atllta's Stories

Bodies

2008-06-28T23:19:01Z

Crowds chanted as Draimor and Apollo entered their opposite tactic chambers. The stage had been set for this final clash, the lone undefeated combatants, each masters of Bodies.

The rules are not simple, but the laws of the game are; gravity and attraction. Far below the chambers it sat, a massive spherical playing field, the surface covered by billions of titanium ball bearings. Stabilized in mid-air, its undulating nature interrupted only by granite slabs anchored to the North and South poles.

These slabs, and the playing field itself, are the key to Bodies.

Draimor activated the tactic holoscreen. With it he’s able to monitor visualizations of the sphere, control his granite pieces and manipulate the gravtable.

A thousand meters across the stadium, Apollo was also busy preparing.

With a jolt, the entire stadium darkened, lights dimmed and the announcer boomed through the stadium walls.

“Bodies begins noooooooow!”

Draimor drew a deep breath, tapped his gravtable and prepared for the ball to drop.

The 3rd Circle

2008-06-22T00:04:36Z

They were slowly puttering over tarmac, an AMC movie theater at the far right end, and a pressing concern about the quality of air conditioning inside Brian’s 1998 Civic.

“I’d rather live in the 3rd circle of hell. At least ‘The Gluttonous’ get a steady diet of heavy rain. Cerberus be damned,” moaned Sheila.

Max blurted, “It’s like living in a marathon runner’s jock strap.”

Their car turned down a row of taken parking spots. The 116 degree weather was making everyone in the Southland empathize with microwaveable meals.

Brian wiped his brow. “How hot does it have to get before humans start evaporating? I’m about to lose consciousness.”

“Just park and let’s get the hell inside,” said Sheila. “I’ll even watch that new M. Night Shyamalan flick, just get me out of here.”

“Noooo,” joked Max. “Anything but that!”

They all laughed, then did a simultaneous ‘uuuggggh.’ After all, their bodies deftly conveyed, Los Angeles should really be a desert.

Their car turned down another row of taken parking spots…

Deep Home Danger

2008-06-04T00:52:19Z

With 15 of his bravest warriors in tow, Mrab burst through the undergrowth.

As he pushed through a final leaf covering, his compound eyes were greeted by Faid’s head being torn in half as nightmarish jaws chewed onwards, down through the soldier’s slender thorax.

Drap was worse. His legs had been ripped from his body and all he could do was twitch and snap his mandibles as the life leaked from his battered form.

Mrab had no time to think about their pain, he’d never seen a beast of this type before. It had to be 20 times the length of his largest soldier. The twisting, coiling body had legs down its entire length and moved with lightning quickness. But that wasn’t his main worry…

It was the jaws. The jaws were massive, snapping viciously at his crew of over-matched Spartans.

Mrab was contemplating his attack plan just as Zord motioned behind the writhing monster. Two more goliaths had emerged East of the clearing.

He signaled Zord to warn Deep Home and prayed for his flank troops to arrive.

Beyond Deep Home

2008-06-03T12:36:44Z

Mrab scuttled up to the top of Deep Home and surveyed the area. Hundreds of thousands of his clan were going about their lives all around him. Some carrying twig scraps and leaves for building, others hauling home food for the little ones.

As one of the eldest soldiers (he was approaching 65 days old soon), it was Mrab’s duty to protect over the sanctuary beyond his menacingly angular mandibles.

The approaching dusk masks something in the distance. Mrab’s antennae are picking up vibrations much too large for his kind.

An approaching army?!

He bounded over his worker cousins and down towards the outskirts of Deep Home. Drap and Faid, the two closest lieutenants, are already racing into the forrest growth. A pure suicide maneuver, letting those behind organize before attacking.

Before he can turn, another 45 soldiers gather behind him and Mrab gives the signals.

Three teams: One to the left flank, one to the right and one to charge head on at whatever beasts await.

Good, he always hated the flank…

21st Century Melancholy

2008-05-29T10:29:43Z

Josh’s eyelids felt the weight of the world. As if tiny people, their feet digging for grip in strained epidermis, were trying to push his upper-cheek and lower-eyebrow together.

He lay there, half wrapped in a duvet cover, staring at the oscillating fan in the corner of the room.

Resigned to his nightly routine, and too stubborn to take an Ambien, Josh boarded the infinite merry-go-round of pre-sleep thought.

It was a dreaded pattern. That point in the night when both he and his brain know that neither is getting any rest, despite any external observations of a static body.

Josh wished he was born in the 1800’s and not suffering from a case of 21st Century Melancholy.

Too many inputs, not enough output. Too many distractions, not enough focus. Stuck in a cycle where community college and ‘To Do’ lists don’t help remove the empty feeling that follows him around on lazy days. On most days.

“I would’ve been a pianist,” Josh said to himself. The oscillating fan slowly, but steadily, disagreed.

