’s data for them on the spot. 

Instead of having to code every aspect of the game to recreate reality, they instead offer the brain a very convincing framework of reality, and allow the individual brain to fill in all the pieces. Instead of realism, the programers were going for impressionism. 

What they got was more realistic then any game ever made before it. 

Since every player was acting as their own processor, it made it much easier to have everyone play at once. Since they only had to design the framework, the game team at Aurum had that much more freedom to create a real, enriched world.

In the summer of the year 2076, the groundbreaking Full VR, fantasy MMORPG, Golden Age, released.

__________________________________

In the void of space, above an endless fog, floats an island of gold and riches. There are artifacts, weapons, and sculptures — all crafted from precious metals and rare gems. Priceless artworks and fine clothing are lazily scattered about. The ground is made up of gold bars and golden coins. They drip from the bottom of the island into the void of the fog, but the island never grows smaller.

At the center of the island, purple strands of energy gather together to construct a humanoid wireframe. 

From nowhere and everywhere at once, the Overvoice of the game speaks.

Hello, would you like to customize your character, or would you like a randomly generated one?

A voice from the wireframe responds.

“I’d like to customize.”

Very well.

From all over the island, wisps of light gather together to form a giant ball of light in front of the wireframe.

First, please select what race you would like your character to be. You can chose from Human, Dwarf, Orc, or Elf. You may also choose a ratio, of two of the previously mentioned.

“Human.”

Very well.

Some of the light gets shaved away, scattering into space. The ball of light has now roughly taken the size and shape of a human.

Please select what sex you would like your character to be.

“Um, I’ll take male for me.”

Very well.

Barely any light is shaved away but the figure of light now resembles a blank human male. 

Please select your body type.

“How about we go with svelte but athletic. Like a martial artist kind of build, maybe?”

Very well.

This time, more light is shaved away and the figure now resembles a fit, athletic human man.

Would you like to move on to face sculpting, body sculpting, or voice sculpting next?

“You know what, just have everything else look like my real body.”

Very well.

Light flew away from the human figure in spirals of light until everything burst out. In the place of the light was a tan skinned, human man. The body was still athletic, decently tall, had long sideburns, stubble on it’s chin, gray eyes, and streaks of gray hair at the temples and the front. It had on a set of cotton pants and a cotton shirt, tied down by a coarse rope, and simple leather shoes. The body stared lifelessly at the wireframe in front of it.

In front of the wireframe, a hologram of a keyboard appeared.

Please spell the name of your character.

The wireframe reached out with a hand and pressed: D, 0, n. And hit enter.

Please pronounce how to say the name of your character.

“You pronounce it like you would for an Italian mob boss. Or like the dawn of a new day.”

Very well. Please step forward into your character to initiate syncing.

The wireframe took clumsy steps towards the human body in front of it. On contact, the purple lines of energy that made up the wireframe fused into the human body.

I could suddenly feel everything. The clothes against my skin. The shifting, hard coins that made up the ground under my feet. The cool breeze that started to blow across my face.

In front of my eyes I could see that the endless sky of space, littered with stars and streaks of purple throughout. Streams of the gold coins that made up the island were flowing off the edges. They were dispersing the fog.

In front of the island was a floating circular flat world. Absolutely huge, it took up my whole vision. There were three distinct continents in the center of the wide ocean. 

The one on the left was made of sweeping mountain ranges and floating islands, that looked like they were made of gemstones. 

The one on the bottom was a giant archipelago, made up of countless, rich islands.

The one on the right had sprawling green fields and verdant forests and crystal blue lakes. 

The edge of the world had a misty, thick fog all around it, but I could see waterfalls flowing into the void of space underneath. The sun was bright and lit up everything beautifully. I could hear rising orchestral music playing from somewhere. From nowhere and everywhere at once, the Overvoice of the game spoke to me.

Welcome, to the world of Golden Age, D0n.

I felt like I could stare at that sight forever.

But I didn’t have that chance. Suddenly the ground began to rumble under my feet. The streams of gold flowing off the side rushed forward, and huge swaths of the island began to break off. 

Eventually, the whole island destabilized, falling to the planet below. I went with it. As I was falling among columns of gold and treasure, I heard the Overvoice again. 

Due to your region of origin, you will be starting in the Plains Continent. Below, you will enter the Tutorial Village. There, we have provided class instructors, resources, and all the knowledge you will need to explore the game. Have fun.

The ground was getting closer and closer. I could no longer see the edge of the world. Below me was an impossibly thick cloud. 

All of the gold around me started to dissolve into particles of light. 

I was in the middle of an uncontrollable free fall. The wind was rushing past me so fast it was whipping at my clothes and shoving my hair away. My eyes were tearing up from the force of it.

I felt a wide smile, that showed all my teeth, spread across my face.

It was time to play the game.

[dangerouslysmartslime]

My Little Pony The New Generation

Seems like the things that remembering of what happened in Generation 4 waws the olden times where the pony kinds were friends and didn’t use magic against each other. IE Generation 4 of the Friendship Pope. That the main character is a girl obsessed with the era of Generation. A lighthouse and Sunny will know, you stand up for what you believe in. Show everypony that we’re friends. That maybe today is that day! A father that loves his daughter with all his heart~! And the two colts that she was playing with, one of them she will see as an adult on her adventures as shown by the trailers and the other had the depressing note of wanting to be Sheriff, and everyone knows that Police Officers are reviled for keeping people in line, especially colored by their own bigotry, so insert the “Lois and Clark” Yikes. Sunny and her father write a letter to the unicorns and pegasi only to tell the story of Generation 4 to Sunny. A friend to fly around or float things, why can’t we be friends anymore? That is a great question, but we’ll figure it out together. And the drawings that she has as well as all the things she has of Generation 4 is so adorable!! Only to flash to when she’s an adult and the movie actually starts~! Sunny gets herself dressed with the same sort of pins I use on my hat. She gets ready her bag and she looks at pictures of her father in a way that mean it seems like he’s dead… And the movie goes into the first musical number. “Canter Logic” She goes on a ice cream run for a job, only for that colt who said he’s be a Sheriff to chase after her… And steal somepony’s milkshake and cookies… She gives a balloon to someone who wanted one, only for that one colt to continue being the worst pony in the movie so far in terms of douchbaggery. She is going and showing her enthusiasm for life while the colt continues to chase after her cleaning up all the kindness she wishes to do and come to University. A squad of critters like Fluttershy only he doesn’t actually like it. Annual presentation at Canterlot. Hey, come on! Sprout was actually just doing his job when Hitch was giving him orders. “Every year you sneak in and every year you try” As a friend not as a Sheriff, don’t? Someone litters and Sprout is continuing to be an asshole so I was right. So Sunny is mischevious only to find that this is a factory much like the memed on Rainbow Factory��� Canter Logic is Phyllis Clovery, the mother of Sprout, and the actual biggest asshole. Oh wait, she actually is the main antagonist because she’s a bigot. Yep, markets her products for bigotry and wha… Ant-mind reading? And keeping eye on the sky doesn’t make sense… The earth pony balloon escape pack doesn’t work. Only for Sunny to try to protest it and she does it in a dumb way and her friend who is the Sheriff stops it by pulling the plug. “Aren’t you tired of being scared all the time? The truth is, we’re not in danger! We don’t need any of this Canter Logic junk!” Just imagine if you had a friend who could fly or do magic. That everything you hear is wrong when they could be friends and still could be! And “Phyllis is still a bigot.” To uphold it? Everypony includes Pegasi and Unicorns, “Then prove it” means she’s going to be go on an adventure. And the one friend that she has is an asshole to her because due to propaganda he says that it’s just an old filly story concocted by her father. She then looks to the sky and mourns her father once again, wishing he was here. Only for… Izzy Moonbow the Unocnr meets Sunny and all the bigots (IE everyone except Sunny) panics as the bigots… Really? That seems a little harsh. Well yeah, they’re bigots, what do you expect Izzy! Izzy plays it like a game of hopscotch only to get trapped by a trap because she was looking at Terminator Judgment Day. Hitch then lectures her. So, you’re named Sunny? Bye! Nice to meet you now! Hitch acts like he’s the only sane man, but in reality Izzy is just as enthusiastic as Sunny as being a silly dork. Nooo, I can’t make it float but I can open cans! Tada! No magic…  So the bigots keep being bigots and they flee. No magic? But we did have magic and that was many moons ago and everyone is racist because the magic leaves. Unicorn with no magic and everyone is a bigot. Earth ponies have a lot of bigoted stories while only 3 stories unicorns. What if they don’t! And then there’s the musical number 2. Neat… Two folks becoming friends who are looking out for each other like Sunny is friggin friendship pope with Pinkie Pie. So they get an apple to have a snack and continue trotting along to try to get to the land of Pegasi. Hitch is the “perfect guy” in terms of taking care of himself and Sprout is now the Interim Sheriff. Still think Phyllis is the villain. Only to find that yes, everyone is bigoted against each other because they think everyone else did something bad. And… Can Pegasi not fly? No, the butch pegasus is here “there’s no way we could, there’s no way we could!” The shield is.. Can you fly to the moon? Well I do like sneakers. And then modern Americana appears in Zephyr Heights… Royal bash for Queen Haven and Princess Pip the influencer. Of course… Pip Pip Hooray? Pegasi do have a Castle, and it even looks like they stole Canterlot and renamed it. And… Both of the Pegasi are royalty. Earth Pony and Unicorn in Zephyr Heights, and no, not an attack ya silly. And Hitch goes after them and… Sprout is here but people are revolting? Wait, no they aren’t. “We need a real Sheriff!” Only for him to get all fearmongerin. I see… Whispering danger danger.. Generation 1 is shown… “Follow me mindlessly!” Angry Mob ANGRY ANGRY. Influencer advertisments and… “We haven’t seen a single pony flying except the royal family. Only for a princess to.. Just call me Zip.Izzy Moonbow. Important about magic? How does your work? The unicorns lost theirs. No magic. “Well, that changes things. Her father’s journal, and that star is actually like Twilight Sparkle’s journal. “Only royals can fly because for some reason they have magic. Nicorn hair and Pegasi! Hitch is looking for them only to find that the Pegasi captured them. When unicorns and Earth Ponies visited Zephyr Heights and the Wonderbolts were seen in a picture. The truth is they can’t fly either but just faking by… Wires and good lighting… A “ridiculous lie.” To… Soar using a fan. A bright sparkle, says Izzy. Canterlot’s old Stained Glass. It’s seen right there and now each one is placed in order, fitting. The Crystals go together united. So if they put them back together magic would return… The unicorn crystal Bridlewood is had. The Queen never takes her crown off… Swap real crown with decoy. Stealthy and stealing the crown. Paying a guest a visit and Pip is told. No one can fly, it is just a stage show… Because of course, Pip is just an influencer using a stage show and of course aother song… While Sunny and Moonbow are doing the plot~… But the dog happens, where the small dog is like a guard dog. And Hitch is also finding them, then the recording staff is like “Prisoners have escaped!” And Hitch is put on stage… “What is happening. The Royals are revealed to not be able to fly either, and they accidentally drop the Crystal… “Arresting you and saving you.” The Queen’s daughter, oh the Sheriff just became detective. The models of the characters look so much like the toys, Pip and Hitch join the party! Meanwhile… Canter Logic creates war machines complete with Sprout sounding like Vader when he’s really just drinking a milkshake. “Just make it work, okay!” “My town mommy” And that he is “Now Emperor” From Defense to Offense. “All thanks to encouragement” Hitch and Pip whining about being in the party. Look, once everyone gets magic back they’ll be heroes! Crystal clear and he deodorant have his badge. Between you an d me, the badge was creating an unhealthy power dynamic. Fair point. And they start giving up at a bridge being broken, only for Izzy opening the entrance because she knows the way. Breaking open a tree using her horn. They make a fire only for Hitch to be a whiny man lighting a fire “come on, don’t be a hero dude, just come here by the fire.” And they’re good to be a team, just like the Mane 6 of Generation 4. Only for Izzy to look down that the idea of being together is the best thing to happen, that getting friends is better than just getting magic. From Sunny there was that friends in Maritime Bay. That someday they’d prove that all ponies are meant to be friends. That Hitch wants to do his part, “what do we have to lose, right!” Not far from all the SIGNS OF DEATH LIKE THIS IS THE EVERFREE FOREST. “The Villa Izzy~” And all the silly things that she made like Izzy’s friendship bracelets and a tea set… Only for Izzy to be sad for not having a tea party and… A glow up? Although they’re difference races they should unite like the ancient politics of the Friendship Pope~! Comes another song. And it was a fun song so I sang along. Unicorns are very superstitious as to have magic, feather, wing, and mayonnaises. No forbidden words like Mayonnaise. The Unicorn Crystal is owned by Alphabettle, and he can smell fear. “Tea” Hold, the milk, quite the game player I see, why, do you play? I don’t play I win?” Just Dance! Both ponies agree, best out of three! Only need to win one out three for Sunny. Round 3… Here that sunny, feel the Rhythm take you over! I’m feeling it, go Sunny! And she wins with some hype from Pip! Only for the horn to fall off! And a Unicorn! Which you knew already! No, stop… No, don’t. It’s time to run… No pony has magic, but we’re here to bring it back! It can sound unbelievable, but trying is best.  But nooo she needs the 2 out of 3. SHE NEEDS THE 2 out of 3!!! Ye, they don’t have to fight! Sprout makes a tank and he cackles menacingly. That they can be separated by gear and distrust, or there can be friendship and love between the races, like her father. Like her loving father. SO they unite and the reincarnation of the Friendship Pope. The reincarnation of the Friendship Pope has brought the Magic of Friendship to Equestria again.

