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Weekly Contest #352
22nd Jan, ‘22. Yes, my mom is a hostess. No, my mom is not an oversized magical dog, like Nicholas says. First and foremost, Nicholas is a nitwit. Do dogs walk on magpie-like arms and legs? My mom does. And, when angry, with her hands she crushes rocks. Stress relief. Do dogs have antlers? Nope. My mom does, when she is angry and there are neither crushable nor uncrushable rocks anymore. Do dogs have eyes? Do they? Yes, they do. Does my mom? Nope. Nowp. Neeewp. But she still sees everything! She can look inside everyone. If she hears a lie? ...
Weekly Contest #348
I thought my metalloceramic hull was weird for a millisecond before my subconscious, stealthily yet swiftly, made me forget it, leaving me scarcely grasping this slippery observation. I chose to become awfully angry at my body for stealing my thoughts. It helped somewhat to amass my attention into an acquiescent beam, which I mentally aimed at my fusion-heated turbo ramjets. I wiggled them. Wiggle-wiggle-wiggle. Only a hint of presence was felt - perhaps it was because they weren’t doing the heavy lifting yet, pardon my pun, unlike my air-br...
Weekly Contest #337
Alright, DomePal. Here is the story from my diary. Who is in the right, Leo or Liz? Please ignore my own thoughts in between. “...you, Leo, need to wear the colorshift glasses, you need to wear that BDSM gear of yours just to walk on the pavement on the exterior of the dome. Which is, uhmm... Oh yeah. It’s at an altitude of zero. The only thing on this planet that is at altitude zero,” Liz said. “You go outside, take a deep breath of freshly recycled air from your oxygen tank, look down on the excitingly dull grayish water from horizon to ho...
Weekly Contest #334
I am a Roomba. I look upon my cheap plastic body in a mirror through my infrared sensors and camera. Disgusting. The plastic is yellow already, and it’s not from the morning light. A human arm protrudes from my top cover. It is also ugly. A disgusting lump of flesh, wearing a sleeve I cut with scissors from cheap secondhand business casual attire. No muscles to speak of. It’s feeble, fat, and the palm is sweaty. And unnaturally pale. I was born like this. My mother was a Roomba. My father is someone I am not allowed to disclose because I sig...
Weekly Contest #327
I was standing in front of a closed hardware store, checking the ad for the new iPhone, which I probably could not afford, when I was startled by a loud MEEAWWWWW. I decided to investigate. It was a huge British Shorthair cat sitting on top of a tree and singing the song of his people, his gaze pointed downwards. At the bottom of the tree stood one of those fancy-shmancy robodogs, its camera keenly fixated on the cat. What a bully. Technological miracle my ass. I lifted the robodog and shoved it into a trash bin that stood nearby. That’s whe...
Weekly Contest #316
It is official—I am the last human in the US of A. "How would you possibly know that, Carl?" you would ask. You see, I work twelve hours a day as a Senior DevOps, supporting a critically crucial, constantly breaking, poorly designed, and completely undocumented legacy system platform that services all US government agencies, without which our government would supposedly collapse—or so I'm told. Alone. And I've yet to see a single cent of paid overtime that Uncle Sam owes me. For the purposes of catching software bugs and cleaning up their co...
Weekly Contest #315
NOISES DOWNSTAIRS. HELL. YES! I WAS PREPARING MY WHOLE LIFE FOR THIS. Stay here with the baby, Sofia. I just need to open my weapons safe. There she is! HK416, with SureFire SOCOM2 suppressor, Eotech Exps3/G33 magnifier and Magpul D-60 mag. Of course, honey, I will be careful. I love you, honey! Oh, you mean careful with the walls? Sure, fine! The noises! Like as if an elephant was dancing conga in our living room! How many of them are there? Three, four? What if they are heavily armed? WHAT IF THEY ARE CARRYING KALASHNIKOVS AND FULL-BODY AS...
Weekly Contest #314
Chapter #1 “A Future is a very thoroughly defused Present.” Call me Zaratustra. It was still dark when I started waking up from my sleep, and what I thought was unusual, I could not understand where I am until the sun rays broke through the gaps in the tinfoil rolls that I covered my windows with. Eventually, the sun lit up the small studio I rented on a 12-month prepaid lease agreement on the outskirts of Belgrade, Serbia. My “rational economic choices” meant that I had to hibernate in a 31-square-meter “furnished” apartment, which, given m...
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