So Delicious

2008-05-14T09:04:47Z

Ron slicked back his hair with a fluidity that only years of greasy movement could create. He squinted into the sun and turned to his actors.

“You just don’t get it. We’re not selling the product, we’re selling you. Who gives a shit about a chicken sandwich with some pickles on top? Even if it is free.”

“I sure as shit don’t,” snickered Stacy, “as long as I get paid.”

Stacy is the pierced surfer girl. She stands on Venice beach, with a backdrop of the pacific ocean, carefully holding her sandwich just the way an acting coach taught her.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” muttered Brad. “Who eats these salt-water filled crap muffins anyway?”

Brad, he’s the relaxed 20-something artist, enjoying a chicken sandwich, talking about being special and making you feel like a mega-corporation with analysts that optimize beef processing really care about you.

Ron wasn’t amused. “Shut the fuck up and let’s get this over with.”

The production crew took its place, ready to craft another consumerist masterpiece.

Warm Embrace

2008-04-28T21:50:04Z

Frank stood straight, measuring the distance between himself and the target. Wind was coming in WxSW at 3-5 mph, humidity was high and the shot angled downwards by 28 degrees.

His barely trembling eyelids were the only indication that Frank was focused solely on a man 40 yards in the distance. Breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth, you could almost see wisps of stress float into the mid-afternoon sky.

Frank raised his compound bow. Already straightened, he brought his arm to an exact 90 degree angle and prepared for the shot.

With his body set, he nocked an arrow in the center of his bowstring, placing his index finger above and the middle/ring fingers below.

Frank drew the arrow towards his face, not stopping until he felt his thumb graze his jawbone; tension was now corralled for a deadly means.

His fingers gave way, letting loose a kinetic assault upon the air around him. The slender body of his bow’s companion left, streaking, towards the warm embrace of its future mate.

Oasis of Nectrune

2008-04-23T06:46:04Z

Drant looked through his vizishield into the Oasis of Nectrune. The only way you could call that hellhole an oasis was if you knew the context.

To the newbie spacesetter, this land was nothing but death, made fresh-to-order, any time they felt like venturing too far from a heliochamber.

At least there was the slim chance of survival, unlike other areas. Find a storm cavern, make sure your aquacans aren’t punctured, activate your cocoon mesh (found in all government issued outerwear) and pray the winds don’t shift.

Another storm was approaching. Drant signaled his mining team to pull the thrust units into their storage chambers. There was no point prepping for work until this latest system flowed through.

With newfound competition, humankind has had to settle on more and more inhospitable planets. Without the Titallium that his team supplied, construction would be halted on 3 outer territories.

Drant cursed, it was time to call General Mbendair and tell him the waiting game was back on.

Writer's Curse

2008-04-16T23:28:48Z

Xavier cracked his knuckles, took a deep breath and tried to exhale, smoothly. He couldn’t.

Squinting in the harsh morning sunlight, the air tasted bitter as saltsweat from the back of his hand. His nostrils quivered as they pulled in what small relief the atmosphere was willing to give, mixing ozone with crust and snot in small, vacuumed bursts. The bags under his eyes looked like miniature, monotone bruises and the wrinkle lines by his mouth contorted into a morbidly-amused grimace.

“There’s nothing on the horizon,” he thought. No, not the earth’s. His own. The panorama in front of him contained the neon, twisted skeletals of Magic Mountain sticking out behind the 5 Freeway. It was 5:43AM in Valencia, and the temperature was already approaching 85 degrees.

“Shit,” he said outloud. Took one last look, spit into the dirt and slinked back towards his run-down studio.

Sitting in front of a blank screen, fingers resting on the keyboard, he waited for inspiration to spark their synapses. It never came.

Vicious Attack

2008-04-15T08:04:09Z

“I always liked dogs,” he said, examining the cuts on his left forearm. “These ones just didn’t like me back.”

“That’s all well and good Tyson, but how many dogs we talkin’ here? Five? Ten? Thirty thousand? Shit brother, you look tore up worse’n that piece-uh trash Camaro you got parked out front.”

Tyson shot me a glance. You can insult his wife, his mother and his first born. Just don’t talk bad about the Camaro.

“Don’t be badmouthing Bessie like that.”

I turned to pick up my Bud Lite, “Yea, yea. Get back to the story will ya?”

“Well,” he said, “first off … don’t go to the dog park after workin’ a 4-hour at Rick’s Rib Shack. I snuck some brisket into Bessie before leaving, that might-uh stunk me up even worse.”

“You stupid SOB . So what type-ah breed were they? Rotty? Doberman? A mean ol’ Pit?”

“Nah man,” he said. “They were … uhh … umm … ah Jesus! They were Chihuahuas alright? God damn Chihuahuas. Vicious little fuckers. Got my shins. Toes. You see my arms? Shit!”

I laughed so hard I cried.