[killjoy-loveit]

A Bleak Future

A/N: Seventh spooky season post! A full week of spooky season short stories has passed, how exciting!! I would like to clarify that everything written in this story is complete fiction and isn’t to be taken as a true portrayal of reality. 

Summary: The future is at risk and it must be saved.

Word Count: 590

Genre: Time Travel AU

     Light flashed before your eyes before everything went dark. Being suspended in time felt like floating amongst nothing. Completely serene, there was nothing to worry about there. No destroyed world with species going extinct daily, with no forests and only sand, and the sea taking up all that had fallen to its level. The desire to stay in this moment, this place, wherever it may be, was fleeting. If nothing was done the world would meet its end soon. Humankind having been to concerned over greed and money to have done their part in taking care of their home. Only realizing far too late that every action they took was destroying the Earth. 

     When you next opened your eyes it was to a bustling city. People crowding sidewalks, storefronts lit up advertising the newest energy drink, various songs filtering out of stores through open doorways. Each person was bundled up, which made sense due to the slight chill in the air. But you were not. Dressed in an all black lightweight ensemble meant for warmer weather, you stuck out like a sore thumb. 

     Despite having gone back so far in the past, you still weren’t clear on what needed to be done to prevent the Earth’s ruin. The only thing you could do was walk around and observe. Find out what it was the people of the past had done so thoughtlessly, without care of consequences, to wreck the future generations. Various things caught your eye: smoke billowing from cigarettes and vehicles, plastic cups littering the ground, aerosols being sprayed into the air. None of these things existed in the future, not only because they were banned but also as there were no resources to create such objects.

     Wandering further, you reached a spot that was lacking people, one that overlooked the entire city. Buildings were lit up like candles, so bright it almost blocked out the stars of the sky. What would it be like to see such light in the future? It wouldn’t make much of a difference, there weren’t enough people left to enjoy it. 

     “Sorry, I didn’t notice you there.” A voice said apologetically after you felt someone bump into you.

     Head turning, your eyes locked with the stranger. His eyes were warm, crinkled at the corners due to an apologetic smile. Something about him felt real, trustworthy. Maybe he could help. “It’s okay,” You paused questioningly, an eyebrow raised.

     “Oh! I’m Donghyuk, nice to meet you.” He replied quickly, pulling his hand from his coat pocket and reaching it out to you.

     “The same to you.” Smiling softly, you took his hand and shook it. “It’s beautiful here.”

     Donghyuk’s eyes shifted to take in the view of the city at night. “It is isn’t it? A shame that the stars aren’t as bright as they could be.”

     Cocking your head to the side, you looked at him curiously. “What do you mean?”

     “Well, the smoke and light pollution are preventing the full light of the stars to reach here. They might be brighter in the countryside though.” He replied, glancing back at you. Upon this glance his eyes widened. “Aren’t you cold? It’s freezing out and you aren’t wearing a coat!”

     “Hmmm? Oh, the cold. I barely feel it.”

     He looked at you uncertainly. “Alright, but you should probably get inside soon and warm up.”

     Kind and caring, it was sweet of him to worry after you. Yes, he would most likely help you. “Actually, I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

[purplestarlightpolice-blog]

You can simulate your top dog sport

You can simulate your top dog sport as your favorite trade athletes – or entire litter. Take them to the World Cup, Wimbledon, the Kentucky Derby, or whatever the eventuate championship(s) of your play of option. (Not that you have to operate one pastime – take turns severe them all!) Or you can sport fantasy versions that take place anywhere from the city sandlot to a Caribbean causeway. Compete on land, in the irrigate, or dear in the sky! Play all semblance of sports gamble, from unwritten AFL to highest base-jumping. Control your player's government in each game, and necessity it to rout your opponents! Throw punches, fulfill tackles, and leap through the aria with aggression. Perform fraud with a trampoline excel, or backflip over besnowed inclination. Practice using effective teamwork in multiplayer defiance, and employment on your own skills in head-to-head object. Win several crooked to govern online tournaments. Try your deed at tennis worn no work force in Sports Heads Tennis or one of our other Sports Heads games. Duel in midair, jumping around preference a rubber band while severe to score baskets in basketball lame like Basketball Legends and Dunkers. If you failure a 2D game that'll take you for a ride, endeavor to constitute it through the overleap and obstacles in our skateboarding games. In 1974, Taito free Basketball. It discover images both for the trifler and the baskets, and is an not late tempt at accurately imitate a gang mockery. Each player controls two eleven members, a forward and a shield. The globe can be dribbled and passed between eleven members before shooting, and the testicle had to fall into the gainsay four's crate to record a point. That same year, Sega released an union pigskin Pancratium, Goal Kick, which was operate probable an matutinal vertical ball-and-paddle quarry. The first drift video games were also discharge that year: Taito's Speed Race which introduced escroll graphics, and Atari's Gran Trak 10. In 1976, the drift subgenre was amplify into three importance, with the promise-escroll third-parson perspective of Sega's motorbike racing game Moto-Cross, early re-stigma as Fonz that same year, and with the first-person perspective of Atari's Night Driver. That same year, seasonable ice ice hockey lame were also acquit: Alpha Denshi's Bull Fighter and Data East's Fighting Ice Hockey. Data East also free a unique grassland frolic game Haro Gate Ball, based on croquet, while Nichibutsu liberate a sole game based on runner derby, Roller Jammer. Meanwhile, Technos Japan extricate a unique game based on sumo wrestling, Syusse Oozumou, and the first warlike arts oppugn-mock plucky, Karate Champ, considered one of the most effectual fighting lame. That same year, gamble designer Scott Orr based GameStar, a crooked publisher particularize in Commodore 64 play games, and served as its guidance plotter. GameStar was the most successful game computer game company of its time, until Orr solary the company to Activision in 1986. Between 1980 and 1984, Atari and Mattel's Intellivision employ a train of full-stakes TV the advertising industry campaigns aid their respective systems, marking the start of the first comfort wars. Atari obtain in arcade games and had a larger customer base due to its frown price, while Intellivision touted its visually superior mirth Pancratium. Sports scribe George Plimpton was shaped in the Intellivision ads, which evince the parallel gamble side by side. Both Atari and Intellivision fielded at least one Pancratium for baseball, American Aussie Rules, hockey, hoops, auto racing and association AFL. This please delineate the top 100 games in esports with the most prize funds based on message declare on the internet. Sources contain news matter, forum posts, float report clothes, question, public statements, reliable databases, VODs and other openly-accessable spring that keep "historic" message. This website uses cookies. We usage cookies to optimize and personalize your enjoy, provide relative please and take apart online traffic. We also divide message with our analytics and website partners, who may employment it to animate decisions helter-skelter authentic or future benefit. By clicking “Agree,” you concur to manner cookies if you continue to our website. You can concert your cookie settings by tape the "cookie preferences" knob. I Agree Cookie Preferences This website uses cookies. We employment cookies to optimize and personalize your suffer, provide relevant gratify and psychoanalyse online trade. We also shear information with our analytics and website confederate, who may use it to ugly decisions about passable or future avail. By catch “Agree” below, you yield to use cookies if you continue to our website. You can taylor-make your cookie preferences by using the settings next to "Analytical Cookies" and "Marketing Cookies." Click the "Save Preferences" button to prevent your custom-make settings. You can access and change your cookie preferences at any repetition by clap "Data Protection Settings" icon in the lower left corner of our website. For more particular information on the cookies we use, please affect the Academy's Privacy Policy. I Agree Necessary Cookies Necessary cookies empower carpel functionality. The website cannot province rightly without these cookies, and can only be unfolded by changing your browser preferences. Marketing Cookies Analytical cookies prevent us to correct our website by amass and reporting information on its usage. Social Cookies We use some familiar plowshare plugins, to concede you to cleave certain ichoglan of our website on social media. These plugins abode cookies so that you can acurately survey how many times a page has been dividend. Save Preferences Sports-based fighting games are titles that fall firmly within the definitions of both the fighting quarry and frolic plucky genre, such as fisticuffs and wrestling video lame. As such, they are usually put in their own separate subgenres. Often the fighting is remote more graphic than in traditional fighting games (though the amount of realism can well exchange), and many feature aqiqiy-mankind franchises or fighters. Examples of this include the Fight Night, UFC 2009 Undisputed and WWE 2K list. Cricket is not upright a sport in India, it's a polytheism. So it's no surprise that Dream11 is most popular for its immersive fantasy cricket experience. From Tests to T20s, you can join emulate for all data format of international cricket on Dream11. Apart from ICC equal and tournaments, users can also simulate online cricket games from various cricket confederation probable the IPL - maintain and simulate across the the. A mirth project is a video Olympic form that pretend the practice of diversion. Most play have been relieve with a game, including team sports, tow and expanse, utmost game and combat sports. Some lame emphasize veritably playing the amusement (such as the Madden NFL course), while others emphasize strategy and mockery contrivance (such as Championship Manager and Out of the Park Baseball). Some, such as Need for Speed, Arch Rivals and Punch-Out!!, lampoon the sport for comedian effect. This class has been public throughout the history of video gamble and is competitive, just inclination kerçek-the mockery. A many of game order feature the distinction and characteristics of regal nine and libertine, and are updated annually to ponder kerçek-world changes. Sports type is one of the oldest genres in gambling chronicle. Privacy Notice We use cookies to serve us provide, protect and censure your experience. By worn this place, you concede to this use. Find out more in our Cookie Policy.We also show targeted advertisements by sharing your data with our partners so that the ads presented are significant to you. You can opt-out of targeted ads at any time by going to the settings ichoglan. Learn more about this and our participator in our updated 메이저파워볼사이트 Privacy Policy.

[newmusicsocial-blog]

The Eskimo Chain - New Single ‘Evacuation Day’

London based psychedelic four piece the Eskimo Chain release their new single ‘Evacuation Day’ today, with their second album, due out in early 2020. After self-recording, mixing and releasing their debut album ‘Abnormal Dreams’ in 2018, the band wasted no time in retreating once again to the English countryside to self-record a follow-up album less than a year later. Ever experimental and ever interesting, the new album ‘E.X.O. Incorporated’ takes on a more conceptual approach, as a motion picture soundtrack to an imagined science-fiction film. ‘Evacuation Day’ is a menacing piece of psychedelia that evokes images of Colonel Walter E Kurtz heading down the river in Apocalypse Now. The swirling, hypnotic organ overlays the songs driving guitar, drum and bass and haunting vocal. As with all of the bands previous output, its excellent, and given the films’ synopsis you get the feeling that the album is going to be a very interesting body of work:   ‘E.X.O. Incorporated 2068. A hole opened in the sky. A perforation in the atmosphere too great to reverse. Crops were scorched as daylight became deadly. Humanity fled in all directions, hysterical and in search of refuge. No one was safe’.   Under the guise of E.X.O. Incorporated a fleet of vessels, repurposed from space tourism craft, were developed and produced by Earth’s towering Big Tech superpowers, with the advertised aim of transporting those who could pay to hospitable exoplanets. Consumers scrambled to the boarding stations on what was dubbed ‘Evacuation Day’, and those that boarded trusted in the corporation’s design. They could not know their salvation was a ruse, for their hope and fear was all-consuming.  All but a select few would be jettisoned to float among the debris of the Baedeker Stream, as litter upon the stars’.

Sci-fi dystopia or political, socio-economic and political critique? I asked the band whether E.X.O. Incorporated was approximating a defined point in time when our environment will collapse, based on the adverse impacts of people and business, or whether the hole opening in the sky an isolated incident, not determined by the consequences of our actions: ‘The album is a response to a general feeling, rather than any literal extrapolation on real-world trends and events. Many things are broken today, and it often feels like we are heading for a point of no return. In that sense the hole in the sky is not an isolated incident. But who can safely claim to know the reason behind anything these days?’ I also wanted to find out what made them decide to write a soundtrack to an imaginary film as a second album: ‘The idea of the modern album is straight and constricting, yet unfocused – how can you write music for an album if you don’t really know what it will eventually be? In contrast, writing a soundtrack provided the perfect momentum for productive song-writing, and focused our work. Science fiction is an inspiration and enabled us to explore new sounds’. The band wouldn’t be drawn on what E.X.O. stood for and have said that they’re happy to hear suggestions, and there are as yet no plans to make E.X.O. Incorporated into a film themselves at this stage, although there will be some conceptual YouTube videos. ​More live shows will be announced around the release of the album early next year, and will feature their trademark handmade effects and noise-makers, bringing as much of the soundtrack’s sonic palette to life as possible. You can watch the video to ‘Evacuation Day’ here To hear tracks from Eskimo Chain’s brilliant debut album ‘Abnormal Dreams’ and see their live show with Damo Suzuki, head over to their Youtube channel here. You can buy the album here

The original version of this blog appears at newmusicsocial.com

[unsettlingshortstories]

The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas

Ursula K. Le Guin (1973)

With a clamor of bells that set the swallows soaring, the Festival of Summer came to the city Omelas, bright-towered by the sea. The rigging of the boats in harbor sparkled with flags. In the streets between houses with red roofs and painted walls, between old moss-grown gardens and under avenues of trees, past great parks and public buildings, processions moved. Some were decorous: old people in long stiff robes of mauve and grey, grave master workmen, quiet, merry women carrying their babies and chatting as they walked. In other streets the music beat faster, a shimmering of gong and tambourine, and the people went dancing, the procession was a dance. Children dodged in and out, their high calls rising like the swallows’ crossing flights over the music and the singing. All the processions wound towards the north side of the city, where on the great water-meadow called the Green Fields boys and girls, naked in the bright air, with mud-stained feet and ankles and long, lithe arms, exercised their restive horses before the race. The horses wore no gear at all but a halter without bit. Their manes were braided with streamers of silver, gold, and green. They flared their nostrils and pranced and boasted to one another; they were vastly excited, the horse being the only animal who has adopted our ceremonies as his own. Far off to the north and west the mountains stood up half encircling Omelas on her bay. The air of morning was so clear that the snow still crowning the Eighteen Peaks burned with white-gold fire across the miles of sunlit air, under the dark blue of the sky. There was just enough wind to make the banners that marked the racecourse snap and flutter now and then. In the silence of the broad green meadows one could hear the music winding through the city streets, farther and nearer and ever approaching, a cheerful faint sweetness of the air that from time to time trembled and gathered together and broke out into the great joyous clanging of the bells.

Joyous! How is one to tell about joy? How describe the citizens of Omelas?

They were not simple folk, you see, though they were happy. But we do not say the words of cheer much any more. All smiles have become archaic. Given a description such as this one tends to make certain assumptions. Given a description such as this one tends to look next for the King, mounted on a splendid stallion and surrounded by his noble knights, or perhaps in a golden litter borne by great-muscled slaves. But there was no king. They did not use swords, or keep slaves. They were not barbarians. I do not know the rules and laws of their society, but I suspect that they were singularly few. As they did without monarchy and slavery, so they also got on without the stock exchange, the advertisement, the secret police, and the bomb. Yet I repeat that these were not simple folk, not dulcet shepherds, noble savages, bland utopians. They were not less complex than us. The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost lost hold; we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy. How can I tell you about the people of Omelas? They were not naive and happy children— though their children were, in fact, happy. They were mature, intelligent, passionate adults whose lives were not wretched. O miracle! but I wish I could describe it better. I wish I could convince you. Omelas sounds in my words like a city in a fairy tale, long ago and far away, once upon a time. Perhaps it would be best if you imagined it as your own fancy bids, assuming it will rise to the occasion, for certainly I cannot suit you all. For instance, how about technology? I think that there would be no cars or helicopters in and above the streets; this follows from the fact that the people of Omelas are happy people. Happiness is based on a just discrimination of what is necessary, what is neither necessary nor destructive, and what is destructive. In the middle category, however—that of the unnecessary but undestructive, that of comfort, luxury, exuberance, etc.—they could perfectly well have central heating, subway trains, washing machines, and all kinds of marvelous devices not yet invented here, floating light-sources, fuelless power, a cure for the common cold. Or they could have none of that; it doesn’t matter.  

As you like it. I incline to think that people from towns up and down the coast have been coming in to Omelas during the last days before the Festival on very fast little trains and double-decked trams, and that the train station of Omelas is actually the handsomest building in town, though plainer than the magnificent Farmers’ Market. But even granted trains, I fear that Omelas so far strikes some of you as goody-goody. Smiles, bells, parades, horses, bleh. If so, please add an orgy. If an orgy would help, don’t hesitate. Let us not, however, have temples from which issue beautiful nude priests and priestesses already half in ecstasy and ready to copulate with any man or woman, lover or stranger, who desires union with the deep godhead of the blood, although that was my first idea. But really it would be better not to have any temples in Omelas—at least, not manned temples. Religion yes, clergy no. Surely the beautiful nudes can just wander about, offering themselves like divine souffles to the hunger of the needy and the rapture of the flesh. Let them join the processions. Let tambourines be struck above the copulations, and the glory of desire be proclaimed upon the gongs, and (a not unimportant point) let the offspring of these delightful rituals be beloved and looked after by all. One thing I know there is none of in Omelas is guilt. But what else should there be? I thought at first there were not drugs, but that is puritanical. For those who like it, the faint insistent sweetness of drooz may perfume the ways of the city, drooz which first brings a great lightness and brilliance to the mind and limbs, and then after some hours a dreamy languor, and wonderful visions at last of the very arcana and inmost secrets of the Universe, as well as exciting the pleasure of sex beyond belief; and it is not habit-forming. For more modest tastes I think there ought to be beer. What else, what else belongs in the joyous city? The sense of victory, surely, the celebration of courage. But as we did without clergy, let us do without soldiers. The joy built upon successful slaughter is not the right kind of joy; it will not do; it is fearful and it is trivial. A boundless and generous contentment, a magnanimous triumph felt not against some outer enemy but in communion with the finest and fairest in the souls of all men everywhere and the splendor of the world’s summer: this is what swells the hearts of the people of Omelas, and the victory they celebrate is that of life. I really don’t think many of them need to take drooz.  

Most of the procession have reached the Green Fields by now. A marvelous smell of cooking goes forth from the red and blue tents of the provisioners. The faces of small children are amiably sticky; in the benign grey beard of a man a couple of crumbs of rich pastry are entangled. The youths and girls have mounted their horses and are beginning to group around the starting line of the course. An old women, small, fat, and laughing, is passing out flowers from a basket, and tall young men wear her flowers in their shining hair. A child of nine or ten sits at the edge of the crowd, alone, playing on a wooden flute. People pause to listen, and they smile, but they do not speak to him, for he never ceases playing and never sees them, his dark eyes wholly rapt in the sweet, thin magic of the tune.  

He finishes, and slowly lowers his hands holding the wooden flute.  

As if that little private silence were the signal, all at once a trumpet sounds from the pavilion near the starting line: imperious, melancholy, piercing. The horses rear on their slender legs, and some of them neigh in answer. Sober-faced, the young riders stroke the horses’ necks and soothe them, whispering, “Quiet, quiet, there my beauty, my hope....” They begin to form in rank along the starting line. The crowds along the racecourse are like a field of grass and flowers in the wind. The Festival of Summer has begun.  

Do you believe? Do you accept the festival, the city, the joy? No? Then let me describe one more thing.  

In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of one of its spacious private homes, there is a room. It has one locked door, and no window. A little light seeps in dustily between cracks in the boards, secondhand from a cobwebbed window somewhere across the cellar. In one corner of the little room a couple of mops, with stiff, clotted, foul-smelling heads stand near a rusty bucket. The floor is dirt, a little damp to the touch, as cellar dirt usually is. The room is about three paces long and two wide: a mere broom closet or disused tool room. In the room a child is sitting. It could be a boy or a girl. It looks about six, but actually is nearly ten. It is feeble-minded. Perhaps it was born defective, or perhaps it has become imbecile through fear, malnutrition, and neglect. It picks its nose and occasionally fumbles vaguely with its toes or genitals, as it sits hunched in the corner farthest from the bucket and the two mops. It is afraid of the mops. It finds them horrible. It shuts its eyes, but it knows the mops are still standing there; and the door is locked; and nobody will come. The door is always locked; and nobody ever comes, except that sometimes—the child has no understanding of time or interval—sometimes the door rattles terribly and opens, and a person, or several people, are there. One of them may come in and kick the child to make it stand up. The others never come close, but peer in at it with frightened, disgusted eyes. The food bowl and the water jug are hastily filled, the door is locked, the eyes disappear. The people at the door never say anything, but the child, who has not always lived in the tool room, and can remember sunlight and its mother’s voice, sometimes speaks. “I will be good,” it says. “Please let me out. I will be good!” They never answer. The child used to scream for help at night, and cry a good deal, but now it only makes a kind of whining, “eh-haa, eh-haa,” and it speaks less and less often. It is so thin there are no calves to its legs; its belly protrudes; it lives on a halfbowl of corn meal and grease a day. It is naked. Its buttocks and thighs are a mass of festered sores, as it sits in its own excrement continually.