Zoulag to the Rescue

2008-04-06T11:01:33Z

Just when I thought things were moving along a fine path, my situation seems to have taken a turn for the worse. First, I’ve got a flamethrower menacingly sputtering in my direction. How rude.

Second, the lifetoid, and to some extent his mate, are obviously delusional. Zombie Capability Cabal? Suicide bomb zombie? The party line?

And I thought I was the one with rotten brains, yikes…

It appears being holed up in a removed, suburban duplex has taken a corrosive toll on their mental health. Months spent enduring a life-fearing state of panicked alert can do that to these frail creatures.

Perhaps there are lifetoids next door that will acquiesce to my flesh-eating proclivities in a more receptive manner?

But alas, back to the task at hand, I need to stall.

“A meeesssaaagggee,” I say, as I start shuffling away from both lifetoids and towards the back hallway window.

As I motion for the pair to follow, my eyes twinkle at the fleeting vision of Zoulag’s shadow slowly coming up the stairs behind them…

Doomed Montague

2008-04-04T23:33:43Z

<snick>

Hmm, it appears I’ve been outflanked by a lifetoid. By the sounds of it, some sort of handheld weaponry is currently engaged and my un-life prospects are quickly diminishing.

How should I play this surprising development? Coy? Anger? Perhaps I should find some common ground and work my way in from there.

Time to turn and face my adversary.

Waaaaaaait,” I groaned. “I waaas once exaactly laaaik uuuuuuuu.”

His weapon carefully acquiesces to gravity’s demands and he encourages me to continue. Silly fly, my silken thread is poised to draw you in.

“Hhuuurrgh.” Damn, that didn’t come out right. Let’s try again, and this time I’ll add some theater.

“Hhuuummmaaaanniittyyy,” I say, as my empathetic expression and upturned hands finalize the delivery. Fit for broadway, if I don’t say so myself.

The lifetoid turns and calls out to it’s mate, “Bella, come out here! Careful! You’re not going to believe this!”

Oh poor, doomed Montague. You know not what lies ahead…

Intelligently Undead

2008-04-04T12:05:13Z

Zoulag was pawing at a window again. He always did that, but it never seemed to work

Me? I’m by the door, groaning, “Brrrraaaaiiinnsss.”

I think the vocal accompaniment to my already ghastly exterior puts a really sophisticated touch on the effect I’m trying to create.

I can smell those delicious lifetoids from here and it’s maddening, but how else can I convey my insatiable hunger?

“Mmmmblleeeaaauuurrgghhhh!”

<crash>

Yes! Zoulag put a brick through the lower window!

“Ggggroockkfllaaarr!”

For those of you unfamiliar with Zombie, I just congratulated him on a job masterfully accomplished. His response isn’t as articulate as I hoped, but that’s what you get for being intelligently undead.

Now, where was I?

Oh yes. Brains.

Zoulag starts canvassing the living room, but me, I’m heading straight upstairs. Slowly, and noisily, I ascend. Contrary to current movie propaganda, undead joints aren’t conducive to full-speed sprinting.

During the climb, I ponder. Just where are my tasty friends hiding…

Herman the Hermit

2008-03-24T11:58:42Z

There once was a man named Herman. An old man that lived on a hill, he never had visitors and was rudely terse with those audacious enough to be considered as such.

There was a singularly perfect word to describe him: hermit.

Everyone in Cheltenham knew of Herman and also knew of his tale. How, you may ask, did a man who conversed with no one have his tale so widely spread?

Your narrator does not pretend to have all answers at the ready. All I may show is this children’s song, heard in school grounds across the township:

A hermit name Herman who lived on a hill.
Surrounded by books ‘til the shelves they did spill.

Treated his books as bad as his folk.
Pulled out their pages and used them for smoke.

Twas late one night when the books they fought back.
Slithered under his bed and built a big stack.

Built floor, and walls, and ceiling to boot.
Trapped old Herman, and darn him, he knew it.

Let out one wail as the pages descended.
Put Herman the hermit in a tale that’s not ended.

Hate or Adore

2008-03-21T15:15:31Z

I’m working on a deadline for a site that’s supposed to go live tonight (Friday, March 21st, 2008) and I’ve been writing through the night on pages of technology copy.

Since I still really want to write a Ficlet, and might be a little low on energy / creativity, I wanted to post a poem that I wrote a few months ago. So, here it is…

—-—-—

Complacency, a seed that should never grow roots in my heart;
Expectations, a self-predestined future that will tear me apart.

Flow like a viscous liquid that adapts to form;
with membrane intact, rework the norm.

Destiny, just a figment in my wildest dreams;
Blood, the payment token if I want to succeed.

Buzzing like a bee with an alcohol rush;
my mind wandering on the canvas with life’s paintbrush.

Choice, the responsibility that lies with us all;
Failure, what happens when I don’t risk the fall.

Knowing my ceiling but never even reaching the floor;
these are my qualities, hate or adore.