They all know it is there, all the people of Omelas. Some of them have come to see it, others are content merely to know it is there. They all know that it has to be there. Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, depend wholly on this child’s abominable misery.

This is usually explained to children when they are between eight and twelve, whenever they seem capable of understanding; and most of those who come to see the child are young people, though often enough an adult comes, or comes back, to see the child. No matter how well the matter has been explained to them, these young spectators are always shocked and sickened at the sight. They feel disgust, which they had thought themselves superior to. They feel anger, outrage, impotence, despite all the explanations. They would like to do something for the child. But there is nothing they can do. If the child were brought up into the sunlight out of that vile place, if it were cleaned and fed and comforted, that would be a good thing indeed; but if it were done, in that day and hour all the prosperity and beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and be destroyed. Those are the terms. To exchange all the goodness and grace of every life in Omelas for that single, small improvement: to throw away the happiness of thousands for the chance of the happiness of one: that would be to let guilt within the walls indeed.  

The terms are strict and absolute; there may not even be a kind word spoken to the child.  

Often the young people go home in tears, or in a tearless rage, when they have seen the child and faced this terrible paradox. They may brood over it for weeks or years. But as time goes on they begin to realize that even if the child could be released, it would not get much good of its freedom: a little vague pleasure of warmth and food, no doubt, but little more. It is too degraded and imbecile to know any real joy. It has been afraid too long ever to be free of fear. Its habits are too uncouth for it to respond to humane treatment. Indeed, after so long it would probably be wretched without walls about it to protect it, and darkness for its eyes, and its own excrement to sit in. Their tears at the bitter injustice dry when they begin to perceive the terrible justice of reality, and to accept it. Yet it is their tears and anger, the trying of their generosity and the acceptance of their helplessness, which are perhaps the true source of the splendor of their lives. Theirs is no vapid, irresponsible happiness. They know that they, like the child, are not free. They know compassion. It is the existence of the child, and their knowledge of its existence, that makes possible the nobility of their architecture, the poignancy of their music, the profundity of their science. It is because of the child that they are so gentle with children. They know that if the wretched one were not there sniveling in the dark, the other one, the fluteplayer, could make no joyful music as the young riders line up in their beauty for the race in the sunlight of the first morning of summer.  

Now do you believe in them? Are they not more credible? But there is one more thing to tell, and this is quite incredible.  

At times one of the adolescent girls or boys who go to see the child does not go home to weep or rage, does not, in fact, go home at all. Sometimes also a man or woman much older falls silent for a day or two, and then leaves home. These people go out into the street, and walk down the street alone. They keep walking, and walk straight out of the city of Omelas, through the beautiful gates. They keep walking across the farmlands of Omelas. Each one goes alone, youth or girl, man or woman. Night falls; the traveler must pass down village streets, between the houses with yellow-lit windows, and on out into the darkness of the fields. Each alone, they go west or north, towards the mountains. They go on. They leave Omelas, they walk ahead into the darkness, and they do not come back. The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible that it does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.

[anxiety-and-fandoms]

okay here is what I have so far

cut because yeah

The town is named Alkien, pronounced al-kee-en. It's quite the tourist trap, a wonderous city known for its both natural and man-made beauty, its rich population (as in, the majority of people that live there are, in fact, rich), and it's beautiful but strange sky- it's light purple instead of blue during the day, has stars that glow twice as bright as the rest of the world's, and it's night sky has the most wonderous aurora once a year, it is said to bless everybody in town with the blessings of the Siren's Song (which is a bit of background lore, but in short, it's supposedly heals the sick, gives everybody bursts of hope and creativity, and is just a good thing overall).

What Alkien is most known for, however, is its yearly Masquerade Ball, a grand gala that happens the eve before the Blessing Aurora. Tickets are often bought, however some who are decreed worthy are gifted tickets for free; these tickets give whoever comes in with them special access to certain parts of the ball, such as access to different parts of the 'castle' where the Masquerade takes place for the day of the Aurora.

The rich come from far and wide every year to attend this Gala, to the point where it's considered an important part of aristocratic (am I using that word right?) culture. Every year letters and 'invitations' (which are more like advertisements, really, since they usually don't come with tickets) are passed around the world, revealing the theme/date/etc. of the Gala. Themes range from color palettes to prompts, and are only occasionally necessary (usually, a necessary theme means that there is going to be a competition of sorts for best outfit).

On the day of the ball, everybody in town is (socially) required to wear a masquerade-esc outfit and mask, even if they're not attending the Gala. Intentionally taking off your mask/revealing your identity is considered offensive and repulsive, and revealing someone else's identity on that day is considered a crime worthy of arrest. The only people one is allowed to show their face around is those they live with and their close family, as long as they are not in a public space. If you are going to the Gala, it is usually 'suggested' that you wear a different, less extravagant outfit than the one you are wearing to the ball. Wearing the same masquerade the day of the ball and during the ball is kinda like wearing the same outfit as someone else to a party; some are fine with it, some think it's a crime as serious as murder.

Despite the underlying social rules, the people of the city tend to be quite polite. There are tailors on every street and every designer is always happy to work with you. Despite the fact the streets tend to be littered with rich people, the natives are firm believers of treating everybody with the same kindness and respect as they would like to be treated, no matter race, gender, or social class- after all, just like in masqurades, you never know who someone might be under the mask they put on (sometimes the tourists, especially the more... out of touch rich people, don't really pick up on that).

So, what am I struggling with?

The leadership. Is this city run by royals, a council, or by its citizens? Who decides who gets the special tickets? Who owns the 'castle' the masquerade takes place in?

The landscape. Is Alkien a town in mountaintops, a floating city, or what? I know I want it to be elevated, but I also want it to be near water as well? Is it a large New York-like city, or is it smaller, confined to a valley cradled by cliffs?

The magic. Does the Blessing Aurora happen the same day every year, or is it foretold by prophets/magical weathermen? Should there be a specific 'reason' (whether true or not) this city has so much magic in the sky? Was the magic or the city there first?

What is the Gala itself called? What is the name of the castle-like building the ball takes place in? How big is it? How is it used the rest of the year, if it's used at all?

How diverse is this city? How many people come along to Alkien that aren't super rich? Could they make a life for themselves there? What races are most common/most rare?

hhnnnng who wants to help me design a town for dnd

[noisykate]

Catching up with the blog...

Thunderball Grotto, Pigs on the beach…

10 March 2019

The delights of the Bahamas were slow to reveal themselves, but the last few days have been quite special.

We are now further south, in the Exumas. The waters are, as advertised, crystal clear and the most extraordinary colours, from inky blue-black (bottomless, open atlantic), to navy blue (deep) to a pale, iridescent, luminous emerald green (very shallow), through peacock turquoise and every shade of blue. In the sun, the pale emerald green reflects back to the underside of the clouds, changing the sky.

We found the swimming pigs on Pig Beach, and found them slightly bolshie, clearly used to fleecing food from (the many) visitors, and stalking off immediately once the food has gone. We donated two carrots, cut up small and placed in their feed troughs, as advised, and left them to it.  They keep pestering you until you show them your empty hands, then they just walk off. Hiding food in your pockets is not advised.

Thunderball Grotto was an unexpected delight – it was high tide when we arrived, and the current through the cave is strong, so the guide-led tourist hordes of non-swimmers stay away until the slightly more benign conditions which apply at low tide. We had this special place entirely to ourselves for nearly an hour. It is just an outcropping of rock, worn away from all sides into an open  honeycomb of tunnels and caves, so that there is now a large cave – perhaps 10m diameter- in the middle of the rock, with holes through to the water from each side, and to the sky above. In the sunlight, these transform the place into the most amazing light theatre, the sun shafting down from above, and up through the underwater holes to the outside. Swimming in is slightly daunting, with strong currents outside pushing you against the rock walls, and once inside you get swirled around a little, but – it is magical. Full of fish, although the coral has suffered from too many visitors.

And I saw a shark. I dropped off the dinghy for a little swim on the way back to the boat after the grotto, and there it was, about 7’ long, its nose wedged under a rock so it could sleep. It swam away.  Slightly disconcerting how close you can get to them before you spot them. Thankfully, it was a nurse shark, one of the more benign varieties.

The wind has (of course) been from the wrong direction for ages, and we are now against the clock to make distance south and east.  Making progress in the right direction means either (a) risking a grounding against the shallow sand banks of the ‘inside’ or (b) braving the wilder conditions and much bigger waves of the ‘outside’, the open atlantic. We took the inside route for a bit yesterday, and -of course- went aground, stuck solid, bouncing of the hard sand bottom until the tide floated us off. Impossible to judge the depth by eye – you can see pebbles on the bottom in 10m of water.

Later…

13 March 2019

Now in Georgetown, in the company of an anchored fleet of perhaps 300 boats, some of whom of course we know. Lots of americans, on the southern end of their excursion south for the winter. We are meeting up with Chris and CC later – we first meet them on the ICW, in the Dismal Swamp – they rescued us from the appalling NY cop who was in favour of the police being able to shoot anyone without having to account for it. They are down here on a friend’s boat – looking forward to catching up.

Also bumped into John and Sue off Dandelion, last met in Marsh Harbour – they are on the way back to the UK for a flying visit, after an exciting year around Brazil, getting as far as the Beagle Channel around Cape Horn, and the Falklands, which they loved. They plan to go straight back there as soon as they’ve dealt with some business at home, including fitting a diesel heater. Sounds amazing, and very tempting, but the logistics of it put it out of our reach.

It is raining at the moment; still plenty warm enough, but the winds strong enough to keep all but the resolute and time-pressed to stay in the harbour. There is better weather on Friday for heading slightly north of east, which is where we need to go.

Georgetown is a decent little place, much livelier and more interesting than Marsh Harbour, although that could easily be taken as damning with faint praise.

Snorkelling, then a drink at a lovely beach bar. Later, we went out for the evening with Chris and Helen off Tyee, to a bar with live music – great vibe, lots of noise, good music. Even got Mike dancing a bit.  Various musicians, hot-seating through a wide range of instruments, from the ubiquitous oil-can drum, to a timber saw, played with a screwdriver.

Mike is off the boat visiting somebody, I’m here making bread. Movie night later with Chris and Helen.

Internet here is pants, so no idea when this will get posted. I have been trying to ring family on Whatsapp but it is hopelessly broken and delayed, just a frustration.

Later still…

19 March 2019

Now in Clarence Town, on the southern end of Long Island. Another gorgeous emerald green bay, another tiny settlement pretending it is a ‘town’, still no internet.

Chris and Helen have left, heading east to go North around Haiti and the DR, as their insurer does not allow them to visit either place, or Cuba. We hope to meet up with them again on the south coast of Puerto Rico.

There is a posh marina here, catering to the large “sports fishing” boats, which means there is no swimming in the bay, because they clean their catch off the dock there, attracting sharks. We parked the dinghy there to go ashore. The splash from the stern anchor attracted them, half a dozen or so 4-8ft long, all circling the dinghy.  Also saw a 5ft tarpon and a 4ft barracuda circling round.

The marina is very small – space for perhaps 10 boats – but with the shore-based infrastructure (showers, toilets, restaurant, laundry, shop) for many more.  Far too expensive for us and most other cruisers at $2.70 or so per foot per night, all visiting boats anchor out.  The well-stocked shop offers a large range of comically overpriced good, such as baseball caps at $30, packet of biscuits (“cookies”) at $8. The US-registered “sports fishers” are ubiquitous in the Bahamas; some are based here, but many come over from Florida for the season, spend vast amounts in tightly limited hot-spots, with little of their money making its way into the local economy. Under way, they burn fuel at 200-1000 litres per hour, depending on their size and speed. That’s a metric tonne of fuel, per hour. Clearly not a poor-man’s hobby. They don’t seem to have received the memo about global warming.

Ashore, we had to find the immigration office, to ‘fess up that we had inadvertently overstayed our visas by a month. We were expecting a fine, and a wrist-slapping, but no, we were just calmly given a form to extend our visa, and told to backdate it. Bureaucracy at its shining best.

From there, we walked around a bit looking for the bakery. It is too hot for walking for pleasure, so we were pleased to find it at the top of a little hill overlooking the bay, nearer the boat. We chatted for a while with the owner – a lovely black Bahamian, who talked of the difficulties living on such a small island. Her daughter, who clearly had a serious medical problem, perhaps cerebral palsy, lay on a mattress on the floor with a view over the bay – she could have been anywhere from 6 to 20 years old, her limbs twisted and wasted.

The owner said that the illegal immigrants from Haiti and the DR get free health care in the Bahamas, while she has to pay for it.  The issue of health care, and who pays for it and how, is a truly universal problem, and it seems nowhere has it fully ‘cracked’. It is difficult to imagine the day-to-day problems dealing with such a disability, and what opportunities there might be – precious little. Mum is vastly overweight, which clearly brings its own problems. Living with that alone in this heat must be difficult.

We are -again- waiting for weather. There is a spell of ‘northers’ coming through, which will help us heading south. We have – reluctantly- given up on visiting Cuba. The delays in Marsh Harbour, and our slow progress since, have left us with no time.  I may have said that already. Very disappointing, but – maybe next time!

One useful outcome – the dinghy chaps (cover) was falling to bits, so we took it off and patched it. As usual, this tedious job was worse in the contemplation than the event, and the cover is now re-fitted with an orange stripe around the bump strip, made from a piece of tan sailcloth donated by Sarah when we set off. Took most of the day, both of us pulling and pushing at various bits of fabric and the machine, and much swearing. My little domestic sewing machine is not really man enough for these heavy fabrics, and kept breaking threads and skipping stiches. May donate it to someone in Haiti or the DR, and save up for a Sailrite.

26 March 2019

We waited for the promised weather to head south, and eventually did so in company with Dandelion. We stopped for a night in Little Harbour, just to the south. As with so many of these gorgeous little bays, the beach was littered with rubbish, and although inviting from afar, felt quite squalid close up. The entrance, on the way in, was ‘ok’: fairly flat, and a clear path through. When the time came to leave, it looked horrendous, huge waves breaking 5’ high all the way across. At high tide, these drop to a more manageable size, and we threaded our way out without difficulty. Dandelion’s radio message afterwards summed it up: “Changed your trousers yet?”.  Once past the narrow entrance, the sea state was fine.

From there, we headed south together, to the ‘Windward Passage’, the route through between Haiti and Cuba. Dandelion then headed right for Cuba, while we turned left to head along the south coast of Haiti and the DR, hoping that the more benign conditions here would allow us to motor-sail against the easterly trades. Shortly after turning the corner, our engine stopped. The lift pump, we think. So we are now plodding at 2-3kts along the entire southern coast of Hispaniola. 400 miles. That’s about 130 hours at 3 kts. 10 and a half days. Except we are tacking, so that makes the distance getting on for 800 miles. 21 days. That’s far longer than it took us to cross the Atlantic. Bored. Really, quite bored.

The only upside is a renewed appreciation of the epic voyagers of old, who explored these coasts making their own charts as they went, and boats unable to go to windward.

1 April 2019

We are in Barahona, a town on the south coast of the DR.

We rounded the point on the south of the island, and were gamely slogging north east in hopelessly light winds, making 1-2 knots, when another sailing boat hove into sight – first we have seen in days. Thankfully, “Mischief”, a Brazilian registered Moody 425, took pity on us and took us in tow and we made the last 40 miles in a mere 12 hours. It would have taken us 2-3 days on our own.

In the belief that our problem was the lift pump, we removed and cleaned said item, and refitted it, to find no improvement. Engine still wont start.

We spent a day hiking around Barahona trying to find a shop which stocked electric lift pumps. Eventually, we gave up and enlisted the help of a random stranger in the Ajuntament office, who in turn recruited a girl from upstairs who spoke “some English”. In fact, she has been to evening classes for 3 months, so her English is about as good as our Spanish. But we stuck with it, and the two of them drove us around town several times trying to locate the right part. A false dawn when they rocked up to a shop selling domestic generators, so our translation was clearly ‘off’, but we got there in the end. Sadly, though, the new lift pump was no more successful than the old one at getting the engine started.

The lovely Chester, a beautiful Honduran fisherman sharing a ride with an Aussie on another ‘project’ boat, spent the day in the engine bay, curled up in an implausibly small space which I cannot fit into, bleeding various pipes trying to sort out our problem. With some long-distance help from Mike’s mate Dave in the UK, we loosened and tightened various connections, trying to eliminate trapped air. We failed. The latest working hypothesis is that we may have stripped the drive on the pump, so we are now well outside the scope of our competence.

So, we are now in the little harbour awaiting Roberto, a local engineer, who allegedly knows about boat diesels.  The word “manyana” (cant find the squiggly ‘n’ sign) has cropped up several times. Hope it really does mean ‘tomorrow’.

We are safe here, the harbour is good, there are shops and banks nearby, and we have company in Steve and Chester, so it could be a lot worse. It could also be quite a lot better, as we are both deeply sick of breaking down, and both not at all keen on repeating our Marsh Harbour experience, an open-ended delay with no control over our own destiny.

1 April 2019

Perhaps not an auspicious day to go shopping for a new sim card so we can be in touch with the world without relying on the café, but we gave it a shot. After a 2-hour wait in the ‘Claro’ shop, with a huge crowd of patient locals, we ended up speaking to somebody who said, basically – yes its easy, but you have to come back tomorrow with your passport.

Now waiting for Roberto, and another man who took the washing away, promising its return at 2pm. Didn’t count the dirty pants before letting it all go, but I hope we get most of it back; our stash of clothes is looking thinner than it was.

The dinghy access to town is perhaps worth a mention – we can get out at the “marina”, but it is then a mile-long slog into town, and it is really too hot for that to be any fun. The only alternative is to tie up outside the port office, and scramble up the 6’ high dock over a tractor tyre. A bit of a game with a swell running, the dinghy dancing up and down by 2’. Getting better with practice, though. At least the water is nice and warm.

The books describe this place as a ‘busy port’, but we have been here several days now, and have yet to see a ship, other than the three permanently moored here, apparently abandoned.

6pm – in the bar again. I know, life is hard. Waiting for somebody to do something, not quite sure what. The engineer who diagnosed the injector pump problem is playing dominoes on the next table. No sign that he is intending to take the pump off tonight. Might be waiting for ‘Los Hondura’ to get back, because he is younger and thinner, and more bendy, and can perhaps get the thing out without dismantling the boat around it.

I managed to talk to some of the family via Whatsapp- miraculous, being able to talk from a beach café in a country like this, via the internet. Not perfect - quite a delay on the line, and it drops out every now and again - but fantastic even so. 

[kimdaily]

The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas

From The Wind’s Twelve Quarters: Short Stories by Ursula Le Guin

With a clamor of bells that set the swallows soaring, the Festival of Summer came to the city Omelas, bright-towered by the sea. The rigging of the boats in harbor sparkled with flags. In the streets between houses with red roofs and painted walls, between old moss-grown gardens and under avenues of trees, past great parks and public buildings, processions moved. Some were decorous: old people in long stiff robes of mauve and grey, grave master workmen, quiet, merry women carrying their babies and chatting as they walked. In other streets the music beat faster, a shimmering of gong and tambourine, and the people went dancing, the procession was a dance. Children dodged in and out, their high calls rising like the swallows’ crossing flights, over the music and the singing. All the processions wound towards the north side of the city, where on the great water-meadow called the Green’ Fields boys and girls, naked in the bright air, with mudstained feet and ankles and long, lithe arms, exercised their restive horses before the race. The horses wore no gear at all but a halter without bit. Their manes were braided with streamers of silver, gold, and green. They flared their nostrils and pranced and boasted to one another; they were vastly excited, the horse being the only animal who has adopted our ceremonies as his own. Far off to the north and west the mountains stood up half encircling Omelas on her bay. The air of morning was so clear that the snow still crowning the Eighteen Peaks burned with white-gold fire across the miles of sunlit air, under the dark blue of the sky. There was just enough wind to make the banners that marked the racecourse snap and flutter now and then. In the silence of the broad green meadows one could hear the music winding through the city streets, farther and nearer and ever approaching, a cheerful faint sweetness of the air that from time to time trembled and gathered together and broke out into the great joyous clanging of the bells.

full text below  

Joyous! How is one to tell about joy? How describe the citizens of Omelas? 

They were not simple folk, you see, though they were happy. But we do not say the words of cheer much any more. All smiles have become archaic. Given a description such as this one tends to make certain assumptions. Given a description such as this one tends to look next for the King, mounted on a splendid stallion and surrounded by his noble knights, or perhaps in a golden litter borne by great-muscled slaves. But there was no king. They did not use swords, or keep slaves. They were not barbarians. I do not know the rules and laws of their society, but I suspect that they were singularly few. As they did without monarchy and slavery, so they also got on without the stock exchange, the advertisement, the secret police, and the bomb. Yet I repeat that these were not simple folk, not dulcet shepherds, noble savages, bland utopians. They were not less complex than us. The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can’t lick ‘em, join 'em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost lost hold; we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy. How can I tell you about the people of Omelas? They were not naive and happy children – though their children were, in fact, happy. They were mature, intelligent, passionate adults whose lives were not wretched. O miracle! but I wish I could describe it better. I wish I could convince you.

Omelas sounds in my words like a city in a fairy tale, long ago and far away, once upon a time. Perhaps it would be best if you imagined it as your own fancy bids, assuming it will rise to the occasion, for certainly I cannot suit you all. For instance, how about technology? I think that there would be no cars or helicopters in and above the streets; this follows from the fact that the people of Omelas are happy people. Happiness is based on a just discrimination of what is necessary, what is neither necessary nor destructive, and what is destructive. In the middle category, however – that of the unnecessary but undestructive, that of comfort, luxury, exuberance, etc. – they could perfectly well have central heating, subway trains,. washing machines, and all kinds of marvelous devices not yet invented here, floating light-sources, fuelless power, a cure for the common cold. Or they could have none of that: it doesn’t matter. As you like it. I incline to think that people from towns up and down the coast have been coming in to Omelas during the last days before the Festival on very fast little trains and double-decked trams, and that the train station of Omelas is actually the handsomest building in town, though plainer than the magnificent Farmers’ Market. But even granted trains, I fear that Omelas so far strikes some of you as goody-goody. Smiles, bells, parades, horses, bleh. If so, please add an orgy. If an orgy would help, don’t hesitate. Let us not, however, have temples from which issue beautiful nude priests and priestesses already half in ecstasy and ready to copulate with any man or woman, lover or stranger who desires union with the deep godhead of the blood, although that was my first idea. But really it would be better not to have any temples in Omelas – at least, not manned temples. Religion yes, clergy no. Surely the beautiful nudes can just wander about, offering themselves like divine souffles to the hunger of the needy and the rapture of the flesh. Let them join the processions. Let tambourines be struck above the copulations, and the glory of desire be proclaimed upon the gongs, and (a not unimportant point) let the offspring of these delightful rituals be beloved and looked after by all. One thing I know there is none of in Omelas is guilt. But what else should there be? I thought at first there were no drugs, but that is puritanical. For those who like it, the faint insistent sweetness of drooz may perfume the ways of the city, drooz which first brings a great lightness and brilliance to the mind and limbs, and then after some hours a dreamy languor, and wonderful visions at last of the very arcana and inmost secrets of the Universe, as well as exciting the pleasure of sex beyond all belief; and it is not habit-forming. For more modest tastes I think there ought to be beer. What else, what else belongs in the joyous city? The sense of victory, surely, the celebration of courage. But as we did without clergy, let us do without soldiers. The joy built upon successful slaughter is not the right kind of joy; it will not do; it is fearful and it is trivial. A boundless and generous contentment, a magnanimous triumph felt not against some outer enemy but in communion with the finest and fairest in the souls of all men everywhere and the splendor of the world’s summer; this is what swells the hearts of the people of Omelas, and the victory they celebrate is that of life. I really don’t think many of them need to take drooz.

Most of the processions have reached the Green Fields by now. A marvelous smell of cooking goes forth from the red and blue tents of the provisioners. The faces of small children are amiably sticky; in the benign grey beard of a man a couple of crumbs of rich pastry are entangled. The youths and girls have mounted their horses and are beginning to group around the starting line of the course. An old woman, small, fat, and laughing, is passing out flowers from a basket, and tall young men, wear her flowers in their shining hair. A child of nine or ten sits at the edge of the crowd, alone, playing on a wooden flute. People pause to listen, and they smile, but they do not speak to him, for he never ceases playing and never sees them, his dark eyes wholly rapt in the sweet, thin magic of the tune.

He finishes, and slowly lowers his hands holding the wooden flute. 

As if that little private silence were the signal, all at once a trumpet sounds from the pavilion near the starting line: imperious, melancholy, piercing. The horses rear on their slender legs, and some of them neigh in answer. Sober-faced, the young riders stroke the horses’ necks and soothe them, whispering, “Quiet, quiet, there my beauty, my hope… .” They begin to form in rank along the starting line. The crowds along the racecourse are like a field of grass and flowers in the wind. The Festival of Summer has begun. Do you believe? 

Do you accept the festival, the city, the joy? No? Then let me describe one more thing.

In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of one of its spacious private homes, there is a room. It has one locked door, and no window. A little light seeps in dustily between cracks in the boards, secondhand from a cobwebbed window somewhere across the cellar. In one corner of the little room a couple of mops, with stiff, clotted, foul-smelling heads, stand near a rusty bucket. The floor is dirt, a little damp to the touch, as cellar dirt usually is. The room is about three paces long and two wide: a mere broom closet or disused tool room. In the room a child is sitting. It could be a boy or a girl. It looks about six, but actually is nearly ten. It is feeble-minded. Perhaps it was born defective or perhaps it has become imbecile through fear, malnutrition, and neglect. It picks its nose and occasionally fumbles vaguely with its toes or genitals, as it sits haunched in the corner farthest from the bucket and the two mops. It is afraid of the mops. It finds them horrible. It shuts its eyes, but it knows the mops are still standing there; and the door is locked; and nobody will come. The door is always locked; and nobody ever comes, except that sometimes-the child has no understanding of time or interval – sometimes the door rattles terribly and opens, and a person, or several people, are there. One of them may come and kick the child to make it stand up. The others never come close, but peer in at it with frightened, disgusted eyes. The food bowl and the water jug are hastily filled, the door is locked, the eyes disappear. The people at the door never say anything, but the child, who has not always lived in the tool room, and can remember sunlight and its mother’s voice, sometimes speaks. “I will be good,” it says. “Please let me out. I will be good!” They never answer. The child used to scream for help at night, and cry a good deal, but now it only makes a kind of whining, “eh-haa, eh-haa,” and it speaks less and less often. It is so thin there are no calves to its legs; its belly protrudes; it lives on a half-bowl of corn meal and grease a day. It is naked. Its buttocks and thighs are a mass of festered sores, as it sits in its own excrement continually.

They all know it is there, all the people of Omelas. Some of them have come to see it, others are content merely to know it is there. They all know that it has to be there. Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, depend wholly on this child’s abominable misery. 

This is usually explained to children when they are between eight and twelve, whenever they seem capable of understanding; and most of those who come to see the child are young people, though often enough an adult comes, or comes back, to see the child. No matter how well the matter has been explained to them, these young spectators are always shocked and sickened at the sight. They feel disgust, which they had thought themselves superior to. They feel anger, outrage, impotence, despite all the explanations. They would like to do something for the child. But there is nothing they can do. If the child were brought up into the sunlight out of that vile place, if it were cleaned and fed and comforted, that would be a good thing, indeed; but if it were done, in that day and hour all the prosperity and beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and be destroyed. Those are the terms. To exchange all the goodness and grace of every life in Omelas for that single, small improvement: to throw away the happiness of thousands for the chance of the happiness of one: that would be to let guilt within the walls indeed.

The terms are strict and absolute; there may not even be a kind word spoken to the child.

Often the young people go home in tears, or in a tearless rage, when they have seen the child and faced this terrible paradox. They may brood over it for weeks or years. But as time goes on they begin to realize that even if the child could be released, it would not get much good of its freedom: a little vague pleasure of warmth and food, no doubt, but little more. It is too degraded and imbecile to know any real joy. It has been afraid too long ever to be free of fear. Its habits are too uncouth for it to respond to humane treatment. Indeed, after so long it would probably be wretched without walls about it to protect it, and darkness for its eyes, and its own excrement to sit in. Their tears at the bitter injustice dry when they begin to perceive the terrible justice of reality, and to accept it. Yet it is their tears and anger, the trying of their generosity and the acceptance of their helplessness, which are perhaps the true source of the splendor of their lives. Theirs is no vapid, irresponsible happiness. They know that they, like the child, are not free. They know compassion. It is the existence of the child, and their knowledge of its existence, that makes possible the nobility of their architecture, the poignancy of their music, the profundity of their science. It is because of the child that they are so gentle with children. They know that if the wretched one were not there snivelling in the dark, the other one, the flute-player, could make no joyful music as the young riders line up in their beauty for the race in the sunlight of the first morning of summer.

Now do you believe in them? Are they not more credible? But there is one more thing to tell, and this is quite incredible. 

At times one of the adolescent girls or boys who go to see the child does not go home to weep or rage, does not, in fact, go home at all. Sometimes also a man or woman much older falls silent for a day or two, and then leaves home. These people go out into the street, and walk down the street alone. They keep walking, and walk straight out of the city of Omelas, through the beautiful gates. They keep walking across the farmlands of Omelas. Each one goes alone, youth or girl man or woman. Night falls; the traveler must pass down village streets, between the houses with yellow-lit windows, and on out into the darkness of the fields. Each alone, they go west or north, towards the mountains. They go on. They leave Omelas, they walk ahead into the darkness, and they do not come back. The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible that it does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.

[observationsfromomelas-blog]

The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas (From The Wind's Twelve Quarters: Short Stories by Ursula Le Guin )

With a clamor of bells that set the swallows soaring, the Festival of Summer came to the city Omelas, bright-towered by the sea. The rigging of the boats in harbor sparkled with flags. In the streets between houses with red roofs and painted walls, between old moss-grown gardens and under avenues of trees, past great parks and public buildings, processions moved. Some were decorous: old people in long stiff robes of mauve and grey, grave master workmen, quiet, merry women carrying their babies and chatting as they walked. In other streets the music beat faster, a shimmering of gong and tambourine, and the people went dancing, the procession was a dance. 

Children dodged in and out, their high calls rising like the swallows' crossing flights, over the music and the singing. All the processions wound towards the north side of the city, where on the great water-meadow called the Green' Fields boys and girls, naked in the bright air, with mudstained feet and ankles and long, lithe arms, exercised their restive horses before the race. The horses wore no gear at all but a halter without bit. Their manes were braided with streamers of silver, gold, and green. They flared their nostrils and pranced and boasted to one another; they were vastly excited, the horse being the only animal who has adopted our ceremonies as his own. 

Far off to the north and west the mountains stood up half encircling Omelas on her bay. The air of morning was so clear that the snow still crowning the Eighteen Peaks burned with white-gold fire across the miles of sunlit air, under the dark blue of the sky. There was just enough wind to make the banners that marked the racecourse snap and flutter now and then. In the silence of the broad green meadows one could hear the music winding through the city streets, farther and nearer and ever approaching, a cheerful faint sweetness of the air that from time to time trembled and gathered together and broke out into the great joyous clanging of the bells. Joyous! How is one to tell about joy? 

How describe the citizens of Omelas? They were not simple folk, you see, though they were happy. But we do not say the words of cheer much any more. All smiles have become archaic. Given a description such as this one tends to make certain assumptions. Given a description such as this one tends to look next for the King, mounted on a splendid stallion and surrounded by his noble knights, or perhaps in a golden litter borne by great-muscled slaves. But there was no king. They did not use swords, or keep slaves. They were not barbarians. I do not know the rules and laws of their society, but I suspect that they were singularly few. As they did without monarchy and slavery, so they also got on without the stock exchange, the advertisement, the secret police, and the bomb. Yet I repeat that these were not simple folk, not dulcet shepherds, noble savages, bland utopians. They were not less complex than us. The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can't lick 'em, join 'em. If it hurts, repeat it. 

But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost lost hold; we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy. How can I tell you about the people of Omelas? They were not naive and happy children – though their children were, in fact, happy. They were mature, intelligent, passionate adults whose lives were not wretched. O miracle! but I wish I could describe it better. I wish I could convince you. Omelas sounds in my words like a city in a fairy tale, long ago and far away, once upon a time. Perhaps it would be best if you imagined it as your own fancy bids, assuming it will rise to the occasion, for certainly I cannot suit you all. For instance, how about technology? I think that there would be no cars or helicopters in and above the streets; this follows from the fact that the people of Omelas are happy people. Happiness is based on a just discrimination of what is necessary, what is neither necessary nor destructive, and what is destructive. In the middle category, however – that of the unnecessary but undestructive, that of comfort, luxury, exuberance, etc. -- they could perfectly well have central heating, subway trains,. washing machines, and all kinds of marvelous devices not yet invented here, floating light-sources, fuelless power, a cure for the common cold. Or they could have none of that: it doesn't matter. As you like it. I incline to think that people from towns up and down the coast have been coming in to Omelas during the last days before the Festival on very fast little trains and double-decked trams, and that the train station of Omelas is actually the handsomest building in town, though plainer than the magnificent Farmers' Market. But even granted trains, I fear that Omelas so far strikes some of you as goody-goody. Smiles, bells, parades, horses, bleh. If so, please add an orgy. If an orgy would help, don't hesitate. Let us not, however, have temples from which issue beautiful nude priests and priestesses already half in ecstasy and ready to copulate with any man or woman, lover or stranger who desires union with the deep godhead of the blood, although that was my first idea. But really it would be better not to have any temples in Omelas – at least, not manned temples. Religion yes, clergy no. Surely the beautiful nudes can just wander about, offering themselves like divine souffles to the hunger of the needy and the rapture of the flesh. Let them join the processions. Let tambourines be struck above the copulations, and the glory of desire be proclaimed upon the gongs, and (a not unimportant point) let the offspring of these delightful rituals be beloved and looked after by all. 

One thing I know there is none of in Omelas is guilt. But what else should there be? I thought at first there were no drugs, but that is puritanical. For those who like it, the faint insistent sweetness of drooz may perfume the ways of the city, drooz which first brings a great lightness and brilliance to the mind and limbs, and then after some hours a dreamy languor, and wonderful visions at last of the very arcana and inmost secrets of the Universe, as well as exciting the pleasure of sex beyond all belief; and it is not habit-forming. For more modest tastes I think there ought to be beer. What else, what else belongs in the joyous city? The sense of victory, surely, the celebration of courage. But as we did without clergy, let us do without soldiers. The joy built upon successful slaughter is not the right kind of joy; it will not do; it is fearful and it is trivial. A boundless and generous contentment, a magnanimous triumph felt not against some outer enemy but in communion with the finest and fairest in the souls of all men everywhere and the splendor of the world's summer; this is what swells the hearts of the people of Omelas, and the victory they celebrate is that of life. I really don't think many of them need to take drooz. Most of the processions have reached the Green Fields by now. A marvelous smell of cooking goes forth from the red and blue tents of the provisioners. The faces of small children are amiably sticky; in the benign grey beard of a man a couple of crumbs of rich pastry are entangled. 

The youths and girls have mounted their horses and are beginning to group around the starting line of the course. An old woman, small, fat, and laughing, is passing out flowers from a basket, and tall young men, wear her flowers in their shining hair. A child of nine or ten sits at the edge of the crowd, alone, playing on a wooden flute. People pause to listen, and they smile, but they do not speak to him, for he never ceases playing and never sees them, his dark eyes wholly rapt in the sweet, thin magic of the tune. He finishes, and slowly lowers his hands holding the wooden flute. As if that little private silence were the signal, all at once a trumpet sounds from the pavilion near the starting line: imperious, melancholy, piercing. The horses rear on their slender legs, and some of them neigh in answer. Sober-faced, the young riders stroke the horses' necks and soothe them, whispering, "Quiet, quiet, there my beauty, my hope. . . ." They begin to form in rank along the starting line. The crowds along the racecourse are like a field of grass and flowers in the wind. 

The Festival of Summer has begun. Do you believe? Do you accept the festival, the city, the joy? No? Then let me describe one more thing. In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of one of its spacious private homes, there is a room. It has one locked door, and no window. A little light seeps in dustily between cracks in the boards, secondhand from a cobwebbed window somewhere across the cellar. In one corner of the little room a couple of mops, with stiff, clotted, foul-smelling heads, stand near a rusty bucket. The floor is dirt, a little damp to the touch, as cellar dirt usually is. The room is about three paces long and two wide: a mere broom closet or disused tool room. In the room a child is sitting. It could be a boy or a girl. It looks about six, but actually is nearly ten. It is feeble-minded. Perhaps it was born defective or perhaps it has become imbecile through fear, malnutrition, and neglect. It picks its nose and occasionally fumbles vaguely with its toes or genitals, as it sits haunched in the corner farthest from the bucket and the two mops. It is afraid of the mops. It finds them horrible. It shuts its eyes, but it knows the mops are still standing there; and the door is locked; and nobody will come. The door is always locked; and nobody ever comes, except that sometimes-the child has no understanding of time or interval – sometimes the door rattles terribly and opens, and a person, or several people, are there. One of them may come and kick the child to make it stand up. The others never come close, but peer in at it with frightened, disgusted eyes. The food bowl and the water jug are hastily filled, the door is locked, the eyes disappear. The people at the door never say anything, but the child, who has not always lived in the tool room, and can remember sunlight and its mother's voice, sometimes speaks. "I will be good," it says. "Please let me out. I will be good!" They never answer. 

The child used to scream for help at night, and cry a good deal, but now it only makes a kind of whining, "eh-haa, eh-haa," and it speaks less and less often. It is so thin there are no calves to its legs; its belly protrudes; it lives on a half-bowl of corn meal and grease a day. It is naked. Its buttocks and thighs are a mass of festered sores, as it sits in its own excrement continually. They all know it is there, all the people of Omelas. Some of them have come to see it, others are content merely to know it is there. They all know that it has to be there. Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, depend wholly on this child's abominable misery. This is usually explained to children when they are between eight and twelve, whenever they seem capable of understanding; and most of those who come to see the child are young people, though often enough an adult comes, or comes back, to see the child. No matter how well the matter has been explained to them, these young spectators are always shocked and sickened at the sight. They feel disgust, which they had thought themselves superior to. They feel anger, outrage, impotence, despite all the explanations. They would like to do something for the child. But there is nothing they can do. If the child were brought up into the sunlight out of that vile place, if it were cleaned and fed and comforted, that would be a good thing, indeed; but if it were done, in that day and hour all the prosperity and beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and be destroyed. 

Those are the terms. To exchange all the goodness and grace of every life in Omelas for that single, small improvement: to throw away the happiness of thousands for the chance of the happiness of one: that would be to let guilt within the walls indeed. The terms are strict and absolute; there may not even be a kind word spoken to the child. Often the young people go home in tears, or in a tearless rage, when they have seen the child and faced this terrible paradox. They may brood over it for weeks or years. But as time goes on they begin to realize that even if the child could be released, it would not get much good of its freedom: a little vague pleasure of warmth and food, no doubt, but little more. It is too degraded and imbecile to know any real joy. It has been afraid too long ever to be free of fear. Its habits are too uncouth for it to respond to humane treatment. Indeed, after so long it would probably be wretched without walls about it to protect it, and darkness for its eyes, and its own excrement to sit in. Their tears at the bitter injustice dry when they begin to perceive the terrible justice of reality, and to accept it. Yet it is their tears and anger, the trying of their generosity and the acceptance of their helplessness, which are perhaps the true source of the splendour of their lives. Theirs is no vapid, irresponsible happiness. They know that they, like the child, are not free. They know compassion. It is the existence of the child, and their knowledge of its existence, that makes possible the nobility of their architecture, the poignancy of their music, the profundity of their science. It is because of the child that they are so gentle with children. They know that if the wretched one were not there snivelling in the dark, the other one, the flute-player, could make no joyful music as the young riders line up in their beauty for the race in the sunlight of the first morning of summer. Now do you believe in them? Are they not more credible? But there is one more thing to tell, and this is quite incredible. 

At times one of the adolescent girls or boys who go to see the child does not go home to weep or rage, does not, in fact, go home at all. Sometimes also a man or woman much older falls silent for a day or two, and then leaves home. These people go out into the street, and walk down the street alone. They keep walking, and walk straight out of the city of Omelas, through the beautiful gates. They keep walking across the farmlands of Omelas. Each one goes alone, youth or girl man or woman. Night falls; the traveler must pass down village streets, between the houses with yellow-lit windows, and on out into the darkness of the fields. Each alone, they go west or north, towards the mountains. They go on. They leave Omelas, they walk ahead into the darkness, and they do not come back. The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible that it does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.

[marcosoropoet]

Cracked Mirror Express

Nihilistic utter vivid change in direction of dimensions & iterations, zero blank black and white advertisements, smiling brightly, diamond teeth one of many ornaments in the aerial earth street tableau. hit and crack ice.and breath air again. in the s t r e e t, loudly over the phone, one of many ornaments in the tableau.thoughts unreal fold fakeout grimace gold pop-up packed unreal fakeout grimace unreal as it gets. retro insignia. spatial disorientation distress. the earth is far from us now. glassy in spiral silver sky.what was far off, is now still. "thought-speech processing!". — cried a blue melancholy mood rider. knocking. A weird knock on the door at 1am. ...street's slanted stoner, distorted soundwave cul-de-sac ice ricochet echo heard by a loner at the window curtain watching it all develop, not knowing. traffic cop waved at a glass storefront. I walked barefoot on cold gravel, big bouncing ball & sinister sun-drenched frown. Loose and lurking. Curious in an alien subculture. Flash of earth-mottled sapphire coalesced. Loud heavy rush hour traffic & rain, re-loading, heard in the background, freefalling static of radioing voices now...sub-quantum microcosm...is deflecting soft phased-in fog spillover huge pillow pullover at machine's excursion of anti-wave mimeograph soft star implosion, chilling atmospheric report that in that area of the universe thought reversal refracts scratched movie iteration subtext holographic meme fractal expanding in neo-organic palette, 'it's just us now, talking': 'there's nothing here' nods. — ...besides, no one else. — recording continues... sunlight world borderless unhid coherent convenient unceasing retrieving alien gusts soot & ash pile up grey-powder injured heroic caricatures freefall skydivers in faux flame.astronauts walking electrifying rocknroll dust silhouette neon day-glo haywire street festival vibe, *heavy crowd*, littered with weathered hype-weary crooks and soapy cubist women, they throw plastic dice at the wall, the same boulder is pushed again up the side of the city hill top, the sun sets purple and a gold falling away of cracked blood cirrus spatter — O violent red bird you are true beauty dark rose tattoo flung oblong eclipsing sideways to running zebra, leopard and tiger slashing deeply. the atmosphere is quietly my own minus moon opal fires, prisms, refractions. I can think clearly again. the ancient burning blue opal suspended in a galaxy of glass. exponential. fractal. tactile. slow sunshine spotlight nano-collision, flashing auras of outer-spatial slow motion frozen tunnel monolithic, sideways moons celestial composure, bright yellow slush rushing cloud black, copper tea fog sepia burnt-out time fabric of sleazy area that always seems heavy with clouds & old houses, the first tree was hard to yank out...upward cranking claw let loose heavy tree roots viscerally tingling in mid-air — hazy single teeth-yellow lightbulb smile goes on and off from across the sliding street-planet irradiating, in a vacillating shell of black matter crystal grid specks colliding flashing space slow-out motion sideways moons glow in an aura more photographs brightly behind the train yards in the dark blue of gaussian night — smell bitter atmosphere burnt-out, off the ground, off the sky, the singular rainfall pattering when I first woke scattering leaves, clear, unstill. and lift my head up off the ground to signal a single frame of pristine black and white cinéma vérité that transfixed a subculture of Ultimate Public Freakout Compilations. Searing rays of day hurt my cloaked eyes blue morning parking lot, large section of sky and interstate, motel melancholy, moonlight sonata is playing from the painter's window, outside the dawning street window the harsh blare and traffic is iron and crystal loud horn ruse of sonic crack-up. loud smoke ray blasts green velveteen wall — dark-sorrow and hand shadow shades brow — pressed bruised stone of sun and moon — outside, the sudden chill fills up my nose... heh-heh-heh — iguanid horror movie hit unpacking road-kill frequency; unpack your shit & get the fuck out. acute missing sense of psychotic spider time atrium overgrows metaphysical schizoid tension & unease...release mind-boggling algorithm. Sixties suitcase of suds, scarabs and pads. Light is unguent in thick rays of hallway dust faces seem distorted and overexposed one real face flashes away quickly in the mirror very dim: black hole hung vacuum bolts of purple textile bending fuzz-wa vibration & frequency, slung hard vacuum tugs black pencil lines, mere equations froth down incremental moss alley portals; jump-cut - heh-heh-heh, I capture overwrought cracks fissures vibrations express mirror off peel out yeah yeah yeah the hypersonic parallel brain, which is reason, even amidst splash soapy heady flowers, overblossoming overrun intoxicating inhaling vividly perfumed steam — "momma-momma them serial killahs, was they caught yet"?! The world has slowed, then frozen still. behind the bloody curtains. jewelry sparkles in the refrigerator so that it would feel icy cold on the skin. sunlit rays of bright snowy dust. disturbed circle. hot sun in torn eyes, "gore slime pop-vein freakshow voyeur. whose 3-D pop-open broken brain cork calculates zebra striped can surfaces, flash signals in a spotlight crackdown.c r a c k."ed open./ steady orbiting over flash fire alleys, free of earthly gravity, outstretched arms zoom straight out then landing upright — ultrasharp blue city frequency plug-in incremental voltage surge, night blue strobe vibe ray flashing police cycles, deep house thunderstorm...slid into sweet scars of bitter loneliness & the isolation of unknown jump-cut passengers appearing, blips, on the screens. sound of indistinct industrial manufacturing mixing other ambient workspace noise and generic office chatter in the ultrasharp blue city frequency black clouds come down, icy blanket of blackwood dry ice smoke reverberates sharp genetic tincture crackle of fruit wood burning elixir smoke heavily perfuming the air, in night ice star rays of crystal optic rope .outside. cymbals erupting in metallic sonic splashes, cast iron bells, indigenous whistles, erratic singing overwrought hair-trigger hush hologram love staccato gut razor spills... fuzzy sax winds through a doppelgänger villain stampede. chilling naked digital voice streams entertain; somnambulant patrons wear pajamas in soft noir conveyance stunning day-glo buoyant cinema amusement park. dual scene doldrums & ferris wheels. fake smile again to all the others, nodded casually and took a seat. it rains and silences the street. hunting down a quick fix, saturated in pure red neon syrup. my copper dogfoot bathtub fills with very bright ocean water that ripples in black and white cinema, reflecting a blackshadow dumpster smeared with cracked candles waxy rearview mirror violet gardenia shard fix, blood was everywhere — tucked a dog-eared one way ticket (under the busted mattress) to a ramshackle flip-flop spaceship vulture-sneak city, close by, where dated popular music spins wantonly.people wear their backpack pajama tops backwards & interstellar interstate fused wet grey clouds drip inky newsprint unsparingly. As a blood of sorts. A car drives by squealing water. A huge bridge leaps solidly over brilliant river carnival of bright maroon & green lights toss waves & ignite the dark waters with the same colors. Standing, newspaper slanted, frozen, still, in the aggressive icy wind waiting for the Cracked Mirror Express — a thousand plus strange vivid equations of videos posted is zero blank black and white advertisement smiling brightly, one of many ornaments in the tableau. .hit and crack ice. and breath air again. in the s t r e e t, loudly over the phone, packed thoughts unreal fold fakeout grimace. fake everything in fake boxes. M a t t e r...is as unreal as it g e t s. just moved into the street's slanted distorted soundwave sector. in today's world. o smoke say fog hello lovely, hiding in the deep deep world lizard heat crush. misty ethereal junk trajectory intermittent troubles sporadic razor slashed balloons. the room has a door but it only appears to open and close. everyone trapped laughs pay playing coins floating dice white wiles tent trail salt smell unwinding history of old dry leaves & one cumulus cloud street shone; almanac slant and crack ice b r e a t h  a i r  again in tearing eyes under purple gossamer umbrella, hand-painted stampede crush of small bright-yellow birds fleeing the snow. And the family fire bright, from the silverwood front porch. or...uh... for a long time now. I actualize myself in a 3-D pop-up gig. actualize myself in the street-slant cracked bus safekept belt winter vintage blues though. friendliness is faked loudly over the phone, on the show, found footage in missed glass store stampede-crush outtake. stay-over couch unreal dense-cloud soft, sturdy; better than those pieces of carpet. touch touch touch a blue gray cat walks over me on the couch. one memory flash of a loose moment only good when reflected on. in the actual moment, it was cold, my mouth was hungry and dry in the bitter sunshine crackle winter your schizoid disorder felt colder; bitter and weird to taste the floor. you took an abrupt nap on the kitchen floor a figure folding, bolt of superblack textile crushed down to accordion exit. The unreal dense-soft sofa in the linear world is filling up with harsh bright morning, somehow how do I; can I stretch this out to keep me from the dreaded viper mimic sirens, in the streets, in the rusted-out storefronts of closed cold debriefings, cold metal smashed up to your face, network of seeing stars from a cracked up head. Cracking up in nostalgic melancholy. A big bouncing ball. walk into soft applause. a small yellow bird of anonymous content. white eyes of content, red sun. constellation blue sapphire on the skyline galaxy pulverized stone silt low radioactive, the plastic desert clowns perform inside the big red banjo buzzcut hut. o sleep, no past universe or forward form of day the undisturbed unperceived soft timelessness there. erupting in metallic sonic splash. Hot sun in tearing eyes. A long piss.kill the street-slant.everything is steady. radio static sky zoned-out pieces of obnoxious phoned-in noise tunnel guitar warps lift bent heavy sound rain and deep fresh thunder matrix outburst: crowd. black and white storm drain gush, widens e x p a n s i o n z — e x p a n s i o n x blur background of institutional business paranoia office wall turning veering out to you as pure cinéma-vérité in "organic" blends of light (such as sunlight mixed with fluorescent, etc.) office plants' heads pop up. the cactus with pink flowers. the bonsai. rain and deep fresh thunder matrix outburst: in the crowd. black and white noise scratching, blue sirens screeching fast, flying fists, seizure of vehicle & yes yes free time machine blow out —

[sgtnutmeg-blog]

Floating Heads

They came from the sky and couldn't be destroyed: that's all Patrick knew because that's all that anyone knew about them. He sipped his bitter coffee and looked out the window and checked the weather outside. The roads were dry but the clouds were dark, promising rain for later. He looked at the figures floating above, lazily bobbling west so there was going to be a slight wind chill. Patrick rinsed out his coffee cup and grabbed the shopping list then knocked on his Mums' bedroom door. She'd been in there for 7 months. He hadn't seen her for that long either. "Hey Mum. Going out...: A muted reply came from the door "... Okay hun..." He left the house with an umbrella and shopping bags. ______________________________________________________________

Patrick first heard about them a year and a half ago. He was eating sandwiches his Mum made, watching game-play videos on his laptop while supposedly job searching. He looked at his news feed and saw a link with a strange title:

Floating Heads Spotted

He ignored it, passing it off as one of the many click bait links on his feed. Choosing instead to look at a picture of a model posing as a pin-up girl. Then diverted his attention to a news link concerning gene therapy that treats muscle-wasting disease in dogs. While scrolling through the article, among the advertisements, next to a link describing what he missed in the new comic book movie, was a familiar title:

Alien Heads Floating Above School

He forgot what he was reading and clicked the link. On the paused video he saw exactly what the title read. A human head, the size of a car, floating above a school. It had no neck, its' skin rounded out below the neck; but a long rope of skin hung from it, around 7 feet in length and at the end it looped back up. Like a noose. Patrick played the video. The news reporter talked, he didn't listen, instead skipping down the timeline until it showed the footage. Shaky camera, from a phone, lots of muted yelling, teachers guiding groups of children away from the school quickly and police officers setting up fences around the building. Away from the idle floating head. Patrick looked at its' face and white veiny eyes. Its' hair was cut short, a light colored healed scar on its' chin. But the expression and the way it moved its' face. It was laughing silently and moving its' lips. As if it was talking to an imaginary person. As if it was unaware of where it was. Patrick checked the comment section. People were arguing about how Hollywood was running out of ideas. People praising how creative the viral marketing was, while adding other links to more videos of heads floating around towns. Patrick clicked on one of them. Men in high visibility vest throwing rocks at a floating head. They cheered when a rock landed in its mouth. The head didn't take any notice. This time its' face looked as if it was chewing food, even looked bored. The comment section contained jokes and confusion. Patrick took his plate littered with bread crumbs and tuna and took it to the kitchen. He looked across the street and saw a floating head. He froze. Held onto his plate. He watched. It was floating low, bumping against the house across the street. Long blond hair flowing from the back of its head. Patrick only recognized whose hair it reminded him of when the woman who owned the house stepped outside to confront the head. The head turned to meet her with the exact same expression of shock and horror the woman had. It dived down towards her, her scream was cut off as soon as the heads noose wrapped and tightened around her neck and it shot upwards. Her legs kick, fingers clawing to get under the fleshy noose. Patrick watched them go higher and higher. The heads' face  twisted and the mouth was as wide as it could go. White eyes wide open. Then the body stopped flailing and the face stopped. It floated away with the wind. Patrick laughed and clasped his mouth to stop.

______________________________________________________________

Months went by with Patrick and a lot of other people doing the same thing. Barricaded in their homes and arguing on the internet. Any news coverage not talking about the Heads were ignored and forgotten. Countless videos with differing explanations on how the Heads worked, their purpose, how to avoid them, how to fight them back. Videos of authorities trying to catch them. No one tried attacking them anymore. Axes, guns, bricks, arrows, hair spray, missiles, pepper spray, sticks had no affect on them. Not even a scratch. They never ate or drank or even breathed. They all now wore an anxious expression. Worried. Patrick never saw them cry anymore. There used to be video channels of people finding heads with their face and happily running away, playing chase, or filming themselves inside their house with the head outside the window. 'Hanging out with my buddy' as one of the internet personalities would say. Those got popular fast but a lot of the channels stopped producing videos due to the person getting caught, committing suicide, getting bored of the joke or taking the situation seriously. Whenever Patrick looked outside, more heads would be bumping against their owners homes. His Mum's head had found their house. She'd only open the door at night, to collect food Patrick left  for her. Returning a dirty plate from the previous meal. Patrick had given up on persuading her to come out. He only saw her face when he looked out of the window now. ______________________________________________________________

Patrick walked out of the empty dollar store with the shopping bags full of cans. The heads floated above with tiny bodies hanging below them. After seeing his high-school teacher in the sky, he found it easy to continue his life. They didn't bother him as much. He used to worry about his own head finding him but now he tried not to let that bother him. He knew he'd deal with it the only way he could when that happens. He loaded his car with the bags and started driving home. It started to snow. He looked up at the floated hordes of motionless bodies in the sky. Hundreds, if not thousands floating by every day. He felt strangely alone, left out of the group. Like being picked last in gym class. He turned on the window wipers and drove